*v^. 


>^ 


^^  -«^ 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 

G I  FT    O  F 


Class 


c  ^_ 


i//;/;C/. 


■H.WSin  BIT  J.SAHIMN 


,  a^^L 


(^^yug/^  t^J^^ct^^^i^    <^^ 


CRITICAL 


AND 


MISCELLANEOUS 


ESSAYS. 


BY    THOMAS    G- A«R  L  Y  L  E, 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


A  NEW  EDITION, 

COMPLETE    IN    ONE    VOLUME. 


-Ai.;'^  ^- 


PHIL^SSSPhIA: 

CAREY    &    HART,   126    CHESNUT    STREET. 

1845. 


Printed  by  T.  K.  &  P.  G.  Collins. 
Stereotyped  by  L.  Johnson  &  Co.,  Philadelphi 


14.3506 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  Publishers  introduce  the  present   edition  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  Essays 
with  the  following  note  from  the   American   Editor  of  the  First  Edition. 

Messrs.  Carey  &  Hart, 

Gmtlemen : — I  have  to  signify  to  his  American  readers,  Mr.  Carlyle's  con- 
currence in  this  new  edition  of  his  Essays,  and  his  expressed  satisfaction  in  the 
author's  share  of  pecuniary  benefit  which  your  justice  and  liberality  have  secured 
to  him  in  anticipation  of  the  sale.  With  every  hope  for  the  success  of  your 
enterprise,  I  am  your  obedient  servant, 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

Concord,  June,  1845. 


ir^5ou 


^  ^ 


i 


CONTENTS. 


^/  Page 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter     •* ----      7 

Edinburgh  Review.— No.  XCI.    1827.  ^ 

State  of  German  Literature  ---^----------15      ^  ^ 

Edinburgh  Review.— No.  XCII.    1827. /V  •^. 

Life  and  Writings  of  Werner  --------r----35 

Foreign  Review.— No.  I.    1828.  \  2^ 

Goethe's  Helena , \----56 

Foreign  Review.— No.  II.    1828.    Y  \ 

Goethe ------------73 

Foreign  Review.— No.  III.    1828.     yC 

Burns , ----95 

»  Edinburgh  Review.— No.  XCVI.     1828.   / 

The  Life  of  Heyne 115       ^ 

Foreign  Review.— No.  IV.     1828.  |  > 

German  Playwrights - 128 

Foreign  Review.— No.  V.    1829. 
Voltaire ------------  142 

Foreign  Review.— No.  VI.    1829.  /^ 

NOVALIS       -- , 167 

Foreign  Review.— No.  VII.    1829.  X 

Signs  of  the  Times 187     - 

Edinburgh  Review.— No.  XCVIII.    1829./  U 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter  again 196 

Foreign  Review.— No.  IX.    1830.    / 

On  History \>''" ^^^ 

Eraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  II.  No  X.    1830.    X  ,-:^ 

Luther's  Psalm ---  224 

Eraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  II.  No.  XII.    1831.         •  k 

Schiller ----  225 

Eraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  III.  No.  XIV.    1831. 

The  Nibelugen  Lied %* 243 

Westminster  Review.— No.  XXIX.    1831.  X/ 

German  Literature  of  the  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth  Centuries    262 

Foreign  Quarterly  Review.— No.  XVI.   1831. 

Taylor's  Historic  Survey  of  German  Poetry    --------  282    .^ 

Edinburgh  Review.— No.  CV.     1831.  I  -S 

Tragedy  of  the  Night-Moth ---------  295 

Eraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  IV.  No.  XIX.    1831,  \ 

^Characteristics -----------  296 

Edinburgh  Review.— No.  C VIII.    1831./V  )  . .► 

Goethe's  Portrait --------  310 

Eraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  V.  No.  XXVI.     1832.  [ 

Biography 311, 

Fraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  V.  No.  XXVII.    1832.  ! 

Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson ---------  317 

Eraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  V.  No.  XXVIII.     1832. 

!•  5 


6     '  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Death  of  Goethe 341    r 

New  Monthly  Magazine.— Vol.  XXXIV.  No.  CXXXVIII.     1832.  (1^ 

Goethe's  Works    -- 345 

Foreign  Quarterly  Review.— No.  XIX.    1832. 

Corn-Law  Rhymes 365 

Edinburgh  Review.— No.  CX.    1832. 

NovELLE  :   Translated  from  Goethe 375' 

Fraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  VI.  No.  XXX;i|    1832.  ^ 

The  Tale:  By  Goethe * 383 

Fraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  VI.  No.  XXXIII.    1832. 

Diderot 398 

Foreign  Quarterly  Review.— No.  XXII.    1833. 

On  History  Again      --:--- 422    \* 

Fraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  VII.  No.  XLI.    1833.  V^ 

Count  Cagliostro  :  Flight  First 426 

Fraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  VIII.  No.  XLIII.    1833.  >* 

Count  Cagliostro  :  Flight  Last 433 

Fraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  VIII.  No.  XLI  V.    1833. 

Death  of  the  Rev.  Edward  Irving 451 

Fraser's  Magazine,— Vol.  XL  No.  LXI.    1835.  t 

The  Diamond  Necklace 452 

Fraser's  Magazine.— Vol.  XV.  Nos.  LXXXV.  and  LXXXVI.     1837. 

Memoirs  of  Mirabeau 478 

London  and  Westminster  Review. — Nos.  VIII.  and  LI.     1837. 

Parliamentary  History  of  the  French  Revolution 504 

London  and  Westminster  Review.— Nos.  IX.  and  LII.     1837.  »' 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Scott 511 

London  and  Westminster  Review. — Nos.  XII.  and  LV.    1838. 

Varnhagen  Von  Ense's  Memoirs 535 

London  and  Westminster  Review. — No.  LXII.    1838.  >  4 

Petition  on  the  Copy-Right  Bill 546 

The  Examiner.— April  7,  1839.  « 

Dr.  Francia 547 

Foreign  Quarterly  Review.— No.  LXII.    1843. 


CAELYLE'S 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTEE. 


[Edinburgh  Review,  1827.] 


Dr.  JoHiysois-,  it  is  said,  when  he  first  heard 
of  Boswell's  intention  to  write  a  life  of  him, 
announced,  with  decision  enough,  that,  if  he 
thought  Bos  well  really  meant  to  write  his  life, 
he  would  prevent  it  by  taking  BoswelPs!  That 
great  authors  should  actually  employ  this  pre- 
ventive against  bad  biographers  is  a  thing  we 
would  by  no  means  recommend ;  but  the  truth 
is,  that,  rich  as  we  are  in  biography,  a  well- 
written  life  is  almost  as  rare  as  a  well-spent 
one ;  and  there  are  certainly  many  more  men 
whose  history  deserves  to  be  recorded  than 
persons  willing  and  able  to  furnish  the  record. 
But  great  men,  like  the  old  Egyptian  kings, 
must  all  be  tried  after  death,  before  they 
can  be  em'balmed:  and  what,  in  truth,  are 
these  "  Sketches,"  "Anas,"  "  Conversations," 
"Voices,"  and  the  like,  but  the  votes  and  plead- 
ings of  the  ill-informed  advocates,  and  jurors, 
and  judges,  from  whose  conliict,  however,  we 
shall  in  the  end  have  a  true  verdict  1  The  worst 
of  it  is  at  the  first ;  for  weak  eyes  are  precisely 
the  fondest  of  glittering  objects.  And,  accord- 
ingly, no  sooner  does  a  great  man  depart,  and 
leave  his  character  as  public  property,  than  a 
crowd  of  little  men  rushes  towards  it.  There 
they  are  gathered  together,  blinking  up  to  it  with 
such  vision  as  they  have,  scanning  it  from  afar, 
hovering  round  it  this  way  and  that,  each  cun- 
ningly endeavouring,  by  all  arts,  to  catch  some 
reflex  of  it  in  the  little  mirror  of  himself; 
though,  many  times,  this  mirror  is  so  twisted 
with  convexities  and  concavities,  and,  indeed, 
so  extremely  small  in  size,  that  to  expect  any 
true  image,  or  any  image  whatever  from  it,  is 
out  of  the  question. 

Richter  was  much  better-natured  than  John- 
son ;  and  took  many  provoking  things  with  the 
spirit  of  a  humorist  and  philosopher;  nor  can 
we  think  that  so  good  a  man,  even  had  he  fore- 
seen this  work  of  Doering's,  would  have  gone 
the  length  of  assassinating  him  for  it.  Doer- 
ing  is  a  person  we  have  known  for  several 
years,  as  a  compiler,  and  translator,  and  ballad- 


*  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter's  Leben,  nebst  Charac- 
teristik  seiner  Werke ;  von  Heinrich  Doering.  (Jean  Paul 
Friedrich  Richter's  Life,  with  a  Sketch  of  his  Works ; 
by  Heinriqh  Doering.)  Golha.  Hennings,  1826.  12nio. 
pp.  208. 


monger,  whose  grand  enterprise,  however,  is 
his  Gallery  of  Weimar  Authors;  a  series  of 
strange  little  biographies,  beginning  with  Schil- 
ler, and  already  extending  over  Wieland  and 
Herder, — now  comprehending,  probably  by 
conquest,  Klopstock  also,  and  lastly,  by  a  sort 
of  droit  d'aubaine,  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter, 
neither  of  whom  belonged  to  Weimar.  Au- 
thors, it  must  be  admitted,  are  happier  than  the 
old  painter  with  his  cocks :  for  they  write,  na- 
turally and  without  fear  of  ridicule  or  ofience, 
the  name  and  description  of  their  work  on  the 
title-page;  and  thenceforth  the  purport  and 
tendency  of  each  volume  remains  indisputable. 
Doering  is  sometimes  lucky  in  this  privilege  ; 
for  his  manner  of  composition,  being  so  pecu- 
liar, might  now  and  then  occasion  difiiculty, 
but  for  this  precaution.  His  biographies  he 
works  up  simply  enough.  He  first  ascertains, 
from  the  Leipzig  Conversationslexicon  or  Jor- 
den's  Poetical  Lexicon,  Flogel,  or  Koch,  or  other 
such  Compendium  or  Handbook,  the  date  and 
place  of  the  proposed  individual's  birth,  his 
parentage,  trade,  appointments,  and  the  titles 
of  his  works ;  (the  date  of  his  death  you  al- 
ready know  from  the  newspapers ;)  this  serves 
as  a  foundation  for  the  edifice.  He  then  goes 
through  his  writings,  and  all  other  writings 
where  he  or  his  pursuits  are  treated  of,  and 
whenever  he  finds  a  passage  with  his  name  ia 
it,  he  cuts  it  out,  and  carries  it  away.  In  this 
manner  a  mass  of  materials  is  collected,  and 
the  building  now  proceeds  apace.  Stone  is 
laid  on  the  top  of  stone,  just  as  it  comes  to 
hand ;  a  trowel  or  two  of  biographic  mortar,  if 
perfectly  convenient,  being  perhaps  spread  in 
here  and  there,  by  way  of  cement;  and  so  the 
strangest  pile  suddenly  arises;  amorphous, 
pointing  every  way  but  to  the  zenith, — here  a 
block  of  granite,  there  a  mass  of  pipe-clay; 
till  the  whole  finishes,  when  the  materials  are 
finished, — and  you  leave  it  standing  to  poste- 
rity, like  some  miniature  Stonehenge,  a  perfect 
architectural  enigma. 

To  speak  without  figure,  this  mode  of  life- 
writing  has  its  disadvantages.  For  one  thing, 
the  composition  cannot  well  be  what  the  critics 
call  harmonious;  and,  indeed,  Herr  Doering's 
transitions  are  often  abrupt  enough.    His  hero 

7 


8 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


changes  his  object  and  occupation  from  page 
to  page,  often  from  sentence  to  sentence,  in  the 
most  unaccountable  way ;  a  pleasure  journey, 
and  a  sickness  of  fifteen  years,  are  despatched 
with  equal  brevity;  in  a  moment  you  find  him 
married,  and  the  father  of  three  fine  children. 
He  dies  no  less  suddenly; — he  is  studying  as 
usual,  writing  poetry,  receiving  visits,  full  of 
life  and  business,  when  instantly  some  para- 
graph opens  under  him,  like  one  of  the  trap- 
doors in  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  he  drops, 
without  note  of  preparation,  into  the  shades 
below.  Perhaps,  indeed,  not  for  ever :  we  have 
instances  of  his  rising  after  the  funeral,  and 
winding  up  his  affairs.  The  time  has  been, 
that  when  the  brains  were  out  the  man  would 
die;  but  Doering  orders  these  matters  dif- 
ferently. 

We  beg  leave  to  say,  however,  that  we  really 
have  no  private  pique  against  Doering:  on  the 
contrary,  we  are  regular  purchasers  of  his 
ware ;  and  it  gives  us  true  pleasure  to  see  his 
spirits  so  rt^uch  improved  since  we  first  met 
him.  In  the  Life  of  Schiller,  his  state  did  seem 
rather  unprosperous :  he  wore  a  timorous,  sub- 
missive, and  downcast  aspect,  as  if  like  Sterne's 
Ass,  he  were  saying,  "  Don't  thrash  me  ; — but 
if  you  will,  you  may !"  Now,  however,  com- 
forted by  considerable  sale,  and  praise  from 
this  and  the  other  Liter aturblatt,  which  has 
commended  his  diligence,  his  fidelity,  and, 
strange  to  say,  his  method,  he  advances  with 
erect  countenance  and  firm  hoof,  and  even  re- 
calcitrates contemptuously  against  such  as  do 
him  oflence.  Gliick  auf  dem  Weg  !  is  the  worst 
we  wish  him. 

Of  his  Life  of  Richter,  these  preliminary  ob- 
servations may  be  our  excuse  for  saying  but 
little.  He  brags  much,  in  his  preface,  that  it 
is  all  true  and  genuine ;  for  Richter's  widow, 
it  seems,  had,  by  public  advertisement,  cau- 
tioned the  world  against  it ;  another  biography, 
partly  by  the  illustrious  deceased  himself,  part- 
ly by  Otto,  his  oldest  friend  and  the  appointed 
editor  of  his  works,  being  actually  in  prepara- 
tion. This  rouses  the  indignant  spirit  of  Doer- 
ing, and  he  stoutly  asseverates,  that,  his  docu- 
ments being  altogether  authentic,  this  biogra- 
phy is  no  pseudo-biography.  With  greater  truth 
he  might  have  asseverated  that  it  was  no  bio- 
graphy at  all.  Well  are  he  and  Hennings  of 
Gotha  aware  that  this  thing  of  shreds  and 
patches  has  been  vamped  together  for  sale 
only.  Except  a  few  letters  to  Kunz,  the  Bam- 
berg bookseller,  which  turn  mainly  on  the  pur- 
chase of  spectacles,  and  the  journeyings  and 
freightage  of  two  boxes  that  used  to  pass  and 
repass  between  Richter  and  Kunz's  circulating 
library;  with  three  or  four  notes  of  similar  im- 
portance, and  chiefly  to  other  booksellers,  there 
are  no  biographical  documents  here,  which 
were  not  open  to  all  Europe  as  well  as  to  Hein- 
rich  Doering.  Indeed,  very  nearly  one-half  of 
the  Life  is  occupied  with  a  description  of  the 
funeral  and  its  appendages, — how  the  "  sixty 
torches,  with  a  number  of  lanterns  and  pitch- 
pans,"  were  arranged  ;  how  this  patrician  or  pro- 
fessor followed  that,  through  Friedrich-street, 
Chancery-street,  and  other  streets  of  Bayreuth ; 
and  how  at  last  the  torches  all  went  out,  as 
Doctor  Gabler  and  Doctor  Spatzier  were  pero- 


rating (decidedly  in  bombast)  over  the  grave. 
Then,  it  seems,  there  were  meetings  held  in 
various  parts  of  Germany,  to  solemnize  the 
memory  of  Richter ;  among  the  rest,  one  in  the 
Museum  of  Frankfort  on  the  Maine ;  where  a 
Doctor  Borne  speaks  another  long  speech,  if 
possible  in  still  more  decided  bombast.  Next 
come  threnodies  from  all  the  four  winds,  mostly 
on  very  splay-footed  metre.  Thewhole  of  which 
is  here  snatched  from  the  kind  oblivion  of  the 
newspapers,  and  "  lives  in  Settle's  numbers  one 
day  more." 

We  have  too  much  reverence  for  the  name 
of  Richter  to  think  of  laughing  over  these  un- 
happy threnodies  and  panegyrists ;  some  of 
whom  far  exceed  any  thing  we  English  can  ex- 
hibit in  the  epicedial  style.  They  rather  tes- 
tify, however  maladroitly,  that  the  Germans 
have  felt  their  loss, — which,  indeed,  is  one  to 
Europe  at  large ;  they  even  affect  us  with  a 
certain  melancholy  feeling,  when  we  consider 
how  a  heavenly  voice  must  become  mute,  and 
nothing  be  heard  in  its  stead  but  the  whoop  of 
quite  earthly  voices,  lamenting,  or  pretending 
to  lament.  Far  from  us  be  all  remembrance 
of  Doering  and  Company,  while  we  speak  of 
Richter!  But  his  own  works  give  us  some 
glimpses  into  his  singular  and  noble  nature ; 
and  to  our  readers  a  few  words  on  this  man, 
certainly  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his 
age,  will  not  seem  thrown  away. 

Except  by  name,  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Rich- 
ter is  little  known  out  of  Germany.  The  only 
thing  connected  with  him,  we  think,  that  has 
reached  this  country,  is  his  saying,  imported 
by  Madame  de  Stael,  and  thankfully  pocketed 
by  most  newspaper  critics :  "  Providence  has 
given  to  the  French  the  empire  of  the  land,  to 
the  English  that  of  the  sea,  to  the  Germans  that 
of — the  air !"  Of  this  last  element,  indeed,  his 
own  genius  might  easily  seem  to  have  been  a 
denizen :  so  fantastic,  many-coloured,  far-grasp- 
ing, every  way  perplexed  and  extraordinary  in 
his  mode  of  writing,  that  to  translate  him  is  next 
to  impossible;  nay,  a  dictionary  of  his  works 
has  actually  been  in  part  published  for  the  use 
of  German  readers !  These  things  have  re- 
stricted his  sphere  of  action,  and  may  long  re- 
strict it  to  his  own  country :  but  there,  in  re- 
turn, he  is  a  favourite  of  the  first  class  ;  studied 
through  all  his  intricacies  with  trustful  admi- 
ration, and  a  love  which  tolerates  much.  Dur- 
ing the  last  forty  years,  he  has  been  continually 
before  the  public,  in  various  capacities,  and 
growing  generally  in  esteem  with  all  ranks  of 
critics;  till,  at  length,  his  gainsayers  have 
been  either  silenced  or  convinced;  and  Jean 
Paul,  at  first  reckoned  half-mad,  has  long  ago 
vindicated  his  singularities  to  nearly  universal 
satisfaction,  and  now  combines  popularity  with 
real  depth  of  endowment,  in  perhaps  a  greater 
degree  than  any  other  writer ;  being  second  in 
the  latter  point  to  scarcely  more  than  one  of 
his  contemporaries,  and  in  the  former  second 
to  none. 

The  biography  of  so  distinguished  a  person 
could  scarcely  fail  to  be  interesting,  especial- 
ly his  autobiography;  which,  accordingly,  we 
wait  for,  and  may  in  time  submit  to  our  readers, 
if  it  seem  worthy :  meanwhile,  the  history  of 
his  life,  so  far  as  outward  events  characterize 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


9 


it,  may  be  stated  in  few  words.  He  was  born 
at  Wunsiedel  in  Bayreuth,  in  March,  1763. 
His  father  was  a  subaltern  teacher  in  the  Gym- 
nasium of  the  place,  and  was  afterwards  pro- 
moted to  be  clergyman  at  Schwarzbach  on  the 
Saale.  Richter's  early  education  was  of  the 
scantiest  sort ;  but  his  fine  faculties  and  un- 
wearied diligence  supplied  every  defect.  Un- 
able to  purchase  books,  he  borrowed  what  he 
could  come  at,  and  transcribed  from  them,  often 
great  part  of  their  contents, — a  habit  of  ex- 
cerpting, which  continued  with  him  through 
life,  and  influenced,  in  more  than  one  way,  his 
mode  of  writing  and  study.  To  the  last,  he 
was  an  insatiable  and  universal  reader;  so 
that  his  extracts  accumulated  on  his  hands, 
"till  they  filled  whole  chests."  In  1780,  he 
went  to  the  University  of  Leipzig;  with  the 
highest  character,  in  spite  of  the  impediments 
which  he  had  struggled  with,  for  talent  and  ac- 
quirement. Like  his  father,  he  was  destined 
for  Theology ;  from  which,  however,  his  va- 
grant genius  soon  diverged  into  Poetry  and  Phi- 
losophy, to  the  neglect,  and,  ere  long,  to  the 
final  abandonment,  of  his  appointed  profession. 
Not  well  knowing  what  to  do,  he  now  accepted 
a  tutorship  in  some  family  of  rank ;  then  he 
had  pupils  in  his  own  house, — which,  how- 
ever, like  his  way  of  life,  he  often  changed;  for 
by  this  time  he  had  become  an  author,  and,  in 
his  wanderings  over  Germany,  was  putting 
forth, — now  here,  now  there, — the  strangest 
books,  with  the  strangest  titles  :  For  instance, — 
Greenland  Lawsuits  ; — Biographical  Recreations 
under  the  Cranium  of  a  Giantess ; — Selection  from 
the  Papers  of  the  Devil; — and  the  like.  In  these 
indescribable  performances,  the  splendid  fa- 
culties of  the  writer,  luxuriating  as  they  seemed 
in  utter  riot,  could  not  be  disputed  ;  nor,  with 
all  its  extravagance,  the  fundamental  strength, 
honesty,  and  tenderness  of  his  nature.  Genius 
will  reconcile  men  to  much.  By  degrees,  Jean 
Paul  began  to  be  considered  not  a  strange, 
crackbrained  mixture  of  enthusiast  and  buf- 
foon, but  a  man  of  infinite  humour,  sensibility, 
force,  and  penetration.  His  writings  procured 
him  friends  and  fame ;  and  at  length  a  wife 
and  a  settled  provision.  With  Caroline  Mayer, 
his  good  spouse,  and  a  pension  (in  1802)  from 
the  King  of  Bavaria,  he  settled  in  Bayreuth, 
the  capital  of  his  native  province ;  where  he 
lived  thenceforth,  diligent  and  celebrated  in 
many  new  departments  of  literature ;  and  died 
on  the  14th  of  November,  1825,  loved  as  well 
as  admired  by  all  his  countrymen,  and  most  by 
those  who  had  known  him  most  intimately. 

A  huge,  irregular  man,  both  in  mind  and 
person,  (for  his  portrait  is  quite  a  physiogno- 
mical study,)  full  of  fire,  strength,  and  impe- 
tuosity, Richter  seems,  at  the  same  time,  to 
have  been,  in  the  highest  degree,  mild,  simple- 
hearted,  humane.  He  was  fond  of  conversation, 
and  might  well  vShine  in  it:  he  talked,  as  he 
wrote,  in  a  style  of  his  own,  full  of  wild  strength 
and  charms,  to  which  his  natural  Bayreuth  ac- 
cent often  gave  additional  effect.  Yet  he  loved 
retirement,  the  country,  and  all  natural  things  ; 
from  his  youth  upwards,  he  himself  tells  us, 
he  may  almost  be  said  to  have  lived  in  the 
open  air ;  it  was  among  groves  and  meadows 
that  he  studied, — often  that  he  wrote.  Even  in 
2 


the  streets  of  Bayreuth,  we  have  heard,  he  was 
seldom  seen  without  a  flower  in  his  breast.  A 
man  of  quiet  tastes,  and  warm,  compassionate 
afiections !  His  friends  he  must  have  loved 
as  few  do.  Of  his  poor  and  humble  mother 
he  often  speaks  by  allusion,  and  never  without 
reverence  and  overflowing  tenderness.  "  Un- 
happy is  the  man,"  says  he,  "  for  whom  his  own 
mother  has  not  made  all  other  mothers  vener- 
able !"  and  elsewhere : — "  O  thou  who  hast 
still  a  father  and  a  mother,  thank  God  for  it  in 
the  day  when  thy  soul  is  full  of  joyful  tears, 
and  needs  a  bosom  wherein  to  shed  them !" — 
We  quote  the  following  sentences  from  Doer- 
ing,  almost  the  only  memorable  thing  he  has 
written  in  this  volume: — 

"  Richter's  studying  or  sitting  apartment  of- 
fered, about  this  time,  (1793,)  a  true  and  beau- 
tiful emblem  of  his  simple  and  noble  way  of 
thought,  which  comprehended  at  once  the  high 
and  the  low.  Whilst  his  mother,  who  then 
lived  with  him,  busily  pursued  her  household 
work,  occupying  herself  about  stove  and  dres- 
ser, Jean  Paul  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the 
same  room,  at  a  simple  writing-desk,  with  few 
or  no  books  about  him,  but  merely  with  one 
or  two  drawers  containing  excerpts  and  manu- 
scripts. The  jingle  of  the  household  operations 
seemed  not  at  all  to  disturb  him,  any  more  than 
did  the  cooing  of  the  pigeons,  which  fluttered 
to  and  fro  in  the  chamber, — a  place,  indeed,  of 
considerable  size." — P.  8. 

Our  venerable  Hooker,  we  remember,  also 
enjoyed  "  the  jingle  of  household  operations," 
and  the  more  questionable  jingle  of  shrewd 
tongues  to  boot,  while  he  wrote  ;  but  the  good 
thrifty  mother,  and  the  cooing  pigeons,  were 
wanting.  Richter  came  afterwards  to  live  in 
finer  mansions,  and  had  the  great  and  learned 
for  associates ;  but  the  gentle  feelings  of  those 
days  abode  with  him:  through  life  he  was  the 
same  substantial,  determinate,  yet  meek  and 
tolerating  man.  It  is  seldom  that  so  much 
rugged  energy  can  be  so  blandly  attempered; 
— that  so  much  vehemence  and  so  much  soft- 
ness will  go  together. 

The  expected  edition  of  Richter's  works  is 
to  be  in  sixty  volumes :  and  they  are  no  less 
multifarious  than  extensive;  embracing  sub- 
jects of  all  sorts,  from  the  highest  problems 
of  transcendental  philosophy,  and  the  most 
passionate  poetical  delineations,  to  Golden  Rules 
for  the  Weather-Prophet,  and  instructions  in  the 
Art  of  Falling  Asleep.  His  chief  productions 
are  novels :  the  Unsichtbare  Loge  (Invisible 
Lodge);  Fkgcljahre  (Wild-Oats);  LifeofFix- 
lein;  the  Jubelsenior  (Parson  in  Jubilee); 
Schmelzle's  Journey  to  Fldtz ;  Katzenberger^s 
Journey  to  the  Bath;  Life  of  Fibel;  with  many 
lighter  pieces ;  and  two  works  of  a  higher 
order,  Hesperus  and  Titan,  the  largest  and  the 
best  of  his  novels.  It  was  the  former  that  first 
(in  1795)  introduced  him  into  decisive  and 
universal  estimation  with  his  countrymen :  the 
latter  he  himself,  with  the  most  judicious  of 
his  critics,  regarded  as  his  master-piece.  But 
the  name  Novelist,  as  we  in  England  must 
understand  it,  would  ill  describe  so  vast  and 
discursive  a  genius  :  for,  with  all  his  grotesque, 
tumultuous  pleasantry,  Richter  is  a  man  of  a 
truly  earnest,  nay,  high  and  solemn  character; 


10 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  seldom  -writes  without  a  meaning  far  be- 
yond the  sphere  of  common  romancers.  Hes- 
perus and  Titan  themselves,  though  in  form 
nothing  more  than  "novels  of  real  life,"  as  the 
Minerva  Press  would  say,  have  solid  metal 
enough  in  them  to  furnish  whole  circulating 
libaries,  were  it  beaten  into  the  usual  filigree ; 
and  much  which,  attenuate  it  as  we  might,  no 
quarterly  subscriber  could  well  carry  with  him. 
Amusement  is  often,  in  part  almost  always,  a 
mean  with  Richter ;  rarely  or  never  his  high- 
est end.  His  thoughts,  his  feelings,  the  creations 
of  his  spirit,  walk  before  us  imbodied  under 
wondrous  shapes,  in  motley  and  ever-fluctuat- 
ing groups ;  but  his  essential  character,  how- 
ever he  disguise  it,  is  that  of  a  Philosopher  and 
moral  Poet,  whose  study  has  been  human 
nature,  whose  delight  and  best  endeavour  are 
with  all  that  is  beautiful,  and  tender,  and  mys- 
teriously sublime,  in  the  fate  or  history  of  man. 
This  is  the  purport  of  his  writings,  whether 
their  form  be  that  of  fiction  or  of  truth ;  the  spirit 
that  pervades  and  ennobles  his  delineations  of 
common  life,  his  wild  wayward  dreams,  allego- 
ries, and  shadowy  imaginings,  no  less  than  his 
disquisitions  of  a  nature  directly  scientific. 

But  in  this  latter  province  also,  Richter  has 
accomplished  much.  His  Vorschule  der  Aesthetik 
(Introduction  to  Esthetics*)  is  a  work  on  po- 
etic art,  based  on  principles  of  no  ordinary 
depth  and  compass,  abounding  in  noble  views, 
and,  notwithstanding  its  frolicsome  exuberance, 
in  sound  and  subtile  criticism ;  esteemed  even 
in  Germany,  where  criticism  has  long  been 
treated  of  as  a  science,  and  by  such  persons  as 
Winkelmann,  Kant,  Herder,  and  the  Schlegels. 
Of  this  work  we  could  speak  long,  did  our  limits 
allow.  We  fear  it  might  astonish  many  an 
honest' brother  of  our  craft,  were  he  to  read  it; 
and  altogether  perplex  and  dash  his  maturest 
counsels,  if  he  chanced  to  understand  it. — 
Richter  has  also  written  on  education,  a  work 
entitled  Levana ;  distinguished  by  keen  prac- 
tical sagacity,  as  well  as  generous  sentiment, 
and  a  certain  sober  magnificence  of  speculation ; 
the  whole  presented  in  that  singular  style  which 
characterizes  the  man.  Germany  is  rich  in 
works  on  Education ;  richer  at  present  than 
any  other  country:  it  is  there  only  that  some 
echo  of  the  Lockes  and  Miltons,  speaking  of 
this  high  matter,  may  still  be  heard  ;  and  speak- 
ing of  it  in  the  language  of  our  own  time,  with 
insight  into  the  actual  wants,  advantages, 
perils,  and  prospects  of  this  age.  Among 
writers  on  this  subject,  Richter  holds  a  high 
place ;  if  we  look  chiefly  at  his  tendency  and 
aims,  perhaps  the  highest. — The  Clavis  Fichti- 
ana  is  a  ludicrous  performance,  known  to  us 
only  by  report ;  but  Richter  is  said  to  possess 
the  merit,  while  he  laughs  at  Fichte,  of  under- 
standing him ;  a  merit  among  Fichte's  critics, 
which  seems  to  be  one  of  the  rarest.  Report 
also,  we  regret  to  say,  is  all  that  we  know  of 
the  Campaner  Thai,  a  Discourse  on  the  Immor- 
tality of  the  Soul;  one  of  Richter's  beloved 
topics,  or  rather  the  life  of  his  whole  philosophy, 

*  From  aicrMvofxai,  to  feel.  A  word  invented  by 
Baumgarten,  (some  eighty  years  ago,)  to  express  gener- 
ally the  Science  of  the  Fine  Jlrts  ;  and  now  in  universal 
use  among  the  Germans.  Perhaps  we  also  might  as 
well  adopt  it ;  at  least  if  any  such  science  should  ever 
arise  among  us. 


glimpses  of  which  look  forth  on  us  from  almost 
every  one  of  his  writings.  He  died  while  en- 
gaged, under  recent  and  almost  total  blindness, 
in  enlarging  and  remodelling  this  Campaner 
Thai:  the  unfinished  manuscript  was  borne 
upon  his  coffin  to  the  burial  vault;  and  Klop- 
stock's  hymn,  Auferstehen  wirst  du, "  Thou  shalt 
arise,  my  soul,"  can  seldom  have  been  sung 
with  more  appropriate  application  than  over 
the  grave  of  Jean  Paul. 

We  defy  the  most  careless  or  prejudiced 
reader  to  peruse  these  works  without  an  im- 
pression of  something  splendid,  wonderful,  and 
daring.  But  they  require  to  be  studied  as  well 
as  read,  and  this  with  no  ordinary  patience,  if 
the  reader,  especially  the  foreign  reader,  wishes 
to  comprehend  rightly  either  their  truth  or  their 
want  of  truth.  Tried  by  many  an  accepted 
standard,  Richter  would  be  speedily  enough 
disposed  of;  pronounced  a  mystic,  a  German 
dreamer,  a  rash  and  presumptuous  innovator; 
and  so  consigned,  with  equanimity,  perhaps 
with  a  certain  jubilee,  to  the  Limbo  appointed 
for  all  such  wind-bags  and  deceptions.  Ori- 
ginality is  a  thing  we  constantly  clamour  for, 
and  constantly  quarrel  with ;  as  if,  observes 
our  author  himself,  any  originality  but  our 
own  could  be  expected  to  content  us  !  In  fact, 
all  strange  things  are  apt,  without  fault  of  theirs, 
to  estrange  us  at  first  view,  and  unhappily 
scarcely  any  thing  is  perfectly  plain,  but  what 
is  also  perfectly  common.  The  current  coin 
of  the  realm  passes  into  all  hands ;  and  be  it 
gold,  silver,  copper,  is  acceptable  and  of  known 
value  :  but  with  new  ingots,  with  foreign  bars, 
and  medals  of  Corinthian  brass,  the  case  is 
widely  diiferent. 

There  are  few  writers  with  whom  delibera- 
tion and  careful  distrust  of  first  impressions 
are  more  necessary  than  with  Richter.  He 
is  a  phenomenon  from  the  very  surface ;  he 
presents  himself  with  a  professed  and  deter- 
mined singularity:  his  language  itself  is  a  stone 
of  stumbling  to  the  critic;  to  critics  of  the 
grammarian  species,  an  unpardonable,  often 
an  insuperable,  rock  of  offence.  Not  that  he 
is  ignorant  of  grammar,  or  disdains  the  sciences 
of  spelling  and  parsing  ;  but  he  exercises  both 
in  a  certain  latitudinarian  spirit;  deals  with 
astonishing  liberality  in  parentheses,  dashes, 
and  subsidiary  clauses ;  invents  hundreds  of 
new  words,  alters  old  ones,  or  by  hyphen, 
chains,  pairs,  and  packs  them  together  into 
most  jarring  combination ;  in  short,  produces 
sentences  of  the  most  heterogeneous,  lumber- 
mg,  interminable  kind.  Figures  without  limit ; 
indeed  the  whole  is  one  tissue  of  metaphors, 
and  similes,  and  allusions  to  all  the  provinces 
of  Earth,  Sea,  and  Air,  interlaced  with  epi- 
grammatic breaks,  vehement  bursts,  or  sar- 
donic turns,  interjections,  quips,  puns,  and 
even  oaths  !  A  perfect  Indian  jungle  it  seems ; 
a  boundless,  unparalleled  imbroglio;  nothing 
on  all  sides  but  darkness,  dissonance,  confusion 
worse  confounded !  Then  the  style  of  the 
whole  corresponds,  in  perplexity  and  extrava- 
gance, with  that  of  the  parts.  Every  work,  be  it 
in  fiction  or  serious  treatise,  is  embaled  in  some 
fantastic  wrappage,  some  mad  narrative  ac- 
counting for  its  appearance,  and  connecting  it 
with  the  author,  who  generally  becomes  a  per- 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


11 


son  of  the  drama  himself,  before  all  is  over. 
He  has  a  whole  imaginary  geography  of  Europe 
in  his  novels;  the  cities  of  Flachsenfingen, 
Haarhaar,  Scheerau,  and  so  forth,  with  their 
princes,  and  privy-councillors,  and  serene 
highnesses;  most  of  whom,  odd  enough  fel- 
lows every  way,  are  Richter's  private  acquaint- 
ances, talk  with  him  of  state  matters,  (in  the 
purest  Tory  dialect,)  and  often  incite  him  to  get 
on  with  his  writing.  No  story  proceeds  without 
the  most  erratic  digressions,  and  voluminous 
tagrags  rolling  after  it  in  many  a  snaky  twine. 
Ever  and  anon  there  occurs  some  "Extra-leaf," 
with  its  satirical  petition,  programme,  or  other 
wonderful  intercalation,  no  mortal  can  foresee 
on  what.  It  is,  indeed,  a  mighty  maze ;  and 
often  the  panting  reader  toils  after  him  in  vain, 
or,  baffled  and  spent,  indignantly  stops  short, 
and  retires  perhaps  for  ever. 

All  this,  we  must  admit,  is  true  of  Richter ; 
but  much  more  is  true  also.  Let  us  not  turn 
from  him  after  the  first  cursory  glance,  and 
imagine  we  have  settled  his  account  by  the 
words  Rhapsody  and  Affectation.  They  are 
cheap  words  we  allow,  and  of  sovereign  po- 
tency ;  we  should  see,  therefore,  that  they  be 
not  rashly  applied.  Many  things  in  Richter 
accord  ill  with  such  a  theory.  There  are  rays 
of  the  keenest  truth,  nay,  steady  pillars  of 
scientific  light  rising  through  this  chaos :  Is  it 
in  fact  a  chaos,  or  may  it  be  that  our  eyes  are 
not  of  infinite  vision,  and  have  only  missed  the 
plan?  Few  rhapsodists  are  men  of  science, 
of  solid  learning,  of  rigorous  study,  and  ac- 
curate, extensive,  nay,  universal  knowledge  ; 
as  he  is.  With  regard  to  affectation,  also,  there 
is  much  to  be  said.  The  essence  of  affecta- 
tion is  that  it  be  assumed:  the  character  is,  as 
it  were,  forcibly  crushed  into  some  foreign 
mould,  in  the  hope  of  being  thereby  reshaped 
and  beautified ;  the  unhappy  man  persuades 
himself  that  he  is  in  truth  a  new  and  wonder- 
fully engaging  creature,  and  so  he  moves  about 
with  a  conscious  air,  though  every  movement 
betrays  not  symmetry,  but  dislocation.  This  it  is 
to  be  affected,  to  walk  in  a  vain  show.  But  the 
strangeness  alone  is  no  proof  of  the  vanity. 
Many  men  that  move  smoothly  in  the  old  es- 
tablished railways  of  custom  will  be  found 
to  have  their  affectation;  and  perhaps  here 
and  there  some  divergent  genius  be  accused 
of  it  unjustly.  The  show,  though  common,  may 
not  cease  to  be  vain;  nor  become  so  for  being 
uncommon.  Before  we  censure  a  man  for 
seeming  what  he  is  not,  we  should  be  sure  that 
we  know  what  he  is.  As  to  Richter  in  parti- 
cular, we  think  it  but  fair  to  observe,  that 
strange  and  tumultuous  as  he  is,  there  is  a 
certain  benign  composure  visible  in  his 
writings;  a  mercy,  a  gladness,  a  reverence, 
united  in  such  harmony,  as  we  cannot  but 
think  bespeaks  not  a  false,  but  a  genuine  state 
of  mind ;  not  a  feverish  and  morbid,  but  a 
healthy  and  robust  state. 

The  secret  of  the  matter,  perhaps,  is  that 
Richter  requires  more  study  than  most  readers 
care  to  give ;  for,  as  we  approach  more  closely, 
many  things  grow  clearer.  In  the  man's  own 
sphere  there  is  consistency ;  the  farther  we  ad- 
vance into  it,  we  see  confusion  more  and  more 
unfold  itself  into   order    till  at  last,  viewed 


from  its  proper  centre,  his  intellectual  universe, 
no  longer  a  distorted,  incoherent  series  of  air- 
landscapes,  coalesces  into  compact  expansion  ; 
a  vast,  magnificent,  and  variegated  scene ;  full, 
indeed,  of  wondrous  products,  and  rude,  it 
may  be,  and  irregular;  but  gorgeous,  and 
varied,  and  ample ;  gay  with  the  richest  ver- 
dure and  foliage,  and  glittering  in  the  brightest 
and  kindest  sun. 

Richter  has  been  called  an  intellectual  Co- 
lossus ;  and  in  truth  it  is  still  somewhat  in  this 
light  that  we  view  him.  His  faculties  are  all 
of  gigantic  mould ;  cumbrous,  awkward  in  their 
movements ;  large  and  splendid  rather  than 
harmonious  or  beautiful ;  yet  joined  in  living 
union,  and  of  force  and  compass  altogether 
extraordinary.  He  has  an  intellect  vehement, 
rugged,  irresistible ;  crushing  in  pieces  the 
hardest  problems;  piercing  into  the  most  hid- 
den combinations  of  things,  and  grasping  the 
most  distant:  an  imagination  vague,  sombre, 
splendid,  or  appalling;  brooding  over  the 
abysses  of  Being ;  wandering  through  Infini- 
tude, and  summoning  before  us,  in  its  dim  re- 
ligious light,  shapes  of  brilliancy,  solemnity, 
or  terror :  a  fancy  of  exuberance  literally  un- 
exampled; for  it  pours  its  treasures  with  a 
lavishness  which  knows  no  limit,  hanging,  like 
the  sun,  a  jewel  on  every  grass-blade,  and 
sowing  the  earth  at  large  with  orient  pearl.  But 
deeper  than  all  these  lies  Humour,  the  ruling 
quality  with  Richter ;  as  it  were  the  central  fire 
that  pervades  and  vivifies  his  whole  being.  He 
is  a  humorist  from  his  inmost  soul;  he  thinks 
as  a  humorist,  he  feels,  imagines,  acts  as  a 
humorist :  Sport  is  the  element  in  which  his 
nature  lives  and  works.  A  tumultuous  element 
for  such  a  nature,  and  wild  work  he  makes  in 
it !  A  Titan  in  his  sport  as  in  his  earnestness, 
he  oversteps  all  bound,  and  riots  without  law 
or  measure.  He  heaps  Pelion  upon  Ossa,  and 
hurls  the  universe  together  and  asunder  like  a 
case  of  playthings.  The  Moon  "bombards" 
the  Earth,  being  a  rebellious  satellite;  Mars 
"  preaches"  to  the  other  planets  very  singular 
doctrine ;  nay,  we  have  Time  and  Space  them- 
selves playing  fantastic  tricks  :  it  is  an  infinite 
masquerade;  all  Nature  is  gone  forth  mum- 
ming in  the  strangest  guises. 

Yet  the  anarchy  is  not  without  its  purpose ; 
these  vizards  are  not  mere  hollow  masks ;  but 
there  are  living  faces  beneath  them,  and  this 
mumming  has  its  significance.  Richter  is  a  man 
of  mirth,  but  he  seldom  or  never  condescends  to 
be  a  merry-andrew.  Nay,  in  spite  of  its  extrava- 
gance, we  should  say  that  his  humour  is  of  all 
his  gifts  intrinsically  the  finest  and  most  genu- 
ine. It  has  such  witching  turns ;  there  is  some- 
thing in  it  so  capricious,  so  quaint,  so  heartfelt. 
From  his  Cyclopean  workshop,  and  its  fuligi- 
nous limbecs,  and  huge  unwieldy  machinery, 
the  little  shrivelled,  twisted  figure  comes  forth 
at  last,  so  perfect  and  so  living,  to  be  for  ever 
laughed  at  and  for  ever  loved !  Wayward  as 
he  seems,  he  works  not  without  forethought; 
like  Rubens,  by  a  single  stroke,  he  can  change 
a  laughing  face  into  a  sad  one.  But  in  his 
smile  itself,  a  touching  pathos  may  lie  hidden, 
a  pity  too  deep  for  tears.  He  is  a  man  of  feel- 
ing, in  the  noblest  sense  of  that  word  ;  for  he 
loves  all  living  with  the  heart  of  a  brother ;  his 


12 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


soul  rushes  forth,  in  sympathy  with  gladness 
and  sorrow,  with  goodness  or  grandeur,  over 
all  creation.  Every  gentle  and  generous  affec- 
tion, every  thrill  of  mercy,  every  glow  of 
nobleness,  awakens  in  his  bosom  a  response, 
nay,  strikes  his  spirit  into  harmony;  a  wild 
music  as  of  wind-harps,  floating  round  us  in 
fitful  swells,  but  soft  sometimes,  and  pure  and 
soul-entrancing  as  the  song  of  angels  !  Aver- 
sion itself  with  him  is  not  hatred  ;  he  despises 
much,  but  justly,  with  tolerance  also,  with 
placidity,  and  even  a  sort  of  love.  Love,  in 
fact,  is  the  atmosphere  he  breathes  in,  the  me- 
dium through  which  he  looks.  His  is  the 
spirit  which  gives  life  and  beauty  to  whatever 
it  embraces.  Inanimate  Nature  itself  is  no 
longer  an  insensible  assemblage  of  colours 
and  perfumes,  but  a  mysterious  Presence,  with 
which  he  communes  in  unutterable  sympathies. 
We  might  call  him,  as  he  once  called  Herder,"  a 
Priest  of  Nature,  a  mild  Bramin,"  wandering 
amid  spicy  groves,  and  under  benignant  skies. 
The  infinite  Night  with  her  solemn  aspects. 
Day,  and  the  sweet  approach  of  Even  and 
Morn,  are  full  of  meaning  for  him.  He  loves 
the  green  Earth  with  her  streams  and  forests, 
her  flowery  leas  and  eternal  skies ;  loves  her 
with  a  sort  of  passion,  in  all  her  vicissitudes 
of  light  and  shade  ;  his  spirit  revels  in  her 
grandeur  and  charms ;  expands  like  the  breeze 
over  wood  and  lawn,  over  glade  and  dingle, 
stealing  and  giving  odours. 

It  has  sometimes  been  made  a  wonder  that 
things  so  discordant  should  go  together;  that 
men  of  humour  are  often  likewise  men  of  sen- 
sibility. But  the  wonder  should  rather  be  to 
see  them  divided;  to  find  true  genial  humour 
dwelling  in  a  mind  that  was  coarse  or  callous. 
The  essence  of  humour  is  sensibility;  warm, 
tender  fellow-feeling  with  all  forms  of  existence. 
Nay,  we  may  say  that  unless  seasoned  and 
purified  by  humour,  sensibility  is  apt  to  run 
wild ;  will  readily  corrupt  into  disease,  false- 
hood, or,  in  one  word,  sentimentality.  Wit- 
ness Rousseau,  Zimmermann,  in  some  points 
also  St.  Pierre  :  to  say  nothing  of  living  in- 
stances ;  or  of  the  Kotzebues,  and  other  pale 
hosts  of  wobegone  mourners,  whose  wailings, 
like  the  howl  of  an  Irish  wake,  from  time  to 
time  cleft  the  general  ear.  The  last  perfection 
of  our  faculties,  says  Schiller  with  a  truth  far 
deeper  than  it  seems,  is  that  their  activity,  with- 
out ceasing  to  be  sure  and  earnest,  become  sport. 
True  humour  is  sensibility,  in  the  most  catholic 
and  deepest  sense  :  but  it  is  this  sport  of  sensi- 
bility ;  wholesome  and  perfect  therefore  ;  as  it 
were,  the  playful  teasing  fondness  of  a  mother 
to  her  child. 

That  faculty  of  irony,  of  caricature,  which 
often  passes  by  the  name  of  humour,  but  con- 
sists chiefly  in  a  certain  superficial  distortion 
or  reversal  of  objects,  and  ends  at  best  in 
laughter,  bears  no  resemblance  to  the  humour 
of  Richter.  A  shallow  endowment  this ;  and 
often  more  a  habit  than  an  endowment.  It  is 
but  a  poor  fraction  of  humour;  or  rather,  it  is 
the  body  to  which  the  soul  is  wanting ;  any 
life  it  has  being  false,  artificial,  and  irrational. 
True  humour  springs  not  more  from  the  head 
than  from  the  heart;  it  is  not  contempt,  its 
essence   is   love;  it  issues   not  in  laughter, 


but  in  still  smiles,  which  lie  far  deeper.  It 
is  a  sort  of  inverse  sublimity;  exalting,  as  it 
were,  into  our  affections  what  is  below  us, 
while  sublimity  draws  down  into  our  affections 
what  is  above  us.  The  former  is  scarcely  less 
precious  or  heart-affecting  than  the  latter ;  per- 
haps it  is  still  rarer,  and,  as  a  test  of  genius,  still 
more  decisive.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  bloom  and 
perfume,  the  purest  efiiuence  of  a  deep,  fine, 
and  loving  nature;  a  nature  in  harmony  with 
itself,  reconciled  to  the  world  and  its  stinted- 
ness  and  contradiction,  nay,  finding  in  this 
very  contradiction  new  elements  of  beauty  as 
well  as  goodness.  Among  our  own  writers, 
Shakspeare  in  this  as  in  all  other  provinces, 
must  have  his  place:  yet  not  the  first;  his 
humour  is  heartfelt,  exuberant,  warm,  but  sel- 
dom the  tenderest  or  most  subtile.  Swift  in- 
clines more  to  simple  irony;  yet  he  had  genu- 
ine humour  too,  and  of  no  unloving  sort,  though 
cased,  like  Ben  Jonson's,  in  a  most  bitter  and 
caustic  rind.  Sterne  follows  next;  our  last 
specimen  of  humour,  and,  with  all  his  faults, 
our  best;  our  finest,  if  not  our  strongest,  for 
Yorick,  and  Corporal  Trim,  and  Uncle  Toby,  have 
yet  no  brother  but  in  Don  Quixote,  far  as  he  lies 
above  them.  Cervantes  is  indeed  the  purest 
of  all  humourists  ;  so  gentle  and  genial,  so  full 
yet  so  ethereal,  is  his  humour,  and  in  such  ac- 
cordance with  itself  and  his  whole  noble  na- 
ture. The  Italian  mind  is  said  to  abound  in 
humour;  yet  their  classics  seem  to  give  us 
no  right  emblem  of  it:  except,  perhaps,  in 
Ariosto,  there  appears  little  in  their  current 
poetry  that  reaches  the  region  of  true  humour. 
In  France,  since  the  days  of  Montaigne,  it  seems 
to  be  nearly  extinct.  Voltaire,  much  as  he  dealt 
in  ridicule,  never  rises  into  humour;  and  even 
with  Moliere,  it  is  far  more  an  affair  of  the  un- 
derstanding than  of  the  character. 

That  in  this  point,  Richter  excels  all  German 
authors,  is  saying  much  for  him,  and  may  be 
said  truly.  Lessing  has  humour, — of  a  sharp, 
rigid,  substantial,  and  on  the  whole,  genial  sort ; 
yet  the  ruling  bias  of  his  mind  is  to  logic.  So 
likewise  has  Wieland,  though  much  diluted  by 
the  general  loquacity  of  his  nature,  and  impo- 
verished still  farther  by  the  influences  of  a 
cold,  meagre,  French  skepticism.  Among  the 
Ramlers,  Gellerts,  Hagedorns,  of  Frederick  the 
Second's  time,  we  find  abundance,  and  delicate 
in  kind  too,  of  that  light  matter  which  the 
French  call  pleasantry;  but  little  or  nothing 
that  deserves  the  name  of  humour.  In  the 
present  age,  however,  there  is  Goethe,  with  a 
rich  true  vein  ;  and  this  sublimated,  as  it  were, 
to  an  essence,  and  blended  in  still  union  with 
his  whole  mind.  Tieck  alscr,  among  his  many 
fine  susceptibilities,  is  not  without  a  warm  keen 
sense  for  the  ridiculous  ;  and  a  humour  rising, 
though  by  short  fits,  and  from  a  much  lower 
atmosphere,  to  be  poetic.  But  of  all  these  men, 
there  is  none  that,  in  depth,  copiousness,  and 
intensity  of  humour,  can  be  compared  with 
Jean  Paul.  He  alone  exists  in  humour;  lives, 
moves,  and  has  his  being  in  it.  With  him  it 
is  not  so  much  united  to  his  other  qualities,  of 
intellect,  fancy,  imagination,  moral  feeling,  as 
these  are  united  to  it ;  or  rather  unite  them- 
selves to  it,  and  grow  under  its  warmth,  as  in 
their  proper  temperature  and  climate.    Not  as 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


13 


if  we  meant  to  assert  that  his  humour  is  in  all 
cases  perfectly  natural  and  pure  ;  nay,  that  it 
is  not  often  extravagant,  untrue,  or  even  ab- 
surd: but  still,  on  the  whole,  the  core  and  life  of 
it  are  genuine,  subtile,  spiritual.  Not  without 
reason  have  his  panegyrists  named  him  Jeu,n 
Paul  der  Einzige, — "  Jean  Paul  the  Only :"  in 
one  sense  or  the  other,  either  as  praise  or  cen- 
sure, his  critics  also  must  adopt  this  epithet ; 
for  surely,  in  the  whole  circle  of  literature, 
we  look  in  vain  for  his  parallel.  Unite  the 
sportfulness  of  Rabellais,  and  the  best  sensibi- 
lity of  Sterne,  with  the  earnestness,  and,  even 
in  slight  portions,  the  sublimity  of  Milton  ;  and 
and  let  the  mosaic  brain  of  old  Burton  give 
forth  the  workings  of  this  strange  union,  with 
the  pen  of  Jeremy  Bentham ! 

To  say  how,  with  so  peculiar  a  natural  en- 
dowment, Richter  should  have  shaped  his 
mind  by  culture,  is  much  harder  than  to  say 
that  he  has  shaped  it  wrong.  Of  affectation 
we  will  neither  altogether  clear  him,  nor  very 
loudly  pronounce  him  guilty.  That  his  man- 
ner of  writing  is  singular,  nay,  in  fact,  a  wild 
complicated  Arabesque,  no  one  can  deny.  But 
the  true  question  is, — how  nearly  does  this 
manner  of  writing  represent  his  real  manner 
of  thinking  and  existing  1  With  what  degree 
of  freedom  does  it  allow  this  particular  form 
of  being  to  manifest  itself;  or  what  fetters  and 
perversions  does  it  lay  on  such  manifestation] 
For  the  great  law  of  culture  is  :  Let  each  be- 
come all  that  he  was  created  capable  of  being; 
expand,  if  possible,  to  his  full  growth;  resist- 
ing all  impediments,  casting  off  all  foreign, 
especially  all  noxious  adhesions  ;  and  show 
himself  at  length  in  his  own  shape  and  stature, 
be  these  what  they  may.  There  is  no  uniform 
of  excellence,  either  in  physical  or  spiritual 
nature  :  all  genuine  things  are  what  they  ought 
to  be.  The  reindeer  is  good  and  beautiful,  so 
likewise  is  the  elephant.  In  literature  it  is  the 
same:  "every  man,"  says  Lessing,  "has  his 
own  style,  like  his  own  nose."  True,  there 
are  noses  of  wonderful  dimensions;  but  no 
nose  can  justly  be  amputated  by  the  public, — 
not  even  the  nose  of  Slawkenbergius  himself: 
so  it  be  a  real  nose,  and  no  wooden  one,  put  on 
for  deception's  sake  and  mere  show. 

To  speak  in  grave  language,  Lessing  means, 
and  we  agree  with  him,  that  the  outward  style 
is  to  be  judged  of  by  the  inward  qualities  of 
the  spirit  which  it  is  employed  to  body  forth ; 
that,  without  prejudice  to  critical  propriety, 
well  understood,  the  former  may  vary  into 
many  shapes  as  the  latter  varies;  that,  in 
short,  the  grand  point  for  a  writer  is  not  to  be 
of  this  or  that  external  make  and  fashion,  but, 
in  every  fashion,  to  be  genuine,  vigorous,  alive, 
— alive  with  his  whole  being,  consciously,  and 
for  beneficent  results. 

Tried  by  this  test,  we  imagine  Richter's  wild 
manner  will  be  found  less  imperfect  than  many 
a  very  tame  one.  To  the  man  it  may  not  be 
unsuitable.  In  that  singular  form,  there  is  a 
fire,  a  splendour,  a  benign  energy,  which  per- 
suades us  into  tolerance,  nay  into  love,  of  much 
that  might  otherwise  ofiend.  Above  all,  this 
man,  alloyed  with  imperfections  as  he  may  be, 
IS  consistent  and  coherent:  he  is  at  one  with 
himself;  he  knows  his  aims,  and  pursues  them 


in  sincerity  of  heart,  joyfully,  and  with  undi- 
vided will.  Aharmonious developmentof being, 
the  first  and  last  object  of  all  true  culture,  has 
therefore  been  attained ;  if  not  completely,  at 
least  more  completely  than  in  one  of  a  thousand 
ordinary  men.  Nor  let  us  forget,  that  in  such  a 
nature,  it  was  not  of  easy  attainment;  that 
where  much  was  to  be  developed,  some  imper- 
fection should  be  forgiven.  It  is  true,  the 
beaten  paths  of  literature  lead  the  safeliest  to 
the  goal ;  and  the  talent  pleases  us  most,  which 
submits  to  shine  with  new  gracefulness  through 
old  forms.  Nor  is  the  noblest  and  most  pecu- 
liar mind  too  noble  or  peculiar  for  working  by 
prescribed  laws  :  Sophocles,  Shakspeare,  Cer- 
vantes, and  in  Richter's  own  age,  Goethe,  how 
little  did  they  innovate  on  the  given  forms  of 
composition,  how  much  in  the  spirit  they 
breathed  into  them !  All  this  is  true ;  and 
Richter  must  lose  of  our  esteem  in  proportion. 
Much,  however,  will  remain ;  and  why  should 
we  quarrel  with  the  high,  because  it  is  not  the 
highest!  Richter's  worst  faults  are  nearly  al- 
lied to  his  best  merits ;  being  chiefly  exuber- 
ance of  good,  irregular  squandering  of  wealth, 
a  dazzling  with  excess  of  true  light.  These 
things  may  be  pardoned  the  more  readily,  as 
they  are  little  likely  to  be  imitated. 

On  the  whole.  Genius  has  privileges  of  its 
own  ;  it  selects  an  orbit  for  itself;  and  be  this 
never  so  eccentric,  if  it  is  indeed  a  celestial 
orbit,  we  mere  star-gazers  must  at  last  com- 
pose ourselves  ;  must  cease  to  cavil  at  it,  and 
begin  to  observe  it,  and  calculate  its  laws. 
That  Richter  is  a  new  planet  in  the  intellec- 
tual heavens,  we  dare  not  aflirm ;  an  atmo- 
spheric meteor  he  is  not  wholly ;  perhaps  a 
comet,  that,  though  with  long  aberrations,  and 
shrouded  in  a  nebulous  veil,  has  yet  its  place 
in  the  empyrean. 

Of  Richter's  individual  works,  of  his  opinions, 
his  general  philosophy  of  life,  we  have  no  room 
left  us  to  speak.  Regarding  his  novels,  we  may 
say,  that,  except  in  some  few  instances,  and 
those  chiefly  of  the  shorter  class,  they  are  not 
what,  in  strict  language,  we  can  term  unities: 
with  much  callida  junctura  of  parts,  it  is  rare 
that  any  of  them  leaves  on  us  the  impression 
of  a  perfect,  homogeneous,  indivisible  whole. 
A  true  work  of  art  requires  to  he  fused  in  the 
mind  of  its  creator,  and  as  it  were,  poured  forth 
(from  his  imagination,  though  not  from  his 
pen)  at  one  simultaneous  gush.  Richter's 
works  do  not  always  bear  sufficient  marks  of 
having  been  in  fusion;  yet  neither  are  they 
merely  riveted  together :  to  say  the  least,  they 
have  been  tvelded.  A  similar  remark  applies 
to  many  of  his  characters;  indeed,  more  or 
less,  to  all  of  them,  except  such  as  are  entirely 
humourous,  or  have  a  large  dash  of  humour.  In 
this  latter  province,  certainly  he  is  at  home ;  a 
true  poet,  a  maker :  his  Siebenkds,  his  Schmelzle, 
even  his  Fibel  and  FixUin  are  living  figures. 
But  in  heroic  personages,  passionate,  massive, 
overpowering  as  he  is,  we  have  scarcely  ever 
a  complete  ideal ;  art  has  not  attained  to  the 
concealment  of  itself.  With  his  heroines  again 
he  is  more  successful ;  they  are  often  true  he- 
roines, though  perhaps  with  too  little  variety 
of  character ;  bustling,  buxom  mothers  and 
housewives,  with  all  the  caprices,  perversities, 
B 


14 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  warm,  generous  helpfulness  of  women  ; 
or  white,  half-angelic  creatures,  meek,  still, 
long-suffering,  high-minded,  of  tenderest  affec- 
tions, and  hearts  crushed  yet  uncomplaining. 
Supernatural  figures  he  has  not  attempted; 
and  wisely,  for  he  cannot  write  without  belief. 
Yet  many  times  he  exhibits  an  imagination  of 
a  singularity,  nay,  on  the  whole,  of  a  truth  and 
grandeur,  unexampled  elsewhere.  In  his  dreams 
there  is  a  mystic  complexity,  a  gloom,  and  amid 
the  dim,  gigantic,  half-ghastly  shadows,  gleam- 
ings  of  a  wizard  splendour,  which  almost  recall 
to  us  the  visions  of  Ezekiel.  By  readers  who 
have  studied  the  Dream  in  the  New-year's  Eve 
we  shall  not  be  mistaken. 

Richter's  Philosophy,  a  matter  of  no  ordinary 
interest,  both  as  it  agrees  with  the  common 
philosophy  of  Germany,  and  disagrees  with  it, 
must  not  be  touched  on  for  the  present.  One 
only  observation  we  shall  make:  it  is  not  me- 
chanical, or  skeptical ;  it  springs  not  from  the 
forum  or  the  laboratory,  but  from  the  depths 
of  the  human  spirit ;  and  yields  as  its  fairest 
product  a  noble  system  of  morality,  and  the 
firmest  conviction  of  religion.  In  this  latter 
point  we  reckon  him  peculiarly  worthy  of 
study.  To  a  careless  reader  he  might  seem 
the  wildest  of  infidels  ;  for  nothing  can  exceed 
the  freedom  with  which  he  bandies  to  and  fro  the 
dogmas  of  religion,  nay,  sometimes,  the  highest 
objects  of  Christian  reverence.  There  are  pas- 
sages of  this  sort,  which  will  occur  to  every 
reader  of  Richter ;  but  which,  not  to  fall  into  the 
error  we  have  already  blamed  in  Madame  de 
Stael,  we  shall  refrain  from  quoting.  More  light 
is  in  the  following:  "Or,"  inquires  he,  in  his 
usual  abrupt  way,  (Note  to  Schmelzle's  Journey,) 
•'  Or  are  all  your  Mosques,  Episcopal  Churches, 
Pagodas,  Chapels  of  Ease,  Tabernacles,  and 
Pantheons,  any  thing  else  but  the  Ethnic  Fore- 
court of  the  Invisible  Temple  and  its  Holy  of 
Holies?"  Yet,  independently  of  all  dogmas, 
nay,  perhaps  in  spite  of  many,  Richter  is,  in 
the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  religious.  A 
reverence,  not  a  self-interested  fear,  but  a  noble 
reverence  for  the  spirit  of  all  goodness,  forms 
the  crown  and  glory  of  his  culture.  The  fiery 
elements  of  his  nature  have  been  purified 
under  holy  influences,  and  chastened  by  a 
principle  of  mercy  and  humility  into  peace 
and  well-doing.  An  intense  and  continual 
faith  in  man's  immortality  and  native  grandeur 
accompanies  him ;  from  amid  the  vortices  of 
life  he  looks  up  to  a  heavenly  loadstar ;  the 
solution  of  what  is  visible  and  transient,  he 
finds  in  what  is  invisible  and  eternal.  He  has 
doubted,  he  denies,  yet  he  believes.  "  When, 
in  your  last  hour,"  says  he,  (Levana,  p.  251,) 
"when,  in  your  last  hour,  (think  of  this,)  all 
faculty  in  the  broken  spirit  shall  fade  away 
and  die  into  inanity, — imagination,  thought, 
effort,  enjoyment, — then  at  last  will  the  night- 
flower  of  Belief  alone  continue  blooming,  and 
refresh  with  its  perfumes  in  the  last  darkness." 

To  reconcile  these  seeming  contradictions, 
to  explain  the  grounds,  the  manner,  the  con- 
gruity  of  Richter's  belief,  cannot  be  attempted 
here.  We  recommend  him  to  the  study,  the 
tolerance,  and  even  the  praise,  of  all  men  who 
have  inquired  into  this  highest  of  questions 
with  a  right  spirit ;  inquired  with  the  martyr 


fearlessness,  but  also  with  the  martyr  reve- 
rence, of  men  that  love  Truth,  and  will  not  ac- 
cept a  lie.  A  frank,  fearless,  honest,  yet  truly 
spiritual  faith  is  of  all  things  the  rarest  in  our 
time. 

Of  writings  which,  though  with  many  reser- 
vations, we  have  praised  so  much,  our  hesitat- 
ing readers  may  demand  some  specimen.  To 
unbelievers,  unhappily,  we  have  none  of  a 
convincing  sort  to  give.  Ask  us  not  to  repre- 
sent the  Peruvian  forests  by  three  twigs  pluck- 
ed from  them  ;  or  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile  by 
a  handful  of  its  water !  To  those,  meanwhile, 
who  will  look  on  twigs  as  mere  dissevered 
twigs,  and  a  handful  of  water  as  only  so  many 
drops,  we  present  the  following.  It  is  a  sum- 
mer Sunday  night ;  Jean  Paul  is  taking  leave 
of  the  Hukelum  Parson  and  his  wife ;  like  him 
we  have  long  laughed  at  them  or  wept  for  them ; 
like  him,  also,  we  are  sad  to  part  from  them. 

"  We  were  all  of  us  too  deeply  moved.  We 
at  last  tore  ourselves  asunder  from  repeated 
embraces ;  my  friend  retired  with  the  soul 
whom  he  loves.  I  remained  alone  behind 
with  the  Night. 

"  And  I  walked  without  aim  through  woods, 
through  valleys,  and  over  brooks,  and  through 
sleeping  villages,  to  enjoy  the  great  Night,  like 
a  Day.  I  walked,  and  still  looked,  like  the 
magnet,  to  the  region  of  midnight,  to  strength- 
en my  heart  at  the  gleaming  twilight,  at  this 
upstretching  aurora  of  a  morning  beneath  our 
feet.  White  night-butterflies  flitted,  white  blos- 
soms fluttered,  white  stars  fell,  and  the  white 
snow-powder  hung  silvery  in  the  high  Shadow 
of  the  Earth,  which  reaches  beyond  the  Moon, 
and  which  is  our  Night.  Then  began  the 
^olian  Harp  of  the  Creation  to  tremble  and  to 
sound,  blown  on  from  above ;  and  my  immor- 
tal Soul  was  a  string  in  this  harp. — The  heart 
of  a  brother,  everlasting  Man,  swelled  under 
the  everlasting  heaven,  as  the  seas  swell  under 
the  sun  and  under  the  moon. — The  distant 
village  clocks  struck  midnight,  mingling,  as  it 
were,  with  the  ever-pealing  tone  of  ancient 
Eternity. — The  limbs  of  my  buried  ones 
touched  cold  on  my  soul,  and  drove  away  its 
blots,  as  dead  hands  heal  eruptions  of  the  skin. 
— I  walked  silently  through  little  hamlets,  and 
close  by  their  outer  church-yards,  where  crum- 
bled upcast  coffin-boards  were  glimmering, 
while  the  once  bright  eyes  that  had  lain  in 
them  were  mouldered  into  gray  ashes.  Cold 
thought!  clutch  not  like  a  cold  spectre  at  my 
heart :  I  look  up  to  the  starry  sky,  and  an  ever- 
lasting chain  stretches  thither,  and  over,  and 
below  ;  and  all  is  Life  and  Warmth,  and  Light, 
and  all  is  Godlike  or  God.  .  . 

"Towards  morning,  I  described  thy  late 
lights,  little  city  of  my  dwelling,  which  I  be- 
long to  on  this  side  the  grave ;  I  returned  to 
the  Earth  ;  and  in  thy  steeples,  behind  the  by- 
advanced  great  midnight,  it  struck  half-past 
two  :  about  this  hour,  in  1794,  Mars  went  down 
in  the  west,  and  the  Moon  rose  in  the  east ;  and 
my  soul  desired,  in  grief  for  the  noble  warlike 
blood  which  is  still  streaming  on  the  blossoms 
of  spring :  '  Ah,  retire,  bloody  War,  like  red 
Mars :  and  thou,  still  Peace,  come  forth  like 
the  mild  divided  Moon !'  "—End  of  Quintus 
Fixlein. 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


15 


Such,  seen  through  no  nncoloured  medium, 
but  in  dim  remoteness,  and  sketched  in  hurried, 
transitory  outline,  are  some  features  of  Jean 
Paul  Friedrich  Richter  and  his  works.  Ger- 
many has  long  loved  him;  to  England  also 
he  must  one  day  become  known ;  for  a  man 
of  this  magnitude  belongs  not  to  one  people, 
but  to  the  world.  What  our  countrymen  may 
decide  of  him,  still  more  what  may  be  his  for- 
tune with  posterity,  we  will  not  try  to  foretell. 
Time  has  a  contracting  influence  on  many  a 
wide-spread  fame ;  yet  of  Richter  we  will  say, 
that  he  may  survive  much.  There  is  in  him  that 
which  does  not  die ;  that  Beauty  and  Earnest- 
ness of  soul,  that  spirit  of  Humanity,  of  Love 
and  mild  Wisdom,  over  which  the  vicissitudes 
of  mode  have  no  sway.  This  is  that  excellence 
of  the  inmost  nature  which  alone  confers 


immortality  on  writings;  that  charm  which 
still,  under  every  defacement,  binds  us  to  the 
pages  of  our  own  Hookers,  and  Taylors,  and 
Brownes,  when  their  way  of  thought  has  long 
ceased  to  be  ours,  and  the  most  valued  of  their 
merely  intellectual  opinions  have  passed  away, 
as  ours  too  must  do,  with  the  circumstances 
and  events  in  which  they  took  their  shape  or 
rise.  To  men  of  a  right  mind,  there  may 
long  be  in  Richter  much  that  has  attraction 
and  value.  In  the  moral  desert  of  vulgar  Lite- 
rature, with  its  sandy  wastes,  and  parched, 
bitter,  and  too  often  poisonous  shrubs,  the 
writings  of  this  man  will  rise  in  their  irregular 
luxuriance,  like  a  cluster  of  date-trees,  with 
its  greensward  and  well  of  water,  to  refresh 
the  pilgrim,  in  the  sultry  solitude,  with  nou- 
rishment and  shade. 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATUEE.' 


[EniNBURaH  Review,  1827.] 


These  two  books,  notwithstanding  their  di- 
versity of  title,  are  properly  parts  of  one  and 
the  same ;  the  "  Outlines,"  though  of  prior  date 
in  regard  to  publication,  having  now  assumed 
the  character  of  sequel  and  conclusion  to  the 
larger  work, — of  fourth  volume  to  the  other 
three.  It  is  designed,  of  course,  for  the  home 
market ;  yet  the  foreign  student  also  will  find 
in  it  a  safe  and  valuable  help,  and,  in  spite  of 
its  imperfections,  should  receive  it  with  thank- 
fulness and  good-will.  Doubtless  we  might 
have  wished  for  a  keener  discriminative  and 
descriptive  talent,  and  perhaps  for  a  somewhat 
more  catholic  spirit,  in  the  writer  of  such  a 
history:  but  in  their  absence  we  have  still 
much  to  praise.  Horn's  literary  creed  would, 
on  the  whole,  we  believe,  be  aclcnowledged  by 
his  countryman  as  the  true  one ;  and  this, 
though  it  is  chiefly  from  one  immovable  station 
that  he  can  survey  his  subject,  he  seems 
heartily  anxious  to  apply  with  candour  and 
tolerance.  Another  improvement  might  have 
been  a  deeper  principle  of  arrangement,  a 
firmer  grouping  into  periods  and  schools ;  for, 
as  it  stands,  the  work  is  more  a  critical  sketch 
of  German  Poets,  than  a  history  of  German 
Poetry. 

Let  us  not  quarrel,  however,  with  our  au- 
thor;  his  merits  as  a  literary  historian  are  plain, 
and  by  no  means  inconsiderable.  Without 
rivalling  the  almost  frightful  laboriousness  of 
Bouterwek  or  Eichhorn,  he  gives  creditable 
proofs  of  research  and  general  information,  and 
possesses  a  lightness  in  composition,  to  which 
neither  of  these  erudite  persons  can  well  pre- 
tend.    Undoubtedly  he  has  a  flowing  pen,  and 

♦  1.  Die  Poesie  und  Beredsamkeit  der  Deutschen,  von  Lu- 
thers  Zeit  bis  lur  Oesenwart.  Dargestellt  von  Franz  Horn. 
(The  Poetry  and  Oratory  of  the  Germans,  from  Luther's 
Time  to  the  Present.  Exhibited  by  Franz  Horn.)  Berlin, 
1822—1824.    3  vols.  8vo. 

2.  Umrisse  lur  Oeschichte  und  Kritik  der  schonen 
Literatur  Deutschlands  wlLhrend  der  Jahre,  1790 — 1818. 
(Outlines  for  the  History  and  Criticism  of  Polite  Litera- 
ture in  Germany,  during  the  years  1790—1818.)  By  Franz 
Horn.    Berlin.  1819,  8vo. 


is  at  home  in  this  province ;  not  only  a  speak- 
er of  the  word,  indeed,  but  a  doer  of  the  work; 
having  written,  besides  his  great  variety  of 
tracts  and  treatises,  biographical,  philosophi- 
cal, and  critical,  several  very  deserving  works 
of  a  poetic  sort.  He  is  not,  it  must  be  owned, 
a  very  strong  man,  but  he  is  nimble  and  or- 
derly, and  goes  through  his  work  with  a  cer- 
tain gayety  of  heart;  nay,  at  times,  with  a 
frolicsome  alacrity  which  might  even  require 
to  be  pardoned.  His  character  seems  full  of 
susceptibility;  perhaps  too  much  so  for  its 
natural  vigour.  His  novels,  accordingly,  to 
judge  from  the  few  we  have  read  of  them, 
verge  towards  the  sentimental.  In  the  present 
work,  in  like  manner,  he  has  adopted  nearly 
all  the  best  ideas  of  his  contemporaries,  but 
v/ith  something  of  an  undue  vehemence ;  and 
he  advocates  the  cause  of  religion,  integrity, 
and  true  poetic  taste  with  great  heartiness  and 
vivacity,  were  it  not  that  too  often  his  zeal 
outruns  his  prudence  and  insight.  Thus,  for 
instance,  he  declares  repeatedly,  in  so  many 
words,  that  no  mortal  can  be  a  poet  unless  he 
is  a  Christian.  The  meaning  here  is  very  good; 
but  why  this  phraseology  1  Is  it  not  inviting 
the  simple-minded  (not  to  speak  of  scoffers, 
whom  Horn  very  justly  contemns,)  to  ask, 
when  Homer  subscribed  the  Thirty-nine  Ar- 
ticles 1  or  whether  Sadi  and  Hafiz  were  really 
of  the  Bishop  of  Peterborough's  opinion  1 
Again,  he  talks  loo  often  of  "  representing  the 
Infinite  in  the  Finite,"  of  expressing  the  un- 
speakable, and  such  high  matters.  In  fact, 
Horn's  style,  though  extremely  readable,  has 
one  great  fault;  it  is,  to  speak  it  in  a  single 
word,  an  affected  style.  His  stream  of  mean- 
ing, uniformly  clear  and  wholesome  in  itself, 
will  not  flow  quietly  along  its  channel ;  but  is 
ever  and  anon  spurting  up  into  epigram  and 
antithetic  jets.  Playful  he  is,  and  kindly,  and 
we  do  believe,  honest-hearted ;  but  there  is  a 
certain  snappishness  in  him,  a  frisking  abrupt- 
ness ;  and  then  his  sport  is  more  a  perpetual 


16 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


giggle,  than  any  dignified  smile,  or  even  any- 
sufficient  laugh  with  gravity  succeeding  it. 
This  sentence  is  among  the  best  we  recollect 
of  him,  and  will  partly  illustrate  what  we  mean. 
We  submit  it,  for  the  sake  of  its  import 
likewise,  to  all  superfine  speculators  on  the 
Reformation,  in  their  future  contrasts  of  Luther 
and  Erasmus.  "Erasmus,"  says  Horn,  "be- 
longs to  that  species  of  writers  who  have  all 
the  desire  in  the  world  to  build  God  Almighty 
a  magnificent  church, — at  the  same  time,  how- 
ever, not  giving  the  Devil  any  offence ;  to  whom, 
accordingly,  they  set  up  a  neat  little  chapel 
close  by,  where  you  can  offer  him  some  touch 
of  sacrifice  at  a  time,  and  practise  a  quiet 
household  devotion  for  him  without  disturb- 
ance." In  this  style  of  "  witty  and  conceited 
mirth,"  considerable  part  of  the  book  is  written. 

But  our  chief  business  at  present  is  not  with 
Franz  Horn,  or  his  book  ;  of  whom  accordingly, 
recommending  his  labours  to  all  inquisitive 
students  of  German,  and  himself  to  good  esti- 
mation with  all  good  men,  we  must  here  take 
leave.  We  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  on  that 
strange  literature  itself;  concerning  which  our 
readers  probably  feel  more  curious  to  learn 
what  it  is,  than  with  what  skill  it  has  been 
judged  of. 

Above  a  century  ago,  the  Pere  Bouhours 
propounded  to  himself  the  pregnant  question  : 
Si  un  Alkmand  pent  avoir  de  Vesprit  ?  Had  the 
Pere  Bouhours  bethought  him  of  what  country 
Kepler  and  Leibnitz  were,  or  who  it  was  that 
gave  to  mankind  the  three  great  elements 
of  modern  civilization,  Gunpowder,  Printing, 
and  the  Protestant  Religion,  it  might  have 
thrown  light  on  his  inquiry.  Had  he  known 
the  Nibelmigen  Lied;  and  where  Reinecke  Fuchs, 
and  Faust,  and  the  Ship  of  Fools,  and  four-fifths 
of  all  the  popular  mythology,  humour,  and 
romance,  to  be  found  in  Europe  in  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries,  took  its 
rise ;  had  he  read  a  page  or  two  of  Ulrich 
Hutten,  Opitz,  Paul  Flemming,  Logau,  or  even 
Lohenstein  and  Hoffmanns-waldau,  all  of  whom 
had  already  lived  and  written  in  his  day ;  had 
the  Pere  Bouhours  taken  this  trouble,  who 
knows  but  he  might  have  found,  with  what- 
ever amazement,  that  a  German  could  actually 
have  a  little  esprit,  or  perhaps  even  something 
better  1  No  such  trouble  was  requisite  for  the 
Pere  Bouhours.  Motion  in  vacuo  is  well  known 
to  be  speedier  and  surer  than  through  a  re- 
sisting medium,  especially  to  imponderous 
bodies ;  and  so  the  light  Jesuit,  unimpeded  by 
facts  or  principles  of  any  kind,  failed  not  to 
reach  his  conclusion ;  and,  in  a  comfortable 
frame  of  mind,  to  decide  negatively,  that  a  Ger- 
man could  not  have  any  literary  talent. 

Thus  did  the  Pere  Bouhours  evince  that  he 
had  "a  pleasant  wit;"  but  in  the  end  he  has 
paid  dear  for  it.  The  French,  themselves,  have 
long  since  begun  to  know  something  of  the  Ger- 
mans, and  something  also  of  their  own  critical 
Daniel ;  and  now  it  is  by  this  one  unt\me]y 
joke  that  the  hapless  Jesuit  is  doomed  to  live ; 
for  the  blessing  of  full  oblivion  is  denied  him, 
and  so  he  hangs  suspended  in  his  own  noose, 
over  the  dusky  pool  which  he  struggles  toward, 
but  for  a  great  while  will  not  reach.  Might 
his  fate  but  serve  as  a  warning  to  kindred  men 


of  wit,  in  regard  to  this  and  so  many  other 
subjects  !  For  surely  the  pleasure  of  despising, 
at  all  times  and  in  itself  a  dangerous  luxury, 
is  much  safer  after  the  toil  of  examining  than 
before  it. 

We  differ  from  the  Pere  Bouhours  in  this 
matter,  and  must  endeavour  to  discuss  it  dif- 
ferently. There  is,  in  fact,  much  in  the  present 
aspect  of  German  Literature,  not  only  deserving 
notice  but  deep  consideration  from  all  thinking 
men,  and  far  too  complex  for  being  handled  in 
the  way  of  epigram.  It  is  always  advantageous 
to  think  justly  of  our  neighbours  ;  nay,  in  mere 
common  honesty,  it  is  a  duty;  and,  like  every 
other  duty,  brings  its  own  reward.  Perhaps  at 
the  present  era  this  duty  is  more  essential  than 
ever;  an  era  of  such  promise  and  such  threat- 
ening, when  so  many  elements  of  good  and  evil 
are  everywhere  in  conflict,  and  human  society 
is,  as  it  were,  struggling  to  body  itself  forth 
anew,  and  so  many  coloured  rays  are  springing 
up  in  this  quarter  and  in  that,  which  only  by 
their  union  can  produce  pure  light.  Happily, 
too,  though  still  a  difficult,  it  is  no  longer  an 
impossible  duty;  for  the  commerce  in  material 
things  has  paved  roads  for  commerce  in  things 
spiritual,  and  a  true  thought,  or  a  noble  crea- 
tion, passes  lightly  to  us  from  the  remotest 
countries,  provided  only  our  minds  be  open  to 
receive  it.  This,  indeed,  is  a  rigorous  proviso, 
and  a  great  obstacle  lies  in  it ;  one  which  to 
many  must  be  insurmountable,  yet  which  it 
is  the  chief  glory  of  social  culture  to  surmount. 
For  if  a  man  who  mistakes  his  own  contract- 
ed individuality  for  the  type  of  human  nature, 
and  deals  with  whatever  contradicts  him,  as  if 
it  contradicted  this,  is  but  a  pedant,  and  with- 
out true  wisdom,  be  he  furnished  with  partial 
equipments  as  he  may, — what  better  shall  we 
think  of  a  nation  that,  in  like  manner,  isolates 
itself  from  foreign  influence,  regards  its  own 
modes  as  so  many  laws  of  nature,  and  rejects 
all  that  is  different  as  unworthy  even  of  ex- 
amination] 

Of  this  narrow  and  perverted  condition,  the 
French,  down  almost  to  our  own  times,  have 
afforded  a  remarkable  and  instructive  example ; 
as  indeed  of  late  they  have  been  often  enough 
upbraidingly  reminded,  and  are  now  them- 
selves, in  a  manlier  spirit,  beginning  to  admit. 
That  our  countrymen  have  at  any  time  erred 
much  in  this  point,  cannot,  we  think,  truly  be 
alleged  against  them.  Neither  shall  we  say, 
with  some  passionate  admirers  of  Germany, 
that  to  the  Germans  in  particular  they  have 
been  unjust.  It  is  true,  the  literature  and  cha- 
racter of  that  country,  which,  within  the  last 
half  century,  have  been  more  worthy  perhaps 
than  any  other  of  our  study  and  regard,  are 
still  very  generally  unknown  to  us,  or,  what  is 
worse,  misknown:  but  for  this  there  are  not 
wanting  less  offensive  reasons.  That  the  false 
and  tawdry  ware,  which  was  in  all  hands, 
should  reach  us  before  the  chaste  and  truly 
excellent,  which  it  required  some  excellence 
to  recognise ;  that  Kotzebue's  insanity  should 
have  spread  faster,  by  some  fifty  years,  than 
Lessing's  wisdom;  that  Kant's  Philosophy 
should  stand  in  the  back-ground  as  a  dreary 
and  abortive  dream,  and  Gall's  Craniology  be 
held  out  to  us  from  every  booth  as  a  reality ; — 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


17 


all  this  lay  in  the  nature  of  the  case.  That 
many  readers  should  draw  conclusions  from 
imperfect  premises,  and  by  the  imports  judge 
too  hastily  of  the  stock  imported  from,  was  like- 
wise natural.  No  unfair  bias,  no  unwise  in- 
disposition, that  we  are  aware  of,  has  ever  been 
at  work  in  the  matter;  perhaps,  at  worst,  a 
degree  of  indolence,  a  blamable  incuriosity  to 
all  products  of  foreign  genius :  for  what  more 
do  we  know  of  recent  Spanish  or  Italian  lite- 
rature than  of  German ;  of  Grossi  and  Man- 
zoni,  of  Campomanes  or  Jovellanos,  than  of 
Tieck  and  Richter  1  Wherever  German  art, 
in  those  forms  of  it  which  need  no  interpreter, 
has  addressed  us  immediately,  our  recognition 
of  it  has  been  prompt  and  hearty ;  from  Diirer 
to  Mengs,  from  Handel  to  Weber  and  Beetho- 
ven, we  have  welcomed  the  painters  and  mu- 
sicians of  Germany,  not  only  to  our  praise,  but 
to  our  affections  and  beneficence.  Nor,  if  in 
their  literature  we  have  been  more  backward, 
is  the  literature  itself  without  blame.  Two 
centuries  ago,  translations  from  the  German 
were  comparatively  frequent  in  England : 
Luther's  Table-Talk  is  still  a  venerable  classic 
in  our  language;  nay  Jacob  Boehme  has.found 
a  place  among  us,  and  this  not  as  a  dead  letter, 
but  as  a  living  apostle  to  a  still  living  sect  of 
our  religionists.  In  the  next  century,  indeed, 
translation  ceased ;  but  then  it  was,  in  a  great 
measure,  because  there  was  little  worth  trans- 
lating. The  horrors  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War, 
followed  by  the  conquests  and  conflagrations  of 
Louis  the  Fourteenth,  had  desolated  the  coun  try ; 
French  influence,  extending  from  the  courts 
of  princes  to  the  closets  of  the  learned,  lay  like 
a  baleful  incubus  over  the  far  nobler  mind  of 
Germany;  and  all  true  nationality  vanished 
from  its  literature,  or  was  heard  only  in  faint 
tones,  which  lived  in  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
but  could  not  reach  with  any  effect  to  the  ears 
of  foreigners.*    And  now  that  the  genius  of  the 


♦  Not  that  the  Germans  were  idle ;  or  altogether  en- 
gaged, as  we  too  loosely  suppose,  in  the  work  of  com- 
mentary and  lexicography.  On  the  contrary,  they 
rhymed  and  romanced  with  due  vigour  as  to  quantity  ; 
only  the  quality  was  bad.  Two  facts  on  this  head  may 
deserve  mention  :  In  the  year  1749,  there  were  found,  in 
the  library  of  one  virtuoso,  no  fewer  than  300  volumes 
of  devotional  poetry,  containing,  says  Horn,  "  a  treasure 
of  33,712  German  hymns  ;"  and,  much  about  the  same 
period,  one  of  Gottsched's  scholars  had  amassed  as  many 
as  1500  German  novels,  all  of  the  17th  century.  The 
hymns  we  understand  to  be  much  better  than  the  novels, 
or  rather,  perhaps,  the  novels  to  be  much  worse  than  the 
hymns.  Neither  was  critical  study  neglected,  nor  in- 
deed honest  endeavour  on  all  hands  to  attain  improve- 
ment :  witness  the  strange  books  from  time  to  time  put 
forth,  and  the  still  stranger  institutions  established  for 
this  purpose.  Among  the  former  we  have  the  "  Poeti- 
cal Funnel,"  (PoetiscAe  Trichter,)  manufactured  at  Niirn- 
berg  in  1650,  and  professing,  within  six  hours,  to  pour  in 
the  whole  essence  of  this  difficult  art  into  the  most  un- 
furnished head.  Niirnbergalso  was  the  chief  seat  of  the 
famous  Meistersdiiirer  and  their  Savgerziivfte,  or  Singer- 
guilds,  in  which  poetry  was  taught  and  practised  like 
any  other  handicraft,  and  this  by  sober  and  well-mean- 
ing men,  chiefly  artisans,  who  could  not  understand  why 
labour,  which  manufactured  so  many  things,  should  not 
also  manufacture  another.  Of  these  tuneful  guild- 
brethren,  Hans  Sachs,  by  trade  a  shoemaker,  is  greatly 
the  most  noted  and  most  notable.  His  father  was  a 
tailor ;  he  himself  learned  the  mystery  of  song  under  one 
Nunnebeck,  a  weaver.  He  was  an  adherent  of  his  great 
contemporary  Luther,  who  has  even  deigned  to  acknow- 
ledge his  services  in  the  cause  of  Reformation  :  how 
diligent  a  labourer  Sachs  must  have  been,  will  appear 
from  the  fact,  that,  in  his  74th  year,  (1568,)  on  examin- 
ing his  stock  for  publication,  he  found  that  he  had  writ- 


country  has  awaked  in  its  old  strength,  our  at- 
tention to  it  has  certainly  awakened  also  ;  and 
if  we  yet  know  little  or  nothing  of  the  Ger- 
mans, it  is  not  because  we  wilfully  do  them 
wrong,  but,  in  good  part,  because  they  are 
somewhat  difficult  to  know. 

In  fact  prepossessions  of  all  sorts  naturally 
enough  find  their  place  here.  A  country  which 
has  no  national  literature,  or  literature  too  in- 
significant to  force  its  way  abroad,  must  always 
be,  to  its  neighbours,  at  least  in  every  important 
spiritual  respect,  an  unknown  and  misestimated 
country.  Its  towns  may  figure  on  our  maps ; 
its  revenues,  population,  manufactures,  poli- 
tical connections,  may  be  recorded  in  statistical 
books;  but  the  character  of  the  people  has  no 
symbol  and  no  voice ;  we  cannot  know  them 
by  speech  ,and  discourse,  but  only  mere  sight 
and  outward  observation  of  their  manners  and 
procedure.  Now,  if  both  sight  and  speech,  if 
both  travellers  and  native  literature,  are  found 
but  ineffectual  in  this  respect,  how  incalcu- 
lably more  so  the  former  alone  !  To  seize 
a  character,  even  that  of  one  man,  in  its  life 
and  secret  mechanism,  requires  a  philospher ;; 
to  delineate  it  with  truth  and  impressiveness, 
is  a  work  for  a  poet.  How  then  shall  one  or 
two  sleek  clerical  tutors,  with  here  and  there 
a  tedium-stricken  esquire,  or  speculative  half- 
pay  captain,  give  us  views  on  such  a  subject T' 
How  shall  a  man,  to  whom  all  characters  of 
individual  men  are  like  sealed  books,  of  which- 
he  sees  only  the  title  and  the  covers,  decipher 
from  his  four-wheeled  vehicle,  and  depict  ta 
us,  the  character  of  a  nation  ?  He  courage- 
ously depicts  his  own  optical  delusions;  notes 
this  to  be  incomprehensible,  that  other  to  be 
insignificant;  much  to  be  good,  much  to  be 
bad,  and  most  of  all  indifferent ;  and  so,  with 
a  few  flowing  strokes,  completes  a  picture 
which,  though  it  may  not  even  resemble  any 
possible  object,  his  countrymen  are  to  take  for 
a  national  portrait.  Nor  is  the  fraud  so  readily 
detected :  for  the  character  of  a  people  has 
such  complexity  of  aspect,  that  even  the  honest 
observer  knows  not  always,  not  perhaps  after 
long  inspection,  what  to  determine  regarding 
it.  From  his,  only  accidental,  point  of  view, 
the  figure  stands  before  him  like  the  tracings 
on  veined  marble, — a  mass  of  mere  random 
lines,  and  tints,  and  entangled  strokes,  out  of 
which  a  lively  fancy  may  shape  almost  any 
image.  But  the  image  he  brings  along  with 
him  is  always  the  readiest;  this  is  tried,  it 
answers  as  well  as  another;  and  a  second"- 
voucher  now  testifies  its  correctness.  Thus 
each,  in  confident  tones,  though  it  may  be  with* 
a  secret  misgiving,  repeats  his  precursor;  the 
hundred  times  repeated  comes  in  the  end  to  be 


ten  6048  poetical  pieces,  among  which  were  208  tragedies 
and  comedies  ;  and  this,  besides  having  all  along  kept 
house,  like  an  honest  Nvirnberg  burgher,  by  assiduous 
and  sufficient  shoemaking !  Hans  is  not  without  geniu.s, 
and  a  shrewd  irony  ;  and  above  all,  the  most  gay,  child- 
like, yet  devout  and  solid  character.  A  man  neither  to 
be  despised  nor  patronized,  but  left  standing  on  his  own 
basis,  as  a  singular  product,  and  a  still  legible  symbol,, 
and  clear  mirror,  of  the  time  and  country  where  he  lived. 
His  best  piece  known  to  us,  and  many  are  well  worth, 
perusing,  is  the  Fastnachtsspiel  (Shrovetide  Farce)  of  the 
J\rarrevschneiden,  where  the  Doctor  cures  a  bloated  and 
lethargic  patient  by  cutting  out  half  a  dozen  Fools  ttovot 
his  interior ! 

s2 


18 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


believed;  the  foreign  nation  is  now  once  for 
all  understood,  decided  on,  and  registered  ac- 
cordingly; and  dunce  the  thousandth  writes 
of  it  like  dunce  the  first. 

With  the  aid  of  literary  and  intellectual  in- 
tercourse, much  of  this  falsehood  may,  no 
doubt,  be  corrected :  yet  even  here,  sound 
judgment  is  far  from  easy  ;  and  most  national 
characters  are  still,  as  Hume  long  ago  com- 
plained, the  product  rather  of  popular  preju- 
dice than  of  philosophic  insight.  That  the 
Germans,  in  particular,  have  by  no  means 
escaped  such  misrepresentation,  nay,  perhaps, 
have  had  more  than  the  common  share  of  it, 
cannot,  in  their  circumstances,  surprise  us. 
From  the  time  of  Optiz  and  Flamming,  to  those 
of  Klopstock  and  Lessing, — that  is,  from  the 
early  part  of  the  seventeenth  to  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth  century, — they  had  scarcely  any 
literature  known  abroad,  or  deserving  to  be 
known:  their  political  condition,  during  this 
same  period,  was  oppressive  and  every  way  un- 
fortunate externally  ;  and  at  home,  the  nation, 
split  into  so  many  factions  and  petty  states, 
had  lost  all  feeling  of  itself  as  of  a  nation ;  and 
its  energies  in  arts  as  in  arms  were  manifested 
only  in  detail,  too  often  in  collision,  and  always 
under  foreign  influence.  The  French,  at  once 
their  plunderers  and  their  scoffers,  described 
them  to  the  rest  of  Europe  as  a  semi-barbarous 
people ;  which  comfortable  fact  the  rest  of 
Europe  was  willing  enough  to  take  on  their 
word.  During  the  greater  part  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, the  Germans,  in  our  intellectual  survey 
of  the  world,  were  quietly  omitted;  a  vague 
contemptuous  ignorance  prevailed  respecting 
them ;  it  was  a  Cimmerian  land,  where,  if  a 
iew  sparks  did  glimmer,  it  was  but  so  as  to 
'testify  their  own  existence,  too  feebly  to  en- 
lighten 1(5.*  The  Germans  passed  for  appren- 
'tices  in  all  provinces  of  art ;  and  many  foreign 
-craftsmen  scarcely  allowed  them  so  much. 

Madame  de  Stael's  book  has  done  away  with 
this ;  all  Europe  is  now  aware  that  the  Ger- 
mans are  something;  something  independent 
and  apart  from  others;  nay,  something  deep, 
imposing,  and,  if  not  admirable,  wonderful. 
What  that  something  is,  indeed,  is  still  unde- 
cided ;  for  this  gifted  lady's  Allemagne,  in  doing 
much  to  excite  curiosity,  has  still  done  httle  to 
satisfy  or  even  direct  it.  We  can  no  longer 
make  ignorance  a  boast,  but  we  are  yet  far 
from  having  acquired  right  knowledge ;  and 
•cavillers,  excluded  from  contemptuous  nega- 
tion, have  found  a  resource  in  almost  as  con- 
temptuous assertion.  Translators  are  the  same 
faithless  and  stolid  race  that  they  have  ever 
been  :  the  particle  of  gold  they  bring  us  over 
is  hidden  from  all  but  the  most  patient  eye, 

*  So  late  as  the  year  1811,  we  find,  from  Pinkerton*s 
Geography,  the  sole  representative  of  German  literature 
to  be  Gottshed,  (with  his  name  wrong  spelt,)  "  who  first 
introduced  a  more  refined  style."— Gottsched  has  been 
dead  the  greater  part  of  the  century  ;  and,  for  the  last 
fifty  years,  ranks  among  the  Germans  somewhat  as 
Prynne  or  Alexander  Ross  does  among  ourselves.  A  man 
of  a  cold,  rigid,  perseverant  character,  who  mistook 
himself  for  a  poet  and  the  perfection  of  critics,  and  had 
skill  to  pass  current  during  the  greater  part  of  his  lite- 
rary life  for  such.  On  the  strength  of  his  Boileau  and 
Batteux,  he  long  reigned  supreme  :  but  it  was  like 
Night,  in  rayless  majesty,  and  over  a  slumbering  people. 
They  awoke,  before  his  death,  and  hurled  him,  perhaps 
•too  indignantly,  into  bis  native  Abyss. 


among  shiploads  of  yellow  sand  and  sulphur* 
Gentle  Dulness  too,  in  this  as  in  all  other  things, 
still  loves  her  joke.  The  Germans,  though 
much  more  attended  to,  are  perhaps  not  less 
mistaken  than  before. 

Doubtless,  however,  there  is  in  this  increased 
attention  a  progress  towards  the  truth ;  which 
it  is  only  investigation  and  discussion  that  can 
help  us  to  find.  The  study  of  German  litera- 
ture has  already  taken  such  firm  root  among 
us,  and  its  spreading  so  visibly,  that  by  and  by, 
as  we  believe,  the  true  character  of  it  must  and 
will  become  known.  A  result,  which  is  to 
bring  us  into  closer  and  friendlier  union  with 
forty  millions  of  civilized  men,  cannot  surely 
be  otherwise  than  desirable.  If  they  have  pre- 
cious truth  to  impart,  we  shall  receive  it  as  the 
highest  of  all  gifts  ;  if  error,  we  shall  not  only  re- 
ject it,  but  explain  it  and  trace  out  its  origin, 
and  so  help  our  brethren  also  to  reject  it.  In 
either  point  of  view,  and  for  all  profitable  pur- 
poses of  national  intercourse,  correct  know- 
ledge is  the  first  and  indispensable  preliminary. 

Meanwhile,  errors  of  all  sorts  prevail  on  this 
subject :  even  among  men  of  sense  and  liber- 
ality we  have  found  so  much  hallucination,  so 
many  groundless  or  half-grounded  objections 
to  German  literature,  that  the  tone  in  which  a 
multitude  of  other  men  speak  of  it  cannot  ap- 
pear extraordinary.  To  much  of  this,  even  a 
slight  knowledge  of  the  Germans  would  furnish 
a  suflicient  answer.  But  we  have  thought  it 
might  be  useful  were  the  chief  of  these  objec- 
tions marshalled  in  distinct  order,  and  ex- 
amined with  what  degree  of  light  and  fairness 
is  at  our  disposal.  In  attempting  this,  we  are 
vain  enough,  for  reasons  already  stated,  to 
fancy  ourselves  discharging  what  is  in  some 
sort  a  national  duty.  It  is  unworthy  of  one 
great  people  to  think  falsely  of  another;  it  is 
unjust,  and  therefore  unworthy.  Of  the  injury 
it  does  to  ourselves  we  do  not  speak,  for  that 
is  an  inferior  consideration:  yet  surely  if  the 
grand  principle  of  free  intercourse  is  so  pro- 
fitable in  material  commerce,  much  more  must 
it  be  in  the  commerce  of  the  mind,  the  pro- 
ducts of  which  are  thereby  not  so  much  trans- 
ported out  of  one  country  into  another,  as  mul- 
tiplied over  all,  for  the  benefit  of  all,  and 
without  loss  to  any.  If  that  man  is  a  bene- 
factor to  the  world  who  causes  two  ears  of  corn 
to  grow  where  only  one  grew  before,  much 
more  is  he  a  benefactor  who  causes  two  truths 
to  grow  up  together  in  harmony  and  mutual  con- 
firmation, where  before  only  one  stood  solitary, 
and,  on  that  side  at  least,  intolerant  and  hostile. 

In  dealing  with  the  host  of  objections  which 
front  us  on  this  subject,  we  think  it  may  be 
convenient  to  range  them  under  two  principal 
heads.  The  first,  as  respects  chiefly  unsoundness 
or  imperfection  of  sentiment;  an  error  which 
may  in  general  be  denominated  Bad  Taste.  The 
second,  as  respects  chiefly  a  wrong  condition 
of  intellect ;  an  error  which  may  be  designated 
by  the  general  title  of  Mysticism.  Both  of  these, 
no  doubt,  are  partly  connected;  and  each,  in 
some  degree,  springs  from  and  returns  into  the 
other :  yet,  for  present  purposes,  the  divisions 
maybe  precise  enough. 

First,  then,  of  the  first:  It  is  objected  that 
the  Germans  have  a  radically  bad  taste.  This 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


19 


is  a  deep-rooted  objection,  which  assumes 
many  forms,  and  extends  through  many  rami- 
fications. Among  men  of  less  acquaintance 
with  the  subject  of  German  taste,  or  of  taste  in 
general,  the  spirit  of  the  accusation  seems  to 
be  somewhat  as  follows :  That  the  Germans, 
with  much  natural  susceptibility,  are  still  in  a 
rather  coarse  and  uncultivated  state  of  mind ; 
displaying,  with  the  energy  and  other  virtues 
of  a  rude  people,  many  of  their  vices  also ;  in 
particular,  a  certain  wild  and  headlong  temper, 
which  seizes  on  all  things  too  hastily  and  im- 
petuously ;  weeps,  storms,  loves,  hates,  too 
fiercely  and  vociferously;  delighting  in  coarse 
excitements,  such  as  flaring  contrasts,  vulgar 
horrors,  and  all  sorts  of  showy  exaggeration. 
Their  literature,  in  particular,  is  thought  to 
dwell  with  peculiar  complacency  among  wiz- 
ards and  ruined  towers,  with  mailed  knights, 
secret  tribunals,  monks,  spectres, and  banditti; 
on  the  other  hand,  there  is  an  undue  love  of 
moonlight,  and  mossy  fountains,  and  the  moral 
sublime :  then  we  have  descriptions  of  things 
which  should  not  be  described  ;  a  general  want 
of  tact;  nay,  often  hollowness,  and  want  of 
sense.  In  short,  the  German  Muse  comports 
herself,  it  is  said,  like  a  passionate,  and  rather 
fascinating,  but  tumultuous,  uninstructed,  and 
but  half-civilized  Muse.  A  belle  sauvage  at 
best,  we  can  only  love  her  with  a  sort  of  su- 
percilious tolerance;  often  she  tears  a  pas- 
sion to  rags ;  and,  in  her  tumid  vehemence, 
struts  without  meaning,  and  to  the  offence  of 
all  literary  decorum. 

Now,  in  all  this  there  is  a  certain  degree  of 
truth.  If  any  man  will  insist  upon  taking 
Heinse's  ArdingheUo,  and  Miller's  Siegwart,  and 
the  works  of  Veit  Weber  the  younger,  and, 
above  all,  the  everlasting  Kotzebue,  as  his 
specimens  of  German  literature,  he  may  es- 
tablish many  things.  Black  Forests,  and  the 
glories  of  Lubberland  ;  sensuality  and  horror, 
the  spectre  nun,  and  the  charmed  moonshine, 
shall  not  be  wanting.  Boisterous  outlaws,  also, 
with  huge  whiskers,  and  the  most  cat-o'-moun- 
tain aspect;  tear-stained  sentimentalists,  the 
grimmest  man-haters,  ghosts,  and  the  like  sus- 
picious characters,  will  be  found  in  abundance. 
We  are  little  read  in  this  bowl-and-dagger  de- 
partment; but  we  do  understand  it  to  have 
been  at  one  time  rather  diligently  cultivated  ; 
though  at  present  it  seems  to  be  mostly  relin- 
quished as  unproductive.  Other  forms  of  Un- 
reason have  taken  its  place ;  which  in  their 
turn  must  yield  to  still  other  forms ;  for  it  is 
the  nature  of  this  goddess  to  descend  in  frequent 
avatars  among  men.  Perhaps  not  less  than 
five  hundred  volumes  of  such  stuff  could  still 
be  collected  from  the  book-stalls  of  Germany. 
By  which  truly  we  may  learn  that  there  is  in 
that  country  a  class  of  unwise  men  and  unwise 
women ;  that  many  readers  there  labourundera 
degree  of  ignorance  and  mental  vacancy,  and 
read  not  actively  but  passively,  not  to  learn 
but  to  be  amused.  But  is  this  fact  so  very 
new  to  us  1  Or  what  should  we  think  of  a 
German  critic  that  selected  his  specimens  of 
British  literature  from  the  Castle  Spectre,  Mr. 
Lewis's  Monk,  or  even  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho, 
and  Frankenstein  or  the  Modern  Prometheus?  Or 
would  he  judge  rightly  of  our  dramatic  taste, 


if  he  took  his  extracts  from  Mr.  Egan's  Tom 
and  Jerry ;  and  told  his  readers,  as  he  might 
truly  do,  that  no  play  had  ever  enjoyed  such 
currency  on  the  English  stage  as  this  most 
classic  performance  1  We  think  not.  In  like 
manner,  till  some  author  of  acknowledged 
merit  shall  so  write  among  the  Germans,  and 
be  approved  of  by  critics  of  acknowledged 
merit  among  them,  or  at  least  secure  for  him- 
self some  permanency  of  favour  among  the 
million,  we  can  prove  nothing  by  such  in- 
stances. That  there  is  so  perverse  an  author, 
or  so  blind  a  critic,  in  the  whole  compass  of 
German  literature,  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
denying. 

But  farther:  among  men  of  deeper  views, 
and  with  regard  to  works  of  really  standard 
character,  we  find,  though  not  the  same,  a  simi- 
lar objection  repeated.  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter,  it  is  said,  and  Faust,  are  full  of  bad  taste  also. 
With  respect  to  the  taste  in  which  they  are 
written,  we  shall  have  occasion  to  say  some- 
what hereafter:  meanwhile,  we  may  be  per- 
mitted to  remark  that  the  objection  would  have 
more  force,  did  it  seem  to  originate  from  a  more 
mature  consideration  of  the  subject.  We  have 
heard  few  English  criticisms  of  such  works, 
in  which  the  first  condition  of  an  approach  to 
accuracy  was  complied  with  ; — a  transposition 
of  the  critic  into  the  author's  point  of  vision, 
a  survey  of  the  author's  means  and  objects  as 
they  lay  before  himself,  and  a  just  trial  of  these 
by  rules  of  universal  application.  Faust,  for 
instance,  passes  with  many  of  us  for  a  mere 
tale  of  sorcery  and  art-magic  :  but  it  would 
scarcely  be  more  unwise  to  consider  Homlet 
as  depending  for  its  main  interest  on  the  ghost 
that  walks  in  it,  than  to  regard  Faust  as  a  pro- 
duction of  this  sort.  For  the  present,  therefore, 
this  objection  may  be  set  aside ;  or  at  least 
may  be  considered  not  as  an  assertion,  but  an 
inquiry,  the  answer  to  which  may  turn  out 
rather  that  the  German  taste  is  different  from 
ours,  than  that  it  is  worse.  Nay,  with  regard 
even  to  difference,  we  should  scarcely  reckon 
it  to  be  of  great  moment.  Two  nations  that 
agree  in  estimating  Shakspeare  as  the  highest 
of  all  poets,  can  differ  in  no  essential  principle, 
if  they  understood  one  another,  that  relates  to 
poetry. 

Nevertheless,  this  opinion  of  our  opponents 
has  attained  a  certain  degree  of  consistency 
with  itself;  one  thing  is  thought  to  throw  light 
on  another;  nay,  a  quiet  little  theory  has  been 
propounded  to  explain  the  whole  phenomenon. 
The  cause  of  this  bad  taste,  we  are  assured, 
lies  in  the  condition  of  the  German  authors. 
These,  it  seems,  are  generally  very  poor;  the 
ceremonial  law  of  the  country  excludes  them 
from  all  society  with  the  great ;  they  cannot 
acquire  the  polish  of  drawing-rooms,  but  must 
live  in  mean  houses,  and  therefore  write  and 
think  in  a  mean  style. 

Apart  from  the  truth  of  these  assumptions, 
and  in  respect  of  the  theory  itself,  we  confess 
there  is  something  in  the  face  of  it  that  afBicis 
us.  Is  it  then  so  certain  that  taste  and  riches 
are  dissolubly  connected  1  that  truth  of  feeling 
must  ever  be  preceded  by  weight  of  purse,  and 
the  eyes  be  dim  for  universal  and  eternal 
Beauty,  till  they  have  long  rested  on  gilt  walls 


20 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  costly  furniture  1  To  the  great  body  of 
mankind  this  were  heavy  news;  for,  of  the 
thousand,  scarcely  one  is  rich,  or  connected 
with  the  rich ;  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
have  always  been  poor,  and  must  always  be 
so.  We  take  the  liberty  of  questioning  the 
whole  postulate.  We  think  that,  for  acquiring 
true  poetic  taste,  riches,  or  association  with  the 
rich,  are  distinctly  among  the  minor  requisites  ; 
that,  in  fact,  they  have  little  or  no  concern  with 
the  matter.  This  we  shall  now  endeavour  to 
make  probable. 

Taste,  if  it  mean  any  thing  but  a  paltry  con- 
noisseurship,  must  mean  a  general  susceptibi- 
lity to  truth  and  nobleness  ;  a  sense  to  discern, 
and  a  heart  to  love  and  reverence,  all  beauty, 
order,  goodness,  wheresoever,  or  in  whatsoever 
forms  and  accompaniments  they  are  to  be  seen. 
This  surely  implies,  as  its  chief  condition,  not 
any  given  external  rank  or  situation, but  a  finely 
gifted  mind,  purified  into  harmony  with  itself, 
into  keenness  and  justness  of  vision ;  above  all, 
kindled  into  love  and  generous  admiration.  Is 
culture  of  this  sort  found  exclusively  among 
the  higher  ranks  ?  We  believe  it  proceeds  less 
from  without  than  within,  in  every  rank.  The 
charms  of  Nature,  the  majesty  of  Man,  the  in- 
finite loveliness  of  Truth  and  Virtue,  are  not 
hidden  from  the  eye  of  the  poor ;  but  from  the 
eye  of  the  vain,  the  corrupted,  and  self-seeking, 
be  he  poor  or  rich.  In  all  ages,  the  humble 
Minstrel,  a  mendicant,  and  lord  of  nothing  but 
his  harp  and  his  own  free  soul,  had  intimations 
of  those  glories,  while  to  the  proud  Baron  in 
his  barbaric  halls  they  were  unknown.  Nor 
is  there  still  any  aristocratic  monopoly  of  judg- 
ment more  than  of  genius:  And  as  to  that 
Science  of  Negation,  which  is  taught  peculiarly 
by  men  of  professed  elegance,  we  confess 
we  hold  it  rather  cheap.  It  is  a  necessary, 
but  decidedly  a  subordinate  accomplishment : 
nay,  if  it  be  rated  as  the  highest,  it  becomes  a 
ruinous  vice.  This  is  an  old  truth;  yet  ever 
needing  new  application  and  enforcement.  Let 
us  know  what  to  love,  and  we  shall  know  also 
what  to  reject;  what  to  affirm,  and  we  shall 
know  also  what  to  deny  :  but  it  is  dangerous  to 
begin  with  denial,  and  fatal  to  end  with  it.  To 
deny  is  easy;  nothing  is  sooner  learnt  or  more 
generally  practised:  as  matters  go,  we  need 
no  man  of  polish  to  teach  it;  but  rather,  if 
possible,  a  hundred  men  of  wisdom  to  show  us 
its  limits,  and  teach  us  its  reverse. 

Such  is  our  hypothesis  of  the  case:  But  how 
stands  it  with  the  facts  1  Are  the  fineness  and 
truth  of  sense  manifested  by  the  artist  found,  in 
most  instances,  to  be  proportionate  to  his  wealth 
and  elevation  of  acquaintance  1  Are  they  found 
to  have  any  perceptible  relation  either  with  the 
one  or  the  other  1  We  imagine  not.  Whose 
taste  in  painting,  for  instance,  is  truer  and  finer 
than  Claude  Lorraine's  1  And  was  not  he  a 
poor  colour-grinder;  outwardly,  the  meanest 
of  menials?  Where,  again,  we  might  ask, 
}ay  Shakspeare's  rent-roll ;  and  what  generous 
peer  took  him  by  the  hand  and  unfolded  to  him 
the  "open  secret"  of  the  Universe;  teaching 
him  that  this  was  beautiful,  and  that  not  so  1 
Was  he  not  a  peasant  by  birth,  and  by  fortune 
something  lower ;  and  -was  it  not  thought  much, 
even  in  the  height  of  his  reputation,  that  South- 


ampton allowed  him  equal  patronage  with  the 
zanies,  jugglers,  and  bearwards  of  the  time  1 
Yet  compare  his  taste,  even  as  it  respects  the 
negative  side  of  things ;  for  in  regard  to  the 
positive,  and  far  higher  side,  it  admits  no  com- 
parison with  any  other  mortal's, — compare  it, 
for  instance,  with  the  taste  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  his  contemporaries,  men  of  rank  and 
education,  and  of  fine  genius  like  himself  Tried 
even  by  the  nice,  fastidious,  and  in  great  part 
false,  and  artificial  delicacy  of  modern  times, 
how  stands  it  with  the  two  parties  :  with  the 
gay  triumphant  men  of  fashion,  and  the  poor 
vagrant  link-boy  1  Does  the  latter  sin  against, 
we  shall  not  say  taste,  but  etiquette,  as  the 
former  do  1  For  one  line,  for  one  word,  which 
some  Chesterfield  might  wish  blotted  from  the 
first,  are  there  not  in  the  others  whole  pages 
and  scenes  which,  with  palpitating  heart,  he 
would  hurry  into  deepest  night?  This,  too,  ob- 
serve, respects  not  their  genius,  but  their  cul- 
ture ;  not  their  appropriation  of  beauties,  but 
their  rejection  of  deformities,  by  supposition, 
the  grand  and  peculiar  result  of  high  breeding! 
Surely,  in  such  instances,  even  that  humble 
supposition  is  ill  borne  out. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  seems  to  be,  that 
with  the  culture  of  a  genuine  poet,  thinker,  or 
other  aspirant  to  fame,  the  influence  of  rank 
has  no  exclusive  or  even  special  concern.  For 
men  of  action,  for  senators,  public  speakers, 
political  writers,  the'  case  may  be  ditferent ;  but 
of  such  we  speak  not  at  present.  Neither  do 
we  speak  of  imitators,  and  the  crowd  of  me- 
diocre men,  to  whom  fashionable  life  sometimes 
gives  an  external  inoflJensiveness,  often  com- 
pensated by  a  frigid  malignity  of  character. 
We  speak  of  men,  who,  from  amid  the  per- 
plexed and  conflicting  elements  of  their  every- 
day existence,  are  to  form  themselves  into 
harmony  and  wisdom,  and  show  forth  the  same 
wisdom  to  others  that  exist  along  with  them. 
To  such  a  man,  high  life,  as  it  is  called,  will 
be  a  province  of  human  life  certainly,  but  no- 
thing more.  He  will  study  to  deal  with  it  as 
he  deals  with  all  forms  of  mortal  being ;  to  do 
it  justice,  and  to  draw  instruction  from  it :  but 
his  light  will  come  from  a  loftier  region,  or  he 
wanders  for  ever  in  darkness;  dwindles  into 
a  man  of  vers  de  societe,  or  attains  at  best  to  be 
a  Walpole  or  a  Caylus.  Still  less  can  we  think 
that  he  is  to  be  viewed  as  a  hireling  ;  that  his 
excellence  will  be  regulated  by  his  pay.  "  Suffi- 
ciently provided  for  from  within,  he  has  need 
of  little  from  without :"  food  and  raiment,  and 
an  unviolated  home,  will  be  given  him  in  the 
rudest  land;  and  with  these,  while  the  kind 
earth  is  round  him,  and  the  everlasting  heaven 
is  over  him,  the  world  has  little  more  that  it 
can  give.  Is  he  poor  ?  So  also  were  Homer 
and  Socrates;  so  was  Samuel  Johnson  ;  so  was 
John  Milton.  Shall  we  reproach  him  with  his 
poverty,  and  infer  that,  because  he  is  poor,  he 
must  likewise  be  worthless  1  God  forbid  that 
the  time  should  ever  come  when  he  too  shall 
esteem  riches  the  synonyme  of  good  !  The 
spirit  of  Mammon  has  a  wide  empire;  but  it 
cannot,  and  must  not,  be  worshipped  in  the 
Holy  of  Holies.  Nay,  does  not  the  heart  of 
every  genuine  disciple  of  literature,  however 
mean  his  sphere,  instinctively  deny  this  prin- 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


21 


ciple,  as  applicable  either  to  himself  or  ano- 
ther] Is  it  not  rather  true,  as  D'Alemberthas 
said,  that  for  every  man  of  letters,  who  de- 
serves that  name,  the  motto  and  the  watchword 
will  be  Fheedom,  Truth,  and  even  this  same 
PovERTT  1  and  that  if  he  fear  the  last,  the  two 
first  can  never  be  made  sure  to  him  1 

We  have  stated  these  things,  to  bring  the 
question  somewhat  nearer  its  real  basis ;  not 
for  the  sake  of  the  Germans,  who  nowise  need 
the  admission  of  them.  The  German  authors 
are  not  poor ;  neither  are  they  excluded  from 
association  with  the  wealthy  and  well-born. 
On  the  contrar)'-,  we  scruple  not  to  say,  that,  in 
both  these  respects,  they  are  considerably  better 
situated  than  our  own.  Their  booksellers,  it  is 
true,  cannot  pay  as  ours  do ;  yet,  there  as  here, 
a  man  lives  by  his  writings ;  and,  to  compare 
Jorden  with  Johnson  and  D^hracli,  somewhat 
better  there  than  here.  No  case  like  our  own 
noble  Otway's  has  met  us  in  their  biographies  ; 
Boyces  and  Chattertons  are  much  rarer  in  Ger- 
man, than  in  English  history.  But  farther,  and 
what  is  far  more  important :  From  the  num- 
ber of  universities,  libraries,  collections  of  art, 
museums,  and  other  literary  or  scientific  in- 
stitutions of  a  public  or  private  nature,  we 
question  whether  the  chance,  which  a  merito- 
rious man  of  letters  has  before  him,  of  obtaining 
some  permanent  appointment,  some  independ- 
ent civic  existence,  is  not  a  hundred  to  one  in 
favour  of  the  German,  compared  with  the 
Englishman.  This  is  a  weighty  item,  and 
indeed  the  weightiest  of  all ;  for  it  will  be  grant- 
ed, that,  for  the  votary  of  literature,  the  rela- 
tion of  entire  dependence  on  the  merchants 
of  literature,  is,  at  best,  and  however  liberal 
the  terms,  a  highly  questionable  one.  It  tempts 
him  daily  and  hourly  to  sink  from  an  artist  into 
a  manufacturer;  nay,  so  precarious,  fluctuating, 
and  every  way  unsatisfactory  must  his  civic 
and  economic  concerns  become,  that  too  many 
of  his  class  cannot  even  attain  the  praise  of 
common  honesty  as  manufacturers.  There  is, 
no  doubt,  a  spirit  of  martyrdom,  as  we  have 
asserted,  which  can  sustain  this  too  :  but  few 
indeed  have  the  spirit  of  martyrs;  and  that 
state  of  matters  is  the  safest  which  requires  it 
least.  The  German  authors,  moreover,  to  their 
credit  be  it  spoken,  seem  to  set  less  store  by 
wealth  than  fhany  of  ours.  There  have  been 
prudent,  quiet  men  among  them,  who  actually 
appeared  not  to  want  more  wealth, — whom 
wealth  could  not  tempt,  either  to  this  hand  or 
that,  from  their  pre-appointed  aims.  Neither 
must  we  think  so  hardly  of  the  German  nobi- 
lity as  to  believe  them  insensible  to  genius,  or 
of  opinion  that  a  patent  from  the  Lion  King  is 
so  superior  to  "  a  patent  direct  from  Almighty 
God."  A  fair  proportion  of  the  German  au- 
thors are  themselves  men  of  rank :  we  mention 
only,  as  of  our  oM^n  time,  and  notable  in  other 
respects,  the  two  Stolbergs  and  Novalis.  Let 
us  not  be  unjust  to  this  class  of  persons.  It  is 
a  poor  error  to  figure  them  as  wrapt  up  in 
ceremonial  stateliness,  avoiding  the  most  gift- 
ed man  of  a  lower  station  ;  and,  for  their  own 
supercilious  triviality,  themselves  avoided  by 
all  truly  gifted  men.  On  the  whole,  we  should 
change  our  notion  of  the  German  nobleman : 
that  ancient,  thirsty,  thickheaded,  sixteen-quar- 


tered  Baron,  who  still  hovers  in  our  minds, 
never  did  exist  in  such  perfection,  and  is  now 
as  extinct  as  our  own  Squire  Western.  His 
descendant  is  a  man  of  other  culture,  other 
aims,  and  other  habits.  We  question  whether 
there  is  an  aristocracy  in  Europe,  which,  taken 
as  a  whole,  both  in  a  public  and  private  capa- 
city, more  honours  art  and  literature,  and  does 
more  both  in  public  and  private  to  encourage 
them.  Excluded  from  society !  What,  we 
would  ask,  was  Wieland's,  Schiller's,  Herder's, 
Johannes  Miiller's  society  ]  Has  not  Goethe,  by 
birth  a  Frankfort  burgher, been,since  his  twenty- 
sixth  year,  the  companion,  not  of  nobles  but  of 
princes,  and  for  half  his  life  a  minister  of  state  1 
And  is  not  this  man,  unrivalled  in  so  many  far 
deeper  qualities,  known  also  and  felt  to  be  un- 
rivalled in  nobleness  of  breeding  and  bearing; 
fit  not  to  learn  of  princes,  in  this  respect,  but 
by  the  example  of  his  daily  life  to  teach  them  1 

We  hear  much  of  the  munificent  spirit  dis- 
played among  the  better  classes  in  England ; 
their  high  estimation  of  the  arts,  and  generous 
patronage  of  the  artist.  We  rejoice  to  hear  it ; 
we  hope  it  is  true,  and  will  become  truer  and 
truer.  We  hope  that  a  great  change  has  taken 
place  among  these  classes,  since  the  time  when 
Bishop  Burnet  could  write  of  them, — "They 
are  for  the  most  part  the  loorst  instructed,  and 
the  least  knowing,  of  any  of  their  rank  I  ever 
went  among!"  Nevertheless,  let  us  arrogate 
to  ourselves  no  exclusive  praise  in  this  par- 
ticular. Other  nations  can  appreciate  the  arts, 
and  cherish  their  cultivators,  as  well  as  we. 
Nay,  while  learning  from  us  in  many  other 
matters,  we  suspect  the  Germans  might  even 
teach  us  somewhat  in  regard  to  this.  At  all 
events,  the  pity,  which  certain  of  our  authors 
express  for  the  civil  condition  of  their  brethren 
in  that  country,  is,  from  such  a  quarter,  a  super- 
fluous feeling.  Nowhere,  let  us  rest  assured, 
is  genius  more  devoutly  honoured  than  there, 
by  all  ranks  of  men,  from  peasants  and  burgh- 
ers up  to  legislators  and  kings.  It  was  but 
last  year  that  the  Diet  of  the  Empire  passed  an 
act  in  favour  of  one  individual  poet:  the  final 
edition  of  Goethe's  works  was  guarantied  to  be 
protected  against  commercial  injury  in  every 
stale  of  Germany;  and  special  assurances  to 
that  effect  were  sent  him,  in  the  kindest  terms, 
from  all  the  Authorities  there^ assembled,  some 
of  them  the  highest  in  his  country  or  in  Europe. 
Nay,  even  while  we  write,  are  not  the  news- 
papers recording  a  visit  from  the  Sovereign  of 
Bavaria  in  person,  to  the  same  venerable  man; 
a  mere  ceremony,  perhaps,  but  one  which  al- 
most recalls  to  us  the  era  of  the  antique  Sages 
and  the  Grecian  Kings? 

This  hypothesis,  therefore,  it  would  seem,  is 
not  supported  by  facts,  and  so  returns  to  its 
original  elements.  The  causes  it  alleges  are 
impossible  :  but,  what  is  still  more  fatal,  the 
effect  it  proposes  to  account  for  has,  in  reality, 
no  existence.  We  venture  to  deny  that  the 
Germans  are  defective  in  taste;  even  as  a 
nation,  as  a  public,  taking  one  thing  with  ano- 
ther, we  imagine  they  may  stand  comparison 
with  any  of  their  neighbours;  as  writers,  as 
critics,  they  may  decidedly  court  it.  True,  there 
is  a  mass  of  dulness,  awkwardness,  and  false 
susceptibility  in  the  lower  regions  of  their  lite- 


29 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


rature :  but  is  not  bad  taste  endemical  in  such 
regions  of  every  literature  under  the  sun  1  Pure 
Stupidity,  indeed,  is  of  a  quiet  nature,  and  con- 
tent to  be  merely  stupid.     But  seldom  do  we 
find  it  pure  ;  seldom  unadulterated  with  some 
tincture  of  ambition,  which  drives  it  into  new 
and  strange  metamorphoses.     Here  it  has  as- 
sumed a  contemptuous  trenchant  air,  intended 
to  represent  superior  tact,  and  a  sort  of  all- 
wisdom;  there  a  truculent  atrabilious  scowl, 
which  is  to  stand  for  passionate  strength:  now 
we  have  an  outpouring  of  tumid  fervour;  now 
a  fruitless,  asthmatic   hunting   after   wit  and 
humour.     Grave  or  gay,  enthusiastic   or  de- 
risive, admiring   or  despising,  the  dull   man 
would  be  something  which  he  is  not  and  can- 
not be.     Shall  we  confess,  that,  of  these   too 
common   extremes,   we   reckon   the   German 
error  considerably  the  more  harmless,  and,  in 
our  day,  by  far  the  more  curable  1     Of  unwise 
admiration  much  may  be  hoped,  for  much  good 
is  really  in  it:  but  unwise  contempt  is  itself  a 
negation  ;  nothing  comes  of  it,  for  it  is  nothing. 
To  judge  of  a  national  taste,  however,  we 
must  raise  our  view  from  its  transitory  modes 
to  its  perennial  models ;  from  the  mass  of  vul- 
gar writers,  who  blaze  out  and  are  extinguished 
with  the  popular  delusion  which  they  flatter,  to 
those  few  who  are  admitted  to  shine  with  a 
pure  and  lasting  lustre;  to  whom,  by  common 
consent,  the  eyes  of  the  people  are  turned,  as 
to  its  lodestar  and  celestial  luminaries.  Among 
German  writers  of  this  stamp,  we  would  ask 
any  candid  reader  of  them,  let  him  be  of  what 
country  or  what  creed  he  might,  whether  bad 
taste  struck  him  as  a  prevailing  characteristic. 
Was  Wieland's  taste  uncultivated  1    Taste,  we 
should  say,  and  taste  of  the  very  species  which 
a  disciple  of  the  Negative  School  would  call 
the  highest,  formed  the  great  object  of  his  life; 
the   perfection   he   unweariedly   endeavoured 
after,  and,  more  than  any  other  perfection,  has 
attained.  The  most  fastidious  Frenchman  might 
read  him,  with  admiration  of  his  merely  French 
qualities.     And  is  not  Klopstock,  with  his  clear 
enthusiasm,  his  azure  purity,  and  heavenly,  if 
still  somewhat  cold  and  lunar  light,  a  man  of 
taste  1     His  Messias  reminds  us  oftener  of  no 
other  poets  than  of  Virgil  and  Racine.     But  it 
is   to    Lessing    that    an    Englishman   would 
turn  with  the  readiest  affection.     We  cannot 
but  wonder  that  more  of  this  man  is  not  known 
among  us  ;  or  that  the  knowledge  of  him  has 
not  done  more  to  remove  such  misconceptions. 
Among  all  the  writers  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, we  will   not  except   even   Diderot   and 
David  Hume,  there  is  not  one  of  a  more  com- 
pact and  rigid    intelleciual    structure ;    who 
more  distinctly  knows  what  he  is  aiming  at, 
or  with  more  gracefulness,  vigour,  and  pre- 
cision sets  it  forth  to  his  readers.     He  thinks 
with  the  clearness  and  piercing  sharpness  of 
the   most   expert   logician  :  but  a  genial  fire 
pervades  him,  a  wit,  a  heartiness,  a  general 
richness  and  fineness  of  nature,  to  which  most 
logicians  are  strangers.     He  is  a  skeptic  in 
many   things,  but  the  noblest  of  skeptics  ;  a 
mild,  manly,  half-careless  enthusiasm   strug- 
gles through  his  indignant  unbelief :  he  stands 
before  us  like  a  toilvvorn,  but  unwearied  and 
heroic  champion,  earning  not  the   conquest 


but  the  battle;  as  indeed  himself  admits  to  us, 
that  "  it  is  not  the  finding  of  truth,  but  the  hon- 
est search  for  it,  that  profits."     We  confess, 
we  should  be  entirely  at  a  loss  for  the  literary 
creed  of  that  man  who  reckoned  Lessing  other 
than  a  thoroughly  cultivated  writer;  nay  en- 
titled to  rank,  in  this  particular,  with  the  most 
distinguished  writers  of  any  existing  nation. 
As  a  poet,  as  a  critic,  philosopher,  or  contro- 
versialist, his    style    will   be   found  precisely 
such   as  we   of  England  are  accustomed   to 
admire  most;  brief,  nervous,  vivid ;  yet  quier, 
without  glitter   or  antithesis ;  idiomatic,  pure 
without  purism,  transparent,  yet  full  of  cha- 
racter and  reflex  hues  of  meaning.    "Every 
sentence,"  says  Horn,  and  justly,  "  is   like   a 
phalanx;"  not   a   word    wrong  placed,  not  a 
word  that  could  be  spared ;  and  it  forms  itself 
so  calmy  and  lightly,  and  stands  in  its  com- 
pleteness, so  gay,  yet  so  impregnable  !     As  a 
poet  he    contemptuously   denied  himself    all 
merit;  but  his  readers  have  not  taken  him  at 
his  word :  here,  too,  a  similar  felicity  of  style 
attends  him  ;  his  plays,  his  Minna  von  Barn- 
helm,  his  Emilie  Galotti,  his  Nathan  der   Weise, 
have  a  genuine  and  graceful  poetic  life ;  yet  no 
works  known  to  us  in  any  language  are  purer 
from  exaggeration,  or  any  appearance  of  false- 
hood.    They  are  pictures,  we  might  say  paint- 
ed not  in  colours,  but  in  crayons ;  yet  a  strange 
attraction  lies  in   them;  for   the   figures   are 
grouped   into   the   finest  attitudes,   and    true 
and  spirit-speaking  in  every  line.    It  is  with 
his  style  chiefly  that  we  have  to  do  here ;  yet 
we  must  add,  that  the  matter  of  his  works  is 
not  less  meritorious.     His  Criticism  and  phi- 
losophic  or   religious   Skepticism  were  of  a 
higher  mood  than  had  yet  been  heard  in  Eu- 
rope, still  more  in  Germany :  his  Dranialurgie 
first  exploded  the  pretensions  of  the  French 
theatre,  and,  with  irresistible  conviction,  made 
Shakspeare  known  to  his  countrymen ;   pre- 
paring the  way  for  a  brighter  era  in  their  lite- 
rature, the  chief  men  of  which  still  thankfully 
look  back  to  Lessing  as  their  patriarch.    His 
Laocoon,  with  its   deep  glances  into  the  philo- 
sophy  of  Art,  his  Dialogues  of  Free-masons,  a 
work   of  far   higher   import  than  its  title  in- 
dicates, may  yet  teach  many  things  to  most  of 
us,  which  we  know  not,  and  ought  to  know. 

With  Lessing  and  Klopstock  might  be  join- 
ed, in  this  respect,  nearly,  every  one,  we  do 
not  say  of  their  distinguished,  but  even  of  their 
tolerated  contemporaries.  The  two  Jacobis, 
known  more  or  less  in  all  countries,  are  little 
known  here,  if  they  are  accused  of  wanting 
literary  taste  These  are  men,  whether  as 
thinkers  or  poets,  to  be  regarded  and  admired 
for  their  mild  and  lofty  wisdom,  the  devoutness, 
the  benignity  and  calm  grandeur  of  their  phi- 
losophical views.  In  such,  it  were  strange  if 
among  so  many  high  merits,  this  lower  one  of  a 
just  and  elegant  style,  which  is  indeed  their 
natui'al  and  even  necessary  product,  had  been 
wanting.  We  recommend  the  elder  Jacobi  no 
less  for  his  clearness  than  for  his  depth  ;  of  the 
younger,  it  may  be  enough  in  this  point  of 
view  to  say,  that  the  chief  praisers  of  his  earlier 
poetry  were  the  French.  Neither  are  Hamann 
and  Mendelsohn,  who  could  meditate  deep 
thoughts,  defective  in  the  power  of  uttering 


STATE    OF   GERMAN   LITERATURE. 


23 


them  with  propriety.  The  Phcedon  of  the  latter, 
in  its  chaste  precision  and  simplicity  of  style, 
may  almost  remind  us  of  Xenophon  :  Socrates, 
to  our  mind,  has  spoken  in  no  modern  language 
so  like  Socrates,  as  here,  by  the  lips  of  this  wise 
and  cultivated  Jew.* 

Among  the  poets  and  more  popular  writers 
of  the  time,  the  case  is  the  same  :  Utz,  Gellert, 
Cramer,  Ramler,  Kleist,  Hagedorn,  Rabener, 
Gleim,  and  a  multitude  of  lesser  men,  whatever 
excellences  they  might  want,  certainly  are  not 
chargeable  with  bad  taste.  Nay,  perhaps  of 
all  writers  they  are  the  least  chargeable  with 
it :  a  certain  clear,  light,  unaffected  elegance, 
of  a  higher  nature  than  French  elegance, 
it  might  be,  yet  to  the  exclusion  of  all  very 
deep  or  genial  qualities,  was  the  excellence 
they  strove  after,  and,  for  the  most  part,  in  a 
fair  measure  attained.  They  resemble  Eng- 
lish writers  of  the  same,  or  perhaps  an  earlier 
period,  more  than  any  other  foreigners  :  apart 
from  Pope,  whose  influence  is  visible  enough, 
Beattie,  Logan,  Wilkie,  Glover,  unknown  per- 
haps to  any  of  them,  might  otherwise  have  al- 
most seemed  their  models.  Goldsmith  also 
would  rank  among  them  ;  perhaps,  in  regard  to 
true  poetic  genius,  at  their  head,  for  none  of 
them  has  left  us  a  Vicar  of  Wakefield ;  though, 
in  regard  to  judgment,  knowledge,  general  ta- 
lent, his  place  would  scarcely  be  so  high. 

The  same  thing  holds,  in  general,  and  with 
fewer  drawbacks,  of  the  somewhat  later  and 
more  energetic  race,  denominated  the  GoUingen 
School,  in  contradistinction  from  the  Saxon,  to 
which  Rabener,  Cramer,  and  Gellert  directly 
belonged,  and  most  of  those  others  indirectly. 
Hblty,  Biirger,  the  two  Stolbergs,  are  men  whom 
Bossu  might  measure  with  his  scale  and  com- 
passes as  strictly  as  he  pleased.  Of  Herder, 
Schiller,  Goethe,  we  speak  not  here :  they  are 
men  of  another  stature  and  form  of  movement, 
whom  Bossu's  scale  and  compasses  could  not 
measure  without  difficulty,  or  rather  not  at  all. 
To  say  that  such  men  wrote  with  taste  of  this 
sort,  were  saying  little  ;  for  this  forms  not  the 
apex,  but  the  basis,  in  their  conception  of  style ; 
a  quahty  not  to  be  paraded  as  an  excellence, 
but  to  be  understood  as  indispensable,  as  there 
by  necessity,  and  like  a  thing  of  course. 

In  truth,  for  it  must  be  spoken  out,  our  op- 
ponents are  so  widely  astray  in  this  matter, 

*  The  history  of  Mendelsohn  is  interesting  in  itself,  and 
full  of  encouragement  to  all  lovers  of  self-improvement. 
At  thirteen  he  was  a  wandering  Jewish  beggar,  without 
health,  without  home,  almost  without  a  language,  for  the 
jargon  of  broken  Hebrew  and  provincial  German  which 
he  spoke  could  scarcely  be  called  one.  At  middle  age, 
he  could  write  this  Phmdon ;  was  a  man  of  wealth  and 
breeding,  and  ranked  among  the  teachers  of  his  age. 
Like  Pope,  he  abode  by  his  original  creed,  thouuh  often 
solicited  to  change  it :  indeed,  the  grand  problem  of  his 
life  was  to  better  the  inward  and  outward  condition  of 
his  own  ill-fated  people  ;  for  whom  he  actually  accom- 
plished much  benefit.  He  was  a  mild,  shrewd,  and 
worthy  man  ;  and  might  well  love  Phwdon  and  Socrates, 
for  his  own  character  was  Socratic.  He  was  a  friend 
of  Lessing's  :  indeed  a  pupil ;  for  Lessing  having  acci- 
dentally met  him  at  chess,  recognised  the'spirit  that  lay 
struggling  under  such  incumbrances,  and  generously  un- 
dertook to  help  him.  By  teaching  the  poor  Jew  a  little 
Greek  he  disenchanted  him  from  the  Talmud  and  the 
Rabbins.  The  two  were  afterwards  co-labourers  in 
Nicolai's  Deutsche  Bibliothek,  the  first  German  Rei-iew 
of  any  character ;  which,  however,  in  the  hands  of 
Nicolai  himself,  it  subsequently  lost.  Mendelsohn's 
Works  have  mostly  been  translated  into  French. 


that  their  views  of  it  are  not  only  dim  and  per- 
plexed, but  altogether  imaginary  and  delusive. 
It  is  proposed  to  School  the  Germans  in  the 
Alphabet  of  taste ;  and  the  Germans  are  al- 
ready busied  with  their  Accidence  !  Far  from 
being  behind  other  nations  in  the  practice  or 
science  of  Criticism,  it  is  a  fact,  for  which  we 
fearlessly  refer  to  all  competent  judges,  that 
they  are  distinctly,  and  even  considerably,  in 
advance.  We  state  what  is  already  known  to 
a  great  part  of  Europe  to  be  true.  Criticism 
has  assumed  a  new  form  in  Germany ;  it  pro- 
ceeds on  other  principles,  and  proposes  to  itself 
a  higher  aim.  The  grand  question  is  not  now  a 
question  concerning  the  qualities  of  diction,  the 
coherence  of  metaphors,  the  fitness  of  senti- 
ments, the  general  logical  truth,  in  a  work  of 
art,  as  it  was  some  half  century  ago  among 
most  critics.  Neither  is  it  a  question  mainly  of 
a  psychological  sort,  to  be  an  s wered  by  discover- 
ing and  delineating  the  peculiar  nature  of  the 
poet  from  his  poetry,  as  is  usual  with  the  best 
of  our  own  critics  at  present;  but  it  is,  not  in- 
deed exclusively,  but  inclusively  of  those  two 
other  questions,  properly  and  ultimately  3 
question  on  the  essence  and  peculiar  life  of 
the  poetry  itself.  The  first  of  these  questions, 
as  we  see  it  answered,  for  instance,  in  the 
criticisms  of  Johnson  and  Kames,  relates, 
strictly  speaking,  to  the  garment  of  poetry;  the 
second,  indeed,  to  its  body  and  material  exist- 
ence, a  much  higher  point;  but  only  the  last 
to  its  soul  and  spiritual  existence,  by  which 
alone  can  the  body,  in  its  movements  and 
phases,  be  informed  with  significance  and 
rational  life.  The  problem  is  not  now  to 
determine  by  what  mechanism  Addison  com- 
posed sentences,  and  struck  out  similitudes, 
but  by  what  far  finer  and  more  mysterious 
mechanism  Shakspeare  organized  his  dramas, 
and  gave  life  and  individuality  to  his  Ariel  and 
his  Hamlet.  Wherein  lies  that  life  ;  how  have 
they  attained  that  shape  and  individuality'? 
Whence  comes  that  empyrean  fire,  which  ir- 
radiates their  whole  being,  and  pierces,  at 
least  in  starry  gleams,  like  a  diviner  thing, 
into  all  hearts  ]  Are  these  dramas  of  his  not 
verisimilar  only,  but  true;  nay,  truer  than 
reality  itself,  since  the  essence  of  unmixed 
reality  is  bodied  forth  in  them  under  more  ex- 
pressive symbols  1  What  is  this  unity  of  theirs ; 
and  can  our  deeper  inspection  discern  it  to  be 
indivisible,  and  existing  by  necessity,  because 
each  work  springs,  as  it  were,  from  the  general 
elements  of  all  Thought,  and  grows  up  there- 
from, into  form  and  expansion,  by  its  own 
growth?  Not  only  who  was  the  poet,  and 
how  did  he  compose;  but  what  and  how  was 
the  poem,  and  why  was  it  a  poem  and  not 
rhymed  eloquence,  creation  and  not  figured 
passion  1  These  are  the  questions  for  the 
critic.  Criticism  stands  like  an  interpreter 
between  the  inspired  and  the  uninspired ;  be-^ 
tween  the  prophet  and  those  who  hear  the- 
melody  of  his  words,  and  catch  some  ghmpse- 
of  their  material  meaning,  but  understand  not 
their  deeper  import.  She  pretends  to  open  for 
us  this  deeper  import ;  to  clear  our  sense  that 
it  may  discern  the  pure  brightness  of  this  eter- 
nal Beauty,  and  recognise  it  as  heavenly,  under 
all  forms  where  it  looks  forth,  and  reject,  as 


u 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  the  earth  earthy,  all  forms,  be  their  mate- 
rial splendour  what  it  may,  where  no  gleaming 
of  that  other  shines  through. 

This  is  the  task  of  Criticism,  as  the  Germans 
understand  it.  And  how  do  they  accomplish 
this  taski  By  a  vague  declamation  clothed  in 
gorgeous  mystic  phraseology  1  By  vehement 
tumultuous  anthems  to  the  poet  and  his  poetry ; 
by  epithets  and  laudatory  similitudes  drawn 
from  Tartarus  and  Elysium,  and  all  intermedi- 
ate terrors  and  glories ;  whereby,  in  truth,  it  is 
rendered  clear  both  that  the  poet  is  an  ex- 
tremely great  poet,  and  also  that  the  critic's 
allotment  of  understanding,  overflowed  by  these 
Pythian  raptures,  has  unhappily  melted  into  de- 
liquiuml  Nowise  in  this  manner  do  the  Ger- 
mans proceed:  but  by  rigorous  scientific  in- 
quiry ;  by  appeal  to  principles  which,  whether 
correct  or  not,  have  been  deduced  patiently, 
and  by  long  investigation,  from  the  highest  and 
calmest  regions  of  Philosophy.  For  this  finer 
portion  of  their  Criticism  is  now  also  embo- 
died in  systems ;  and  standing,  so  far  as  these 
reach,  coherent,  distinct,  and  methodical,  no 
less  than,  on  their  much  shallower  foundation, 
the  systems  of  Boileau  and  Blair.  That  this 
new  Criticism  is  a  complete,  much  more  a  cer- 
tain science,  we  are  far  from  meaning  to  affirm  : 
the  (Esthetic  theories  of  Kant,  Herder,  Schiller, 
Goethe,  Richter,  vary  in  external  aspect,  ac- 
cording to  the  varied  habits  of  the  individual ; 
and  can  at  best  only  be  regarded  as  approximar 
tions  to  the  truth,  or  modifications  of  it ;  each 
critic  representing  it  as  it  harmonizes  more  or 
less  perfectly  with  the  other  intellectual  per- 
suasions of  his  own  mind,  and  of  different 
classes  of  minds  that  resemble  his.  Nor  can 
we  here  undertake  to  inquire  what  degree  of 
such  approximation  to  the  truth  there  is  in 
each  or  all  of  these  writers ;  or  in  Tieck  and 
the  two  Schlegels,  who,  especially  the  latter, 
have  laboured  so  meritoriously  in  reconciling 
these  various  opinions  ;  and  so  successfully  in 
impressing  and  diffusing  the  best  spirit  of  them, 
first  in  their  own  country,  and  now  also  in 
several  others.  Thus  much,  however,  we  will 
say :  That  we  reckon  the  mere  circumstance 
of  such  a  science  being  in  existence,  a  ground 
of  the  highest  consideration,  and  worthy  the 
best  attention  of  all  inquiring  men.  For  we 
should  err  widely,  if  we  thought  that  this  new 
tendency  of  critical  science  pertains  to  Ger- 
many alone.  It  is  a  European  tendency,  and 
springs  from  the  general  condition  of  intellect 
in  Europe.  We  ourselves  have  all,  for  the  last 
thirty  years,  more  or  less  distinctly  felt  the  ne- 
cessity of  such  a  science:  witness  the  neglect 
into  which  our  Blairs  and  Bossus  have  silently 
fallen ;  our  increased  and  increasing  admira- 
tion, not  only  of  Shakspeare,  but  of  all  his  con- 
temporaries, and  of  all  who  breathe  any  por- 
tion of  his  spirit;  our  controversy  whether 
Pope  was  a  poet;  and  so  much  vague  effort 
on  the  part  of  our  best  critics,  everywhere,  to 
■express  some  still  unexpressed  idea  concerning 
•the  nature  of  true  poetry ;  as  if  they  felt  in 
their  hearts  that  a  pure  glory,  nay,  a  divine- 
■ness,  belonged  to  it,  for  which  they  had  as  yet 
no  name,  and  no  intellectual  form.  Bnt  in 
Italy  too,  in  France  itself,  the  same  thing  is 
•visible.    Their  grand  controversy,   so   hotly 


urged,  between  the  Classicists  and  the  Roman- 
ticists, in  which  the  Schlegels  are  assumed, 
much  too  loosely,  on  all  hands,  as  the  patrons 
and  generalissimos  of  the  latter,  shows  us 
sufficiently  what  spirit  is  at  work  in  that  long 
stagnant  literature.  Doubtless  this  turbid 
fermentation  of  the  elements  will  at  length 
settle  into  clearness,  both  there,  and  here,  as 
in  Germany  it  has  already  in  a  great  measure 
done;  and  perhaps  a  more  serene  and  genial 
poetic  day  is  everywhere  to  be  expected  with 
some  confidence.  How  much  the  example  of 
the  Germans  may  have  to  teach  us  in  this 
particular,  needs  no  farther  exposition. 

The  authors  and  first  promulgators  of  this 
new  critical  doctrine,  were  at  one  time  con- 
temptuously named  the  New  School;  nor  was  it 
till  after  a  war  of  all  the  few  good  heads  in  the 
nation,  with  all  the  many  bad  ones,  had  ended 
as  such  wars  must  ever  do,*  that  these  critical 
principles  were  generally  adopted;  and  their 
assertors  found  to  be  no  Schfiol  or  new  hereti- 
cal Sect,  but  the  ancient  primitive  Catholic 
Communion,  of  which  all  sects  that  had  any 
living  light  in  them  were  but  members  and 
subordinate  modes.  It  is,  indeed,  the  most 
sacred  article  of  this  creed  to  preach  and  prac- 
tise universal  tolerance.  Every  literature  of 
the  world  has  been  cultivated  by  the  Germans  ; 
and  to  every  literature  they  have  studied  to  give 
due  honour.  Shakspeare  and  Homer,  no  doubt, 
occupy  alone  the  loftiest  station  in  the  poetical 
Olympus  ;  but  there  is  space  for  all  true  Sing- 
ers, out  of  every  age  and  clime.  Ferdusi  and 
the  primeval  Mythologists  of  Hindostan,  live 
in  brotherly  union  with  the  Troubadours  and 
ancient  Story-tellers  of  the  West.  The  way- 
ward mystic  gloom  of  Calderon,  the  lurid  fire 
of  Dante,  the  auroral  light  of  Tasso,  the  clear 
icy  glitter  of  Racine,  all  are  acknowledged  and 
reverenced:  nay,  in  the  celestial  fore-court  an 
abode  has  been  appointed  for  the  Gressets  and 
Delilles,  that  no  spark  of  inspiration,  no  tone 
of  mental  music,  might  remain  unrecognised. 
The  Germans  study  foreign  nations  in  a  spirit 
which  deserves  to  be  oftener  imitated.  It  is 
their  honest  endeavourto  understand  each  with 
its  own  peculiarities,  in  its  own  special  man- 
ner of  existing;  not  that  they  may  praise  it,  or 
censure  it,  or  attempt  to  alter  it,  but  simply 
that  they  may  see  this  manner  of  existing  as 
the  nation  itself  sees  it,  and  so  participate  in 
whatever  worth  or  beauty  it  has  brought  into 
being.  Of  all  literatures,  accordingly,  the 
German  has  the  best  as  well  as  the  most  trans- 
lations ;  men  like  Goethe,  Schiller,  Wieland, 
Schlegel,  Tieck,  have  not  disdained  this  task. 
Of  Shakspeare  there  are  three  entire  versions 
admitted  to  be  good ;  and  we  know  not  how 


*  It  began  in  Schiller's  Musenalmanch  for  1793.  The 
Xenien,  (a  series  of  philosophic  epigrams  jointly  by 
Schiller  and  Goethe,)  descended  there  unexpectedly, 
like  a  flood  of  ethereal  fire,on  the  German  literary  world ; 
quickening  all  that  was  noble  into  new  life,  but  visiting 
the  ancient  empire  of  Dulness  with  astonishment  and 
unknown  pangs.  The  agitation  was  extreme  :  scarcely 
since  the  age  of  Luther,  has  there  been  such  stir  and 
strife  in  the  intellect  of  Germany  ;  indeed,  scarcely  since 
that  age,  has  there  been  a  controversy,  if  we  consider  its 
ultimate  bearings  on  the  best  and  noblest  interests  of 
mankind,  so  important  as  this,  which,  for  the  time, 
seemed  only  to  turn  on  metaphysical  subtilties,  and 
matters  of  mere  elgance.  Its  farther  applications  be- 
came apparent  by  degrees. 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


many  partial,  or  considered  as  bad.  In  their 
criticisms  of  him  we  ourselves  have  long  ago 
admitted,  that  no  such  clear  judgment  or  hearty 
appreciation  of  his  merits  had  ever  been  exhi- 
bited by  any  critic  of  our  own. 

To  attempt  stating  in  separate  aphorisms 
the  doctrines  of  this  new  poetical  system, 
would,  in  such  space  as  is  now  allowed  us,  be 
to  ensure  them  of  misapprehension.  The 
science  of  Criticism,  as  the  Germans  practise 
it,  is  no  study  of  an  hour;  for  it  springs  from 
the  depths  of  thought,  and  remotely  or  imme- 
diately connects  itself  with  the  subtilest  prob- 
lems of  all  philosophy.  One  characteristic  of 
it  we  may  state,  the  obvious  parent  of  many 
others.  Poetic  beauty,  in  its  pure  essence,  is 
not,  by  this  theory,  as  by  all  our  theories,  from 
Hume's  to  Alison's,  derived  from  any  thing 
external,  or  of  merely  intellectual  origin ;  not 
from  association,  or  any  reflex  or  reminiscence 
of  mere  sensations ;  nor  from  natural  love, 
either  of  imitation,  of  similarity  in  dissimi- 
larity, of  excitement  by  contrast,  or  of  seeing 
difficulties  overcome.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
assumed  as  underived ;  not  borrowing  its  ex- 
istence from  such  sources,  but  as  lending  to 
most  of  these  their  significance  and  principal 
charm  for  the  mind.  It  dwells,  and  is  born  in 
the  inmost  Spirit  of  Man,  united  to  all  love  of 
Virtue,  to  all  true  belief  in  God  ;  or  rather,  it 
is  one  with  this  love  and  this  belief,  another 
phase  of  the  same  highest  principle  in  the 
mysterious  infinitude  of  the  human  Soul.  To 
apprehend  this  beauty  of  poetry,  in  its  full  and 
purest  brightness,  is  not  easy,  but  difficult; 
thousands  on  thousands  eagerly  read  poems, 
and  attain  not  the  smallest  taste  of  it;  yet  to 
all  uncorrupted  hearts,  some  effulgences  of  this 
heavenly  glory  are  here  and  there  revealed; 
and  to  apprehend  it  clearly  and  wholly,  to  ac- 
quire and  maintain  a  sense  and  heart  that 
sees  and  worships  it,  is  the  last  perfection  of 
all  humane  culture.  With  mere  readers  for 
amusement,  therefore,  this  Criticism  has,  and 
can  have,  nothing  to  do;  these  find  their 
amusement,  in  less  or  greater  measure,  and  the 
nature  of  Poetry  remains  for  ever  hidden  from 
them  in  the  deepest  concealment.  On  all  hands, 
there  is  no  truce  given  to  the  hypothesis,  that 
the  ultimate  object  of  the  poet  is  to  please. 
Sensation,  even  of  the  finest  and  most  rap- 
turous sort,  is  not  the  end  but  the  means.  Art 
is  to  be  loved,  not  because  of  its  effects,  but 
because  of  itself;  not  because  it  is  useful  for 
spiritual  pleasure,  or  even  for  moral  culture, 
but  because  it  is  Art,  and  the  highest  in  man, 
and  the  soul  of  all  Beauty.  To  inquire  after 
its  utilily,  would  be  like  inquiring  after  the 
utility  of  a  God,  or  what  to  the  Germans  would 
sound  stranger  than  it  does  to  us,  the  utility  of 
Virtue  and  Religion.  On  these  particulars,  the 
authenticity  of  which  we  might  verify,  not  so 
much  by  citation  of  individual  passages,  as  by 
reference  to  the  scope  and  spirit  of  whole  trea- 
tises, we  must  for  the  present  leave  our  read- 
ers to  their  own  reflections.  Might  we  advise 
them,  it  would  be  to  inquire  farther,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, to  see  the  matter  with  their  own  eyes. 

Meanwhile,  that  all  this  must  lend,  among 
the  Germans,  to  raise  the  general  standard  of 
Art,  and  of  what  an  Artist  ought  to  be  in  his 
4 


own  esteem  and  that  of  others,  will  be  readily 
inferred.  The  character  of  a  Poet  does,  ac- 
cordingly, stand  higher  with  the  Germans  than 
with  most  nations.  That  he  is  a  man  of  in- 
tegrity as  a  man  ;  of  zeal  and  honest  diligence 
in  his  art,  and  of  true  manly  feeling  towards 
all  men,  is  of  course  presupposed.  Of  persons 
that  are  not  so,  but  employ  their  gifts,  in  rhyme 
or  otherwise,  for  brutish  or  malignant  pur- 
poses, it  is  understood  that  such  lie  without  the 
limits  of  Criticism,  being  subjects  not  for  the 
judge  of  Art,  but  for  the  judge  of  Police.  But 
even  with  regard  to  the  fair  tradesman,  who 
offers  his  talent  in  open  market,  to  do  work 
of  a  harmless  and  acceptable  sort  for  hire, — 
with  regard  to  this  person  also,  their  opinion 
is  very  low.  The  "  Bread-artist,"  as  they  call 
him,  can  gain  no  reverence  for  himself  from 
these  men.  *'  Unhappy  mortal  I"  says  the  mild  but 
lofty-minded  Schiller,  "  Unhappy  mortal !  that, 
with  Science  and  Art,  the  noblest  of  all  instru- 
ments, efl^ectest  and  attemptest  nothing  more 
than  the  day-drudge  with  the  meanest;  that  in 
the  domain  of  perfect  freedom,  bearest  about 
in  thee  the  spirit  of  a  Slave !"  Nay,  to  the 
genuine  Poet,  they  deny  even  the  privilege  of 
regarding  what  so  many  cherish,  under  the  title 
of  their  "  fame,"  as  the  best  and  highest  of  all. 
Hear  Schiller  again  : 

"The  Artist,  it  is  true,  is  the  son  of  his  age; 
but  pity  for  him  if  he  is  its  pupil,  or  even  its 
favourite  !  Let  some  beneficent  divinity  snatch 
him,  when  a  suckling,  from  the  breast  of  his 
mother,  and  nurse  him  with  the  milk  of  a  better 
time,  that  he  may  ripen  to  his  full  stature  be- 
neath a  distant  Grecian  sky.  And  having 
grown  to  manhood,  let  him  return  a  foreign 
shape,  into  his  century;  not,  however,  to  de- 
light it  by  his  presence,  but  dreadful,  like  the 
son  of  Agamemnon,  to  purify  it.  The  matter  of 
his  works  he  will  take  from  the  present,  but 
their  form  he  will  derive  from  a  nobler  time ; 
nay,  from  beyond  all  time,  from  the  absolute 
unchanging  unity  of  his  own  nature.  Here, 
from  the  pure  ssther  of  his  spiritual  essence, 
flows  down  the  Fountain  of  Beauty,  uncontami- 
nated  by  the  pollutions  of  ages  and  generations, 
which  roll  to  and  fro  in  their  turbid  vortex  far 
beneath  it.  His  matter.  Caprice  can  dishonour, 
as  she  has  ennobled  it;  but  the  chaste  form  is 
withdrawn  from  her  mutations.  The  Roman 
of  the  first  century  had  long  bent  the  knee  be- 
fore his  Caesars,  when  the  statues  of  Rome 
were  still  standing  erect;  the  temples  con- 
tinued holy  to  the  eye,  when  their  gods  had 
long  been  a  laughing-stock;  and  the  abomina- 
tion's of  a  Nero  and  a  Commodus  were  silently 
rebuked  by  the  style  of  the  edifice,  which  lent 
them  its  concealment.  Man  has  lost  his 
dignity,  but  Art  has  saved  it,  and  preserved  it 
for  him  in  expressive  marbles.  Truth  still 
lives  in  fiction,  and  from  the  copy  the  original 
will  be  restored. 

"  But  how  is  the  Artist  to  guard  himself  from 
the  corruptions  of  his  time,  which  on  every  side 
assail  him  ?  By  despising  its  decisions.  Let 
him  look  upwards  to  his  dignity  and  the  Jaw, 
not  dow'iwards  to  his  happiness  and  his  wants. 
Free  al.ke  from  the  vain  activity  that  longs  to 
impress  its  traces  on  the  fleeting  instant,  and 
from  the  querulous  spirit  of  enthusiasm  that 
C 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


measures  by  the  scale  of  perfection  the  meagre 
product  of  reality,  let  him  leave  to  mere  Un- 
derstanding, which  is  here  at  home,  the  province 
of  the  actual ;  while  he  strives,  by  uniting  the 
possible  with  the  necessary,  to  produce  the 
ideal.  This  let  him  imprint  and  express  in 
fiction  and  truth;  imprint  it  in  the  sport  of  his 
imagination  and  the  earnest  of  his  actions; 
imprint  it  in  all  sensible  and  spiritual  forms, 
and  cast  it  silently  into  everlasting  time."* 

Still  higher  are  Fichte's  notions  on  this  sub- 
ject; or  rather  expressed  in  higher  terms,  for 
the  central  principle  is  the  same  both  in  the 
philosopher  and  the  poet.  According  to  Fichte, 
there  is  a  "  Divine  Idea"  pervading  the  visible 
Universe;  which  visible  Universe  is  indeed 
but  its  symbol  and  sensible  manifestation,  hav- 
ing in  itself  no  meaning,  or  even  true  existence 
independent  of  it.  To  the  mass  of  men  this 
Divine  Idea  of  the  world  lies  hidden :  yet  to 
discern  it,  to  seize  it,  and  live  wholly  in  it,  is 
the  condition  of  all  genuine  virtue,  knowledge, 
freedom ;  and  the  end,  therefore,  of  all  spiritual 
effort  in  every  age.  Literary  Men  are  the  ap- 
pointed interpreters  of  this  Divine  Idea;  a 
perpetual  priesthood,  we  might  say,  standing 
forth,  generation  after  generation,  as  the  dis- 
pensers and  living  types  of  God's  everlasting 
wisdom,  to  show  it  and  imbody  it  in  their 
writings  and  actions,  in  such  particular  form 
as  their  own  particular  times  require  it  in.  For 
each  age,  by  the  law  of  its  nature,  is  different 
from  every  other  age,  and  demands  a  different 
representation  of  this  Divine  Idea,  the  essence 
of  which  is  the  same  in  all ;  so  that  the  lite- 
rary man  of  one  century  is  only  by  mediation 
and  re-interpretation  applicable  to  the  wants 
of  another.  But  in  every  century,  every  man 
who  labours,  be  it  in  what  province  he  may, 
to  teach  others,  must  first  have  possessed  him- 
self of  this  Divine  Idea,  or,  at  least,  be  with 
his  whole  heart  and  his  whole  soul  striving 
after  it.  If,  without  possessing  it  or  striving 
after  it,  he  abide  diligently  by  some  material 
practical  department  of  knowledge,  he  may 
indeed  still  be  (says  Fichte,  in  his  usual  rugged 
way,)  a  "  useful  hodman ;"  but  should  he  at- 
tempt to  deal  with  the  Whole,  and  to  become 
an  architect,  he  is,  in  strictness  of  language, 
"Nothing;" — "he  is  an  ambiguous  mongrel 
between  the  possessor  of  the  Idea,  and  the  man 
who  feels  himself  solidly  supported  and  car- 
ried on  by  the  common  Reality  of  things;  in 
his  fruitless  endeavour  after  the  Idea,  he  has 
neglected  to  acquire  the  craft  of  taking  part  in 
this  Reality ;  and  so  hovers  between  two 
worlds,  without  pertaining  to  either."  Else- 
where he  adds : 

"  There  is  still,  from  another  point  of  view, 
another  division  in  our  notion  of  the  Literary 
Man,  and  one  to  us  of  immediate  application. 
Namely,  either  the  Literary  Man  has  already 
laid  hold  of  the  whole  Divine  Idea,  in  so  far 
as  it  can  be  comprehended  by  man,  or  perhaps 
of  a  special  portion  of  this  its  comprehensible 
part, — which  truly  is  not  possible  without  at 
least  a  clear  oversight  of  the  whole, — he  has 
already  laid  hold  of  it,  penetrated,  and  made  it 
entirely  clear  to  himself,  so  that  it  has  become 


*  Ueber  die  ^esthetische  Eriiehurur  des  Menschen, 
the  Esthetic  Education  of  Man.) 


(On 


a  possession  recallable  at  all  times  in  the  same 
shape  to  his  view,  and  a  component  part  of 
his  personality:  m  that  case  he  is  a  completed 
and  equipt  Literary  Man,  a  man  who  has 
studied.  Or  else,  he  is  still  struggling  and 
striving  to  make  the  Idea  in  general,  or  that 
particular  portion  and  point  of  it,  from  which 
onwards  he  for  his  part  means  to  penetrate  the 
whole, — entirely  clear  to  himself;  detached 
sparkles  of  light  already  spring  forth  on  him 
from  all  sides,  and  disclose  a  higher  world  be- 
fore him  ;  but  they  do  not  yet  unite  themselves 
into  an  indivisible  whole  ;  they  vanish  from  his 
view  as  capriciously  as  they  came;  he  cannot 
yet  bring  them  under  obedience  to  his  freedom  ; 
in  that  case  he  is  a  progressing  and  self-unfold- 
ing literary  man,  a  Student.  That  it  be  ac- 
tually the  Idea,  which  is  possessed  or  striven 
after,  is  common  to  both.  Should  the  striving 
aim  merely  at  the  outward  form,  and  the  letter 
of  learned  culture,  there  is  then  produced, 
when  the  circle  is  gone  round,  the  completed, 
when  it  is  not  gone  round,  the  progressing. 
Bungler  (Stumper).  The  latter  is  more  tolera- 
ble than  the  former ;  for  there  is  still  room  to 
hope  that,  in  continuing  his  travel,  he  may  at 
some  future  point  be  seized  by  the  Idea;  but 
of  the  first  all  hope  is  over."* 

From  this  bold  and  lofty  principle  the  duties 
of  the  Literary  man  are  deduced  with  scientific 
precision  ;  and  stated,  in  all  their  sacredness 
and  grandeur,  with  an  austere  brevity  more 
impressive  than  any  rhetoric.  Fichte's  meta- 
physical theory  may  be  called  in  question,  and 
readily  enough  misapprehended;  but  the  sub- 
lime stoicism  of  his  sentiments  will  find  some 
response  in  many  a  heart.  We  must  add  the 
conclusion  of  his  first  Discourse,  as  a  farther 
illustration  of  his  manner: 

"In  disquisitions  of  the  sort  like  ours  of  to- 
day, which  all  the  rest,  too,  must  resemble,  the 
generality  are  wont  to  censure  :  First,  their  se- 
verity ;  very  often  on  the  good-natured  suppo- 
sition that  the  speaker  is  not  aware  how  much 
his  rigour  must  displease  us  ;  that  we  have  but 
frankly  to  let  him  know  this,  and  then  doubtless 
he  will  reconsider  himself,  and  soften  his  state- 
ments. Thus,  we  said  above,  that  a  man  who, 
after  literary  culture,  had  not  arrived  at  know- 
ledge of  the  Divine  Idea,  or  did  not  strive  to- 
wards it,  was  in  strict  speech  Nothing ;  and  far- 
ther down,  we  said  that  he  was  a  Bungler.  This 
is  in  a  style  of  those  unmerciful  expressions 
by  which  philosophers  give  such  offence. — 
Now  looking  away  from  the  present  case,  that 
we  may  front  the  maxim  in  its  general  shape, 
I  remind  you  that  this  species  of  character, 
without  decisive  force  to  renounce  all  respect 
for  Truth,  seeks  merely  to  bargain  and  cheap- 
en something  out  of  her,  whereby  itself  on 
easier  terms  may  attain  to  some  consideration. 
But  truth,  which  once  for  all  is  as  she  is,  and 
cannot  alter  aught  of  her  nature,  goes  on  her 
way;  and  there  remains  for  her,  in  regard  to 
those  who  desire  her  not  simply  because  she 
is  true,  nothing  else  but  to  leave  them  stand- 
ing as  if  they  had  never  addressed  her. 

"  Then  farther,  discourses  of  this  sort  are  wont 


*  Ueber  das  Wesen  des  Oelehrten ;  (On  the  Nature  of 
the  Literary  Man  ;)  a  Course  of  Lectures  delivered  at 
Jena,  in  1S05. 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


27 


to  be  censured  as  unintelligible.  Thus  I  figure 
to  myself, — nowise  you,  Gentlemen,  but  some 
completed  Literary  Man  of  the  second  species, 
whose  eye  the  disquisition  here  entered  upon 
chanced  to  meet,  as  coming  forward,  doubting 
this  way  and  that,  and  at  last  reflectively  ex- 
claiming: 'The  Idea,  the  Divine  Idea,  that 
which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appearance  :  what 
pray  may  this  mean  V  Of  such  a  questioner  I 
would  inquire  in  turn  :  *  What  pray  may  this 
question  mean  V — Investigate  it  strictly,  it 
means  in  most  cases  nothing  more  than  this, 
*  Under  what  other  names  and  in  what  other 
formulas,  do  I  already  know  this  same  thing, 
which  thou  expressest  by  so  strange  and  to  me 
so  unknown  a  symbol  V  And  to  this  again  in 
most  cases  the  only  suitable  reply  were,  '  Thou 
knowest  this  thing  not  at  all,  neither  under  this, 
nor  under  any  other  name  ;  and  wouldst  thou 
arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  it,  thou  must  even 
now  begin  at  the  beginning  to  make  study 
thereof;  and  then,  most  fitly,  under  that  name 
by  which  it  is  first  presented  to  thee  !'  " 

With  such  a  notion  of  the  Artist,  it  were  a 
strange  inconsistency  did  Criticism  show  it- 
self unscientific  or  lax  in  estimating  the  products 
of  his  Art.  For  light  on  this  point,  we  might 
refer  to  the  writings  of  almost  any  individual 
among  the  German  critics  :  take,  for  instance, 
the  Charakteristiken  of  the  two  Schlegels,  a  work 
too  of  their  younger  years ;  and  say  whether  in 
depth,  clearness,  minute  and  patient  fidelity, 
these  Characters  have  often  been  surpassed,  or 
the  import  and  poetic  worth  of  so  many  poets 
and  poems  more  vividly  and  accurately  brought 
to  view.  As  an  instance  of  a  much  higher 
kind,  we  might  refer  to  Goethe's  criticism  of 
Hamlet  in  his  Wilhclm  Meisler.  This  truly  is 
what  may  be  called  the  poetry  of  criticism ; 
for  it  is  in  some  sort  also  a  creative  art ;  aim- 
ing, at  least,  to  reproduce  under  a  diflTerent 
shape  the  existing  product  of  the  poet;  paint- 
ing to  the  intellect  what  already  lay  painted  to 
the  heart  and  the  imagination.  Nor  is  it  over 
poetry  alone  that  criticism  watches  with  such 
loving  strictness  :  the  mimic,  the  pictorial,  the 
musical  arts,  all  modes  of  representing  or  ad- 
dressing the  highest  nature  of  man,  are  ac- 
knowledged as  younger  sisters  of  Poetry,  and 
fostered  with  the  like  care.  Winkelmann's 
History  of  Plastic  Art  is  known  by  repute  to  all 
readers  :  and  of  those  who  know  it  by  inspec- 
tion, many  may  have  wondered  why  such  a 
work  has  not  been  added  to  our  own  literature, 
to  instruct  our  own  statuaries  and  painters. 
On  this  subject  of  the  plastic  arts,  we  cannot 
withhold  the  following  little  sketch  of  Goethe's, 
as  a  specimen  of  pictorial  criticism  in  what  we 
consider  a  superior  style.  It  is  of  an  imaginary 
landscape-painter,  and  his  views  of  Swiss 
scenery ;  it  will  bear  to  be  studied  minutely, 
for  there  is  no  word  without  its  meaning  : 

"  He  succeeds  in  representing  the  cheerful 
repose  of  lake  prospects,  where  houses  in 
friendly  approximation,  imaging  themselves 
in  the  clear  wave,  seem  as  if  bathing  in  its 
depths;  shores  encircled  with  green  hills,  be- 
hind which  rise  forest  mountains,  and  icy  peaks 
of  glaciers.  The  tone  of  colouring  in  such 
scenes  is  gay,  mirthfully  clear;  the  distances 
as  if  overflowed  with  softening  vapour,  which 


from  watered  hollows  and  river  valleys  mounts 
up  grayer  and  mistier,  and  indicates  their  wind- 
ings. No  less  is  the  master's  art  to  be  praised 
in  views  from  valleys  lying  nearer  the  high 
Alpine  ranges,  where  declivities  slope  down, 
luxuriantly  overgrown,  and  fresh  streams  roll 
hastily  along  by  the  foot  of  rocks. 

"  With  exquisite  skill,  in  the  deep  shady  trees 
of  the  foreground,  he  gives  the  distinctive  cha- 
racter of  the  several  species,  satisfying  us  in 
the  form  of  the  whole,  as  in  the  structure  of 
the  branches,  and  the  details  of  the  leaves;  no 
less  so  in  the  fresh  green  with  its  manifold 
shadings,  where  soft  airs  appear  as  if  fanning 
us  with  benignant  breath,  and  the  lights  as  if 
thereby  put  in  motion. 

"In  the  middle-ground, his  lively  green  tone 
grows  fainter  by  degrees ;  and  at  last,  on  the 
more  distant  mountain-tops,  passing  into  weak 
violet,  weds  itself  with  the  blue  of  the  sky.  But 
our  artist  is  above  all  happy  in  his  paintings 
of  high  Alpine  regions  ;  in  seizing  the  simple 
greatness  and  stillness  of  their  character;  the 
wide  pastures  on  the  slopes,  where  dark  soli- 
tary firs  stand  forth  from  the  grassy  carpet ; 
and  from  high  clifis,  foaming  brooks  rush  down. 
Whether  he  relieves  his  pasturages  with  graz- 
ing cattle,  or  the  narrow  winding  rocky  path 
with  mules  and  laden  pack-horses,  he  paints  all 
with  equal  truth  and  richness  ;  still,  introduced 
in  the  proper  place,  and  not  in  too  great  co- 
piousness, they  decorate  and  enliven  these 
scenes,  without  interrupting,  without  lessening 
their  peaceful  solitude.  The  execution  testifies 
a  master's  hand ;  easy,  with  a  few  sure  strokes, 
and  yet  complete.  In  his  later  pieces,  he  em- 
ployed glittering  English  permanent-colours 
on  paper :  these  pictures,  accordingly,  are  of 
preeminently  blooming  tone ;  cheerful,  yet,  at 
the  same  time,  strong  and  sated. 

"  His  views  of  deep  mountain  chasms,  where, 
round  and  round,  nothing  fronts  us  but  dead 
rock,  where,  in  the  abyss,  overspanned  by  its 
bold  arch,  the  wild  stream  rages,  are,  indeed, 
of  less  attraction  than  the  former:  yet  their 
truth  excites  us ;  we  admire  the  great  eflfect  of 
the  whole,  produced  at  so  little  cost,  by  a  few 
expressive  strokes,  and  masses  of  local  colours. 

"  With  no  less  accuracy  of  character  can  he 
represent  the  regions  of  the  topmost  Alpine 
ranges, where  neither  tree  nor  shrub  anymore 
appears ;  but  only  amid  the  rocky  teeth  and 
snow  summits,  a  few  sunny  spots  clothe  them- 
selves with  a  soft  sward.  Beautiful,  and  balmy 
and  inviting  as  he  colours  these  spots,  he  has 
here  wisely  forborne  to  introduce  grazing 
herds ;  for  these  regions  give  food  only  to  the 
chamois,  and  a  perilous  employment  to  the 
wild-hay-men."* 

We  have  extracted  this  passage  from  WiU 
helm  Meister's  Wandajahre,  Goethe's  last  Novel. 
The  perusal  of  his  whole  Works  would  show, 
among  many  other  more  important  facts,  that 
Criticism  also  is  a  science  of  which  he  is  mas- 
ter ;  that  if  ever  any  man  had  studied  Art  in  all 
its  branches  and  laearings,  from  its  origin  in 


*  The  poor  wiJd-hay-man  of  the  Rigiberg, 
Whose  trade  is,  on  the  brow  of  the  abyss, 
To  mow  the  common  grass  from  nooks  and  shelves. 
To  which  the  cattle  dare  not  climb. 

ScHiLLKR's  mihdm  Tea, 


28 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  depths  of  the  creative  spirit,  to  its  minutest 
finish  on  the  canvas  of  the  painter,  on  the  lips 
of  the  poet,  or  under  the  finger  of  the  musician, 
he  was  that  man.  A  nation  which  appreciates 
such  studies,  nay,  requires  and  rewards  them, 
cannot,  wherever  its  defects  may  lie,  be  defec- 
tive in  judgment  of  the  arts. 

But  a  weightier  question  still  remains. 
What  has  been  ihe  fruit  of  this  its  high  and 
just  judgment  on  these  matters'?  What  has 
cnticism  profited  it,  to  the  bringing  forth  of 
good  works  1  How  do  its  poems  and  its  poets 
correspond  with  so  lofty  a  standard  1  We  an- 
swer, that  on  this  point  also,  Germany  may 
rather  court  investigation  than  fear  it.  There 
are  poets  in  that  country  who  belong  to  a  no- 
bler class  than  most  nations  have  to  show  in 
these  days;  a  class  entirely  unknown  to  some 
nations ;  and,  for  the  last  two  centuries,  rare 
in  all.  We  have  no  hesitation  in  stating,  that 
we  see  in  certain  of  the  best  German  poets, 
and  those  too  of  our  own  time,  something 
which  associates  them,  remotely  or  nearly  we 
say  not,  but  which  does  associate  them  with 
the  Masters  of  Art,  the  Saints  of  Poetry,  long 
since  departed,  and,  as  we  thought,  without 
successors,  from  the  earth ;  but  canonized  in 
the  hearts  of  all  generations,  and  yet  living  to 
all  by  the  memory  of  what  they  did  and  were. 
Glances  we  do  seem  to  find  of  that  ethereal 
glory,  which  looks  on  us  in  its  full  brightness 
from  the  Tramjiguration  of  Rafaelle,  from  the 
Tempest  of  Shakspeare;  and  in  broken,  but 
purest  and  still  heart-piercing  beams,  strug- 
gling through  the  gloom  of  long  ages,  from  the 
tragedies  of  Sophocles  and  the  weather-worn 
sculptures  of  the  Parthenon.  This  is  that 
heavenly  spirit,  which,  best  seen  in  the  aerial 
embodiment  of  poetry,  but  spreading  likewise 
over  all  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  an  age,  has 
given  us  Surreys,  Sydneys,  Raleighs  in  court 
and  camp,  Cecils  in  policy,  Hookers  in  divinity. 
Bacons  in  philosophy,  and  Shakspeares  and 
Spensers  in  song.  All  hearts  that  know  this, 
know  it  to  be  the  highest;  and  that,  in  poetry 
or  elsewhere,  it  alone  is  true  and  imperishable. 
In  aflirming  that  any  vestige,  however  feeble, 
of  this  divine  spirit,  is  discernible  in  German 
poetry,  we  are  aware  that  we  place  it  above 
the  existing  poetry  of  any  other  nation. 

To  prove  this  bold  assertion,  logical  argu- 
ments were  at  all  times  unavailing;  and,  in 
the  present  circumstances  of  the  case,  more 
than  usually  so.  Neither  will  any  extract  or 
specimen  help  us ;  for  it  is  not  in  parts,  but  in 
whole  poems,  that  the  spirit  of  a  true  poet  is 
to  be  seen.  We  can,  therefore,  only  name 
such  men  as  Tieck,  Richter,  Herder,  Schiller, 
and,  above  all,  Goethe ;  and  ask  any  reader 
who  has  learned  to  admire  wisely  our  own 
literature  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  age,  to  peruse 
these  writers  also ;  to  study  them  till  he  feels 
that  he  has  understood  them,  and  justly  esti- 
mated both  their  light  and  darkness ;  and  then 
to  pronounce  whether  it  is  not,  in  some  degree, 
as  we  have  said.  Are  there  not  tones  here  of 
that  old  melody  1  Are  there  not  glimpses  of 
thatserenesoul,thatcalm  harmonious  strength, 
that  smiling  earnestness,  that  Love  and  Faith 
and  Humanity  of  nature  1  Do  these  foreign 
contemporaries  of  ours  still  exhibit,  in  their 


characters  as  men,  something  of  that  sterling 
nobleness,  that  union  of  majesty  with  meek- 
ness, which  we  must  ever  venerate  in  those  our 
spiritual  fathers  1  And  do  their  works,  in  the 
new  form  of  this  century,  show  forth  that  old 
nobleness,  not  consistent  only,  with  the  science, 
the  precision,  the  skepticism  of  these  days,  but 
wedded  to  them,  incorporated  with  them,  and 
shining  through  them  like  their  life  and  soul  1 
Might  it  in  truth  almost  seem  to  us,  in  reading 
the  prose  of  Goethe,  as  if  we  were  reading  that 
of  Milton  ;  and  of  Milton  writing  with  the  cul- 
ture of  this  time ;  combining  French  clearness 
with  old  English  depth  1  And  of  his  poetry 
may  it  indeed  be  said  that  it  is  poetry,  and  yet 
the  poetry  of  our  own  generation ;  an  ideal 
world,  and  yet  the  world  we  even  now  live  inl 
— These  questions  we  must  leave  candid  and 
studious  inquirers  to  answer  for  themselves; 
premising  only,  that  the  secret  is  not  to  be 
found  on  the  surface ;  that  the  first  reply  is 
likely  to  be  in  the  negative,  but  with  inquirers 
of  this  sort,  by  no  means  likely  to  be  the 
final  one. 

To  ourselves,  we  confess,  it  has  long  so  ap- 
peared. The  poetry  of  Goethe,  for  instance, 
we  reckon  to  be  Poetry,  sometimes  in  the  very 
highest  sense  of  that  word;  yet  it  is  no  remi- 
niscence, but  something  actually  present  and 
before  us ;  no  looking  back  into  an  antique 
Fairy-land,  divided  by  impassable  abysses  from 
the  real  world  as  it  lies  about  us  and  within  us  ; 
but  a  looking  round  upon  that  real  world  itself, 
now  rendered  holier  to  our  eyes,  and  once 
more  become  a  solemn  temple,  where  the 
spirit  of  Beauty  still  dwells,  and,  under  new 
emblems,  to  be  worshipped  as  of  old.  With 
Goethe,  the  mythologies  of  bygone  days  pass 
only  for  what  they  are  ;  we  have  no  witchcraft 
or  magic  in  the  common  acceptation ;  and 
spirits  no  longer  bring  with  them  airs  from 
heaven  or  blasts  from  hell ;  for  Pandemonium 
and  the  steadfast  Empyrean  have  faded  away, 
since  the  opinions  which  they  symbolized  no 
longer  are.  Neither  does  he  bring  his  heroes 
from  remote  Oriental  climates,  or  periods  of 
Chivalry,  or  any  section  either  of  Atlantis  or 
the  Age  of  Gold  ?  feeling  that  the  reflex  of 
these  things  is  cold  and  faint,  and  only  hangs 
like  a  cloud-picture  in  the  distance,  beautiful 
but  delusive,  and  which  even  the  simplest 
know  to  be  delusion.  The  end  of  Poetry  is 
higher  ;  she  must  dwell  in  Reality,  and  become 
manifest  to  men  in  the  forms  among  which 
they  live  and  move.  And  this  is  what  we  prize 
in  Goethe,  and  more  or  less  in  Schiller  and 
the  rest;  all  of  whom,  each  in  his  own  way, 
are  writers  of  a  similar  aim.  The  coldest 
skeptic,  the  most  callous  worldling,  sees  not 
the  actual  aspects  of  life  more  sharply  than 
they  are  here  delineated :  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury stands  before  us,  in  all  its  contradiction 
and  perplexity  ;  barren,  mean,  and  baleful,  as 
we  have  all  known  it;  yet  here  no  longer  mean 
or  barren,  but  enamelled  into  beauty  in  the 
poet's  spirit ;  for  its  secret  significance  is  laid 
open,  and  thus,  as  it  were,  the  life-giving  fire 
that  slumbers  in  it  is  called  forth,  and  flowers 
and  foliage,  as  of  old,  are  springing  on  its 
bleakest  wildernesses,  and  overmantling  its 
sternest  cliffs.    For  these  men  have  not  only 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  clear  eye,  but  the  loving  heart.  They  have 
penetrated  into  the  mystery  of  Nature  ;  after 
long  trial  they  have  been  initiated:  and,  to 
unwearied  endeavour,  Art  has  at  last  yielded 
her  secret;  and  thus  can  the  Spiritof  our  Age, 
imbodied  in  fair  imaginations,  look  forth  on 
us,  earnest  and  full  of  meaning,  from  their 
works.  As  the  first  and  indispensable  condi- 
tion of  good  poets,  they  are  wise  and  good  men : 
much  they  have  seen  and  suffered,  and  they 
have  conquered  all  this,  and  made  it  all  their 
own  ;  they  have  known  life  in  its  heights  and 
depths,  and  mastered  it  in  both,  and  can  teach 
others  what  it  is,  and  how  to  lead  it  rightly. 
Their  minds  are  as  a  mirror  to  us,  where  the 
perplexed  image  of  our  own  being  is  reflected 
back  in  soft  and  clear  interpretation.  Here 
mirth  and  gravity  are  blended  together ;  wit 
rests  on  deep  devout  wisdom,  as  the  green- 
sward with  its  flowers  must  rest  on  the  rock, 
whose  foundations  reach  downward  to  the 
centre.  In  a  word,  they  are  believers;  but 
their  faith  is  no  sallow  plant  of  darkness;  it  is 
green  and  flowery,  for  it  grows  in  the  sunlight. 
And  this  faith  is  the  doctrine  they  have  to 
teach  us,  the  sense  which,  under  every  noble 
and  graceful  form,  it  is  their  endeavour  to  set 
forth  : 

As  all  nature's  thousand  changes 
But  one  changeless  God  proclaim, 
So  in  Art's  wide  kingdoms  ranges 
One  sole  meaning,  still  the  same  ; 
This  is  Truth,  eternal  Reason, 
Which  from  Beauty  takes  its  dress, 
And,  serene  through  time  and  season. 
Stands  for  aye  in  loveliness. 

Such  indeed  is  the  end  of  Poetry  at  all  times; 
yet  in  no  recent  literature  known  to  us,  except 
the  German,  has  it  been  so  far  attained;  nay, 
perhaps,  so  much  as  consciously  and  stead- 
fastly attempted. 

The  reader  feels  that  if  this  our  opinion  be 
in  any  measure  true,  it  is  a  truth  of  no  ordinary 
moment.  It  concerns  not  this  writer  or  that ; 
but  it  opens  to  us  new  views  on  the  fortune 
of  spiritual  culture  with  ourselves  and  all  na- 
tions. Have  we  not  heard  gifted  men  com- 
plaining that  Poetry  had  passed  away  without 
return;  that  creative  imagination  consorted 
not  with  vigour  of  intellect,  and  that  in  the 
cold  light  of  science  there  was  no  longer  room 
for  faith  in  things  unseen  1  The  old  simplicity 
of  heart  was  gone  ;  earnest  emotions  must  no 
longer  be  expressed  in  earnest  symbols ;  beauty 
must  recede  into  elegance,  devoutness  of  cha- 
racter be  replaced  by  clearness  of  thought,  and 
grave  wisdom  by  shrewdness  and  persiflage. 
Such  things  we  have  heard,  but  hesitated  to 
believe  them.  If  the  poetry  of  the  Germans, 
and  this  not  by  theory  but  by  example,  have 
proved,  or  even  begun  to  prove,  the  contrary, 
it  will  deserve  far  higher  encomiums  than  any 
we  have  passed  upon  it. 

In  fact,  the  past  and  present  aspect  of  Ger- 
man literature  illustrates  the  literature  of  Eng- 
land in  more  than  one  way.  Its  history  keeps 
pace  with  that  of  ours ;  for  so  closely  are  all 
European  communities  connected,  that  the 
phases  of  mind  in  any  one  country,  so  far  as 
these  represent  its  general  circumstances  and 
intellectual  position,  are  but  modified  repeti- 
tions of  its  phases  in  every  other.  We  hinted 
above,  that  the  Saxon  School  corresponded 


with  what  might  be  called  the  Scotch:  Cra- 
mer was  not  unlike  our  Blair;  Von  Cronegk 
might  be  compared  with  Michael  Bruce  ;  and 
Rabener  and  Gellert  with  Beattie  and  Logan. 
To  this  mild  and  cultivated  period,  there  suc- 
ceeded, as  with  us,  a  partial  abandonment  of 
poetry,  in  favour  of  political  and  philosophical 
Illumination.  Then  was  the  time,  when  hot 
war  was  declared  against  Prejudice  of  all 
sorts;  Utility  was  set  up  for  the  universal 
measure  of  mental  as  well  as  material  value ; 
poetry,  except  of  an  economical  and  precep-  i. 
torial  character,  was  found  to  be  the  product 
of  a  rude  age ;  and  religious  enthusiasm  was 
but  derangement  in  the  biliary  organs.  Then 
did  the  Prices  and  Condorcets  of  Germany 
indulge  in  day-dreams  of  perfectibility ;  a  new 
social  order  was  to  bring  back  the  Saturnian 
era  to  the  world ;  and  philosophers  sat  on 
their  sunny  Pisgah,  looking  back  over  dark 
savage  deserts,  and  forward  into  a  land  flow- 
ing with  milk  and  honey. 

This  period  also  passed  away,  with  its  good 
and  its  evil;  of  which  chiefly  the  latter  seems 
to  be  remembered ;  for  we  scarcely  ever  find 
the  affair  alluded  to,  except  in  terms  of  con- 
tempt, by  the  title  Aiifkldrerey  (Illumination- 
ism)  ;  and  its  partisans,  in  subsequent  sa- 
tirical controversies,  received  the  nickname 
of  Philistern  (Philistines),  which  the  few  scat- 
tered remnants  of  them  still  bear,  both  in  writ- 
ing and  speech.  Poetry  arose  again,  and  in  a 
new  and  singular  shape.  The  Sorroivsof  Wer- 
ter,  Goetz  von  Berlichingen,  and  The  Robbers,  may 
stand  as  patriarchs  and  representatives  of 
three  separate  classes,  which,  commingled  in 
various  proportions,  or  separately  coexisting, 
now  with  the  preponderance  of  this,  now  of 
that,  occupied  the  whole  popular  literature  of 
Germany,  till  near  the  end  of  the  last  century. 
These  were  the  Sentimentalists,  the  Chivalry- 
play-writers,  and  other  gorgeous  and  outrage^ 
ous  persons;  as  a  whole,  now  pleasantly  de- 
nominated the  Kraflmdnncr,  literally,  Power- 
men.  They  dealt  in  skeptical  lamentation, 
mysterious  enthusiasm,  frenzy  and  suicide: 
they  recurred  with  fondness  to  the  Feudal 
Ages,  delineating  many  a  battlemented  keep, 
and  swart  buff-belted  man-at-arms ;  for  in  re- 
flection as  in  action,  they  studied  to  be  strong, 
vehement,  rapidly  effective;  of  battle-tumult, 
love-madness,  heroism,  and  despair,  there  was 
no  end.  This  literary  period  is  called  the 
Sturm-imd-Drang-Zeit,  the  Storm-and-Stress  Pe- 
riod; for  great  indeed  was  the  wo  and  fury 
of  these  Power-men.  Beauty,  to  their  mind, 
seemed  synonymous  with  Strength.  All  pas- 
sion was  poetical,  so  it  were  but  fierce  enough. 
•Their  head  moral  virtue  was  Pride :  their  hcat$ 
ideal  of  manhood  was  some  transcript  of  Mil- 
ton^s  Devil.  Often  they  inverted  Bolingbroke's 
plan,  and  instead  of  "patronizing  Providence," 
did  directly  the  opposite;  raging  with  extreme 
animation  against  Fate  in  general,  because  it 
enthralled  free  virtue;  and  with  clenched 
hands,  or  sounding  shields,  hurling  defiance 
towards  the  vault  of  heaven. 

These  Power-men  are  gone  too ;  and,  with 

few  exceptions,  save  the  three  originals  above 

named,  their  works    have    already   followed 

them.    The  application  of  all  this  to  our  own 

c  2 


30 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS   WRITINGS. 


literature  is  too  obvious  to  require  much  ex- 
position. Have  we  not  also  had  our  Power- 
men'?  And  will  not,  as  in  Germany,  to  us 
likewise  a  milder,  a  clearer,  and  a  truer  time 
come  round]  Our  Byron  was,  in  his  youth, 
but  what  Schiller  and  Goethe  had  been  in 
theirs :  yet  the  author  of  Werter  wrote  Iphi- 
genie  and  Torquato  Tasso ;  and  he  who  began 
with  The  Robbers  ended  with  Wilhelm  Tell.  With 
longer  life,  all  things  were  to  have  been  hoped 
for  from  Byron :  for  he  loved  truth  in  his  in- 
most heart,  and  would  have  discovered  at  last 
that  his  Corsairs  and  Harolds  were  not  true. 
It  was  otherwise  appointed :  but  with  one  man 
all  hope  does  not  die.  If  this  way  is  the  right 
one,  we  too  shall  find  it.  The  poetry  of  Ger- 
many, meanwhile,  we  cannot  Isut  regard  as 
well  deserving  to  be  studied,  in  this  as  in  other 
points  of  view:  it  is  distinctly  an  advance 
beyond  any  other  known  to  us;  whether  on 
the  right  path  or  not,  may  be  still  uncertain  ; 
but  a  path  selected  by  Schillers  and  Goethes, 
and  vindicated  by  Schlegels  and  Tiecks,  is 
surely  worth  serious  examination.  For  the 
rest,  need  we  add  that  it  is  study  for  self-in- 
struction, nowise  for  purposes  of  imitation, 
that  we  recommend?  Among  the  deadliest 
of  poetical  sins  is  imitation  ;  for  if  every  man 
must  have  his  own  way  of  expressing  it,  much 
more  every  nation.  But  of  danger  on  that 
side,  in  the  country  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton, 
there  seems  little  to  be  feared. 

We  come  now  to  the  second  grand  objection 
against  German  literature,  its  mysticism.  In 
treating  of  a  subject  itself  so  vague  and  dim, 
it  were  well  if  we  tried,  in  the  first  place,  to 
settle,  with  more  accuracy,  what  each  of  the 
two  contending  parties  really  means  to  say  or 
to  contradict  regarding  it.  Mysticism  is  a 
word  in  the  mouths  of  all :  yet,  of  the  hun- 
dred, perhaps  not  one  has  ever  asked  himself 
what  this  opprobrious  epithet  properly  signi- 
fied in  his  mind ;  or  where  the  boundary  be- 
tween true  Science  and  this  Land  of  Chimeras 
was  to  be  laid  down.  Examined  strictly,  mys- 
tical, in  most  cases,  will  turn  out  to  be  merely 
synonymous  with  not  understood.  Yet  surely 
there  may  be  haste  and  oversight  here  ;  for  it 
is  well  known,  that,  to  the  understanding  of 
any  thing,  <MJo  conditions  are  equally  required; 
intelligibility  in  the  thing  itself  being  no  whit 
more  indispensable  than  intelligence  in  the 
examiner  of  it.  "  I  am  bound  to  find-  you  in 
reasons,  Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "  but  not  in 
brains ;"  a  speech  of  the  most  shocking  un- 
politeness,  yet  truly  enough  expressing  the 
state  of  the  case. 

It  may  throw  some  light  on  this  question, 
if  we  remind  our  readers  of  the  following  fact. 
In  the  field  of  human  investigation,  there 
are  objects  of  two  sorts :  First,  the  visible,  in- 
cluding not  only  such  as  are  material,  and 
may  be  seen  by  the  bodily  eye;  but  all  such, 
likewise,  as  may  be  represented  in  a  shape, 
before  the  mind's  eye,  or  in  any  way  pictured 
there :  And,  secondly,  the  invisible,  or  such  as 
are  not  only  unseen  by  human  eyes,  but  as 
cannot  be  seen  by  any  eye;  not  objects  of 
sense  at  all ;  not  capable,  in  short,  of  being 
pictured  or  imaged  in  the  mind,  or  in  any  way 
represented  by  a  shape  either  without  the  mind 


or  within  it.  If  any  man  shall  here  turn  upon 
us,  and  assert  that  there  are  no  such  invisible 
objects ;  that  whatever  cannot  be  so  pictured 
or  imagined  (meaning  imaged)  is  nothing,  and 
the  science  that  relates  to  it  nothing;  we  shall 
regret  the  circumstance.  We  shall  request 
him,  however,  to  consider  seriously  and  deeply 
within  himself  what  he  means  simply  by  these 
two  words,  God  and  his  own  Soul  ;  and 
whether  he  finds  that  visible  shape  and  true 
existence  are  here  also  one  and  the  same? 
If  he  still  persist  in  denial,  we  have  nothing 
for  it,  but  to  wish  him  good  speed  on  his  own 
separate  path  of  inquiry;  and  he  and  we  will 
agree  to  differ  on  this  subject  of  mysticism, 
as  on  so  many  more  important  ones. 

Now,  whoever  has  a  material  and  visible 
object  to  treat,  be  it  of  natural  Science,  Politi- 
cal Philosophy,  or  any  such  externally  and 
sensibly  existing  department,  may  represent  it 
to  his  own  mind,  and  convey  it  to  the  minds 
of  others,  as  it  were,  by  a  direct  diagram,  more 
complex  indeed  than  a  geometrical  diagram, 
but  still  with  the  same  sort  of  precision ;  and 
provided  his  diagram  be  complete,  and  the  same 
both  to  himself  and  his  reader,  he  may  reason 
of  it,  and  discuss  it,  with  the  clearness,  and,  in 
some  sort,  the  certainty  of  geometry  itself.  If 
he  do  not  so  reason  of  it,  this  must  be  for  want 
of  comprehension  to  image  out  the  whole  of  it, 
or  of  distinctness  to  convey  the  same  whole  to 
his  reader:  the  diagrams  of  the  two  are  differ- 
ent; the  conclusions  of  the  one  diverge  from 
those  of  the  other,  and  the  obscurity  here,  pro- 
vided the  reader  be  a  man  of  sound  judgment 
and  due  attentiveness,  results  from  incapacity 
on  the  part  of  the  writer.  In  such  a  case,  the 
latter  is  justly  regarded  as  a  man  of  imperfect 
intellect;  he  grasps  more  than  he  can  carry; 
he  confuses  what,  with  ordinary  faculty,  might 
be  rendered  clear ;  he  is  not  a  mystic,  but,  what 
is  much  worse,  a  dunce.  Another  matter  it  is, 
however,  when  the  object  to  be  treated  of  be- 
longs to  the  invisible  and  immaterial  class; 
cannot  be  pictured  out  even  by  the  writer  him- 
self, much  less,  in  ordinary  symbols,  set  before 
the  reader.  In  this  case,  it  is  evident,  the  diffi- 
culties of  comprehension  are  increased  an 
hundred-fold.  Here  it  will  require  long,  pa- 
tient, and  skilful  effort,  both  from  the  writer 
and  the  reader,  before  the  two  can  so  much  as 
speak  together;  before  the  former  can  make 
known  to  the  latter,  not  //owthe  matter  stands, 
but  even  ivhat  the  matter  is,  which  they  have  to 
investigate  in  concert.  He  must  devise  new 
means  of  explanation,  describe  conditions  of 
mind  in  which  this  invisible  idea  arises,  the 
false  persuasions  that  eclipse  it,  the  false  shows 
that  may  be  mistaken  for  it,  the  glimpses  of  it 
that  appear  elsewhere ;  in  short,  strive  by  a 
thousand  well-devised  methods,  to  guide  his 
reader  up  to  the  perception  of  it;  in  all  which, 
moreover,  the  reader  must  faithfully  and  toil- 
somely co-operate  with  him,  if  any  fruit  is  to 
come  of  their  mutual  endeavour.  Should  the 
latter  take  up  his  ground  too  early,  and  affirm 
to  himself  that  now  he  has  seized  what  he  still 
has  not  seized;  that  this  and  nothing  else  is 
the  thing  aimed  at  by  his  teacher,  the  conse- 
quences are  plain  enough  :  disunion,  darkness, 
and  contradiction  between  the  two ;  the  writer 


STATE  OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


31 


has  written  for  another  man,  and  this  reader, 
after  long  provocation,  quarrels  with  him 
finally,  and  quits  him  as  a  mystic. 

Nevertheless,  after  all  these  limitations,  we 
shall  not  hesitate  to  admit,  that  there  is  in  the 
German  mind  a  tendency  to  mysticism,  pro- 
perly so  called;  as  perhaps  there  is,  unless 
carefully  guarded  against,  in  all  minds  tem- 
pered like  theirs.  It  is  a  fault;  but  one  hardly 
separable  from  the  excellencies  we  admire 
most  in  them.  A  simple,  tender,  and  devout 
nature,  seized  by  some  touch  of  divine  Truth, 
and  of  this  perhaps  under  some  rude  enough 
symbol,  is  wrapt  with  it  into  a  whirlwind  of 
unutterable  thoughts;  wild  gleams  of  splendour 
dart  to  and  fro  in  the  eye  of  the  seer,  but  the 
vision  will  not  abide  with  him,  and  yet  he  feels 
that  its  light  is  light  from  heaven,  and  precious 
to  him  beyond  all  price.  A  simple  nature,  a 
George  Fox,  or  a  Jacob  Boehme,  ignorant  of 
all  the  ways  of  men,  of  the  dialect  in  which 
they  speak,  or  the  forms  by  which  they  think, 
is  labouring  with  a  poetic,  a  religious  idea, 
which,  like  all  such  ideas,  must  express  itself 
by  word  and  act,  or  consume  the  heart  it  dwells 
in.  Yet  how  shall  he  speak,  how  shall  he  pour 
forth  into  other  souls,  that  of  which  his  own 
soul  is  full  even  to  bursting  1  He  cannot 
speak  to  us ;  he  knows  not  our  state,  and  can- 
not make  known  to  us  his  own.  His  words 
are  an  inexplicable  rhapsody,  a  speech  in  an 
unknown  tongue.  Whether  there  is  meaning 
in  it  to  the  speaker  himself,  and  how  much  or 
how  true,  we  shall  never  ascertain ;  for  it  is 
not  in  the  language  of  men,  but  of  one  man 
who  had  not  learned  the  language  of  men ;  and, 
with  himself,  the  key  to  its  full  interpretation  was 
lost  from  amongst  us.  These  are  mystics ;  men 
who  either  know  not  clearly  their  own  mean- 
ing, or  at  least  cannot  put  it  forth  in  formulas 
of  thought,  whereby  others,  with  whatever  diffi- 
culty, may  apprehend  it.  Was  their  meaning 
clear  to  themselves,  gleams  of  it  will  yet 
shine  through,  how  ignorantly  and  unconsci- 
ously soever  it  may  have  been  delivered;  was 
it  still  wavering  and  obscure,  no  science  could 
have  delivered  it  wisely.  In  either  case,  much 
more  in  the  last,  they  merit  and  obtain  the 
name  of  mystics.  To  scoffers  they  are  a  ready 
and  cheap  prey  ;  but  sober  persons  understand 
that  pure  evil  is  as  unknown  in  this  lower 
Universe  as  pure  good ;  and  that  even  in  mys- 
tics, of  an  honest  and  deep-feeling  heart,  there 
may  be  much  to  reverence,  and  of  the  rest 
more  to  pity  than  to  mock. 

But  it  is  not  to  apologize  for  Boehme,  or 
Novalis,  or  the  school  of  Theosophus  and 
Flood,  that  we  have  here  undertaken.  Neither 
is  it  on  such  persons  that  the  charge  of  mys- 
ticism brought  against  the  Germans  mainly 
rests.  Boehme  is  little  known  among  us ; 
Novalis,  much  as  he  deserves  knowing,  not  at 
all;  nor  is  it  understood,  that,  in  their  own 
country,  these  men  rank  higher  than  they  do, 
or  might  do,  with  ourselves.  The  chief  mys- 
tics in  Germany,  it  would  appear,  are  the 
Transcendental  Philosophers,  Kant,  Fichte, 
and  Schelling!  With  these  is  the  chosen  seat 
of  mysticism,  these  are  its  "tenebrific  constel- 
lation,'' from  which  it  "doth  ray  out  darkness" 
over   the  earth.    Among  a  certain   class   of 


thinkers,  does  a  frantic  exaggeration  in  senti- 
ment, a  crude  fever-dream  in  opinion,  any- 
where break  forth,  it  is  directly  labelled  as 
Kantism;  and  the  moon-struck  speculator  is, 
for  the  time,  silenced  and  put  to  shame  by  this 
epithet.  For  often,  in  such  circles,  Kant's 
Philosophy  is  not  only  an  absurdity,  but  a 
wickedness  and  a  horror ;  the  pious  and  peace- 
ful sage  of  Konigsberg  passes  for  a  sort  of 
Necromancer  and  Blackartist  in  Metaphysics  ; 
his  doctrine  is  a  region  of  boundless  baleful 
gloom,  too  cunningly  broken  here  and  there  by 
splendours  of  unholy  fire ;  spectres  and  tempt- 
ing demons  people  it;  and,  hovering  over 
fathomless  abysses,  hang  gay  and  gorgeous 
air-castles,  into  which  the  hapless  traveller  is 
seduced  to  enter,  and  so  sinks  to  rise  no  more. 
If  any  thing  in  the  history  of  Philosophy 
could  surprise  us,  it  might  well  be  this.  Per- 
haps among  all  the  metaphysical  writers  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  including  Hume  and 
Hartley  themselves,  there  is  not  one  that  so 
ill  meets  the  conditions  of  a  mystic  as  this 
same  Immanuel  Kant.  A  quit,  vigilant,  clear- 
sighted man,  who  had  become  distinguished  to 
the  world  in  mathematics  before  he  attempted 
philosophy;  who,  in  his  writings  generally, on 
this  and  other  subjects,  is  perhaps  character- 
ized by  no  quality  so  much  as  precisely  by  the 
distinctness  of  his  conceptions,  and  the  se- 
quence and  iron  strictness  with  which  he 
reasons.  To  our  own  minds,  in  the  little  that  we 
know  of  him,  he  has  more  than  once  recalled 
Father  Boscovich  in  Natural  Philosophy ;  so 
piercing,  yet  so  sure ;  so  concise,  so  still,  so 
simple ;  with  such  clearness  and  composure 
does  he  mould  the  complicacy  of  his  subject; 
and  so  firm,  sharp,  and  definite  are  the  results 
he  evolves  from  it.*  Right  or  wrong  as  his 
hypothesis  may  be,  no  one  that  knows  him  will 
suspect  that  he  himself  had  not  seen  it,  and 
seen  over  it;  had  not  meditated  it  with  calm- 
ness and  deep  thought,  and  studied  throughout 
to  expound  it  with  scientific  rigor.  Neither,  as 
we  often  hear,  is  there  any  superhuman  faculty 
required  to  follow  him.  We  venture  to  assure 
such  of  our  readers  as  are  in  any  measure 
used  to  metaphysical  study,  that  the  Krilik  der 
reinen  Vernunft  is  by  no  means  the  hardest  task 
they  have  tried.  It  is  true,  there  is  an  unknown 
and  forbidding  terminology  to  be  mastered  ;  but 
is  not  this  the  case  also  with  Chemistry,  and 
Astronomy,  and  all  other  sciences  that  deserve 
the  name  of  science  1  It  is  true,  a  careless  or 
unprepared  reader  will  find  Kant's  writing  a 
riddle;  but  will  a  reader  of  this  sort  make 
much  of  Newton's  Principia,  or  D'Alembert's 
Calculus  of  Variations?  He  will  make  nothing 
of  them;  perhaps  less  than  nothing;  for  if  he 
trust  to  his  own  judgment,  he  will  pronounce 
them  madness.  Yet  if  the  Philosophy  of  Mind 
is  any  philosophy  at  all.  Physics  and  Mathe- 
matics must  be  plain  subjects  compared  with 
it.  But  these  latter  are  happy,  not  only  in  the 
fixedness  and  simplicity  of  their  methods,  but 
also  in  the  universal  acknowledgment  of  their 


*  We  have  heard  that  the  Latin  Translation  of  his 
works  is  unintelligible,  the  Translator  himself  not  hav- 
ing understood  it ;  also  that  Villers  is  no  safe  guide  in 
the  study  of  him.  Neither  Villers  nor  those  Latin  works 
are  known  to  us. 


32 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


claim  to  that  prior  and  continual  intensity  of 
application,  without  which  all  progress  in  any 
science  is  impossible ;  though  more  than  one 
may  be  attempted  without  it;  and  blamed,  be- 
cause without  it  they  will  yield  no  result. 

The  truth  is,  German  Philosophy  differs  not 
more  widely  from  ours  in  the  substance  of  its 
doctrines,  than  in  its  manner  of  communicat- 
ing them.  The  class  of  disquisitions,  named 
Kamin-Philosophie  (Parlor-fire  Philosophy)  in 
Germany,  is  there  held  in  little  estimation.  No 
right  treatise  on  any  thing,  it  is  believed,  least 
of  all  on  the  nature  of  the  human  mind,  can 
be  profitably  read,  unless  the  reader  himself 
co-operates  :  the  blessing  of  half-sleep  in  such 
cases  is  denied  him ;  he  must  be  alert,  and 
strain  every  faculty,  or  it  profits  nothing. 
Philosophy,  with  these  men,  pretends  to  be  a 
Science,  nay,  the  living  principle  and  soul  of 
all  Sciences,  and  niust  be  treated  and  studied 
scientifically,  or  not  studied  and  treated  at  all. 
Its  doctrines  should  be  present  with  every  cul- 
tivated writer ;  its  spirit  should  pervade  every 
piece  of  composition,  how  slight  or  popular 
soever;  but  to  treat  itself  popularly  would  be 
a  degradation  and  an  impossibility.  Philoso- 
phy dwells  aloft  in'the  Temple  of  Science,  the 
divinity  of  its  inmost  shrine  :  her  dictates  des- 
cend among  men,  but  she  herself  descends  not ; 
whoso  would  behold  her,  must  climb  with  long 
and  laborious  effort ;  nay,  still  linger  in  the 
forecourt,  till  manifold  trial  have  proved  him 
worthy  of  admission  into  the  interior  solem- 
nities. 

It  is  the  false  notion  prevalent  respecting  the 
objects  aimed  at,  and  the  purposed  manner  of 
attaining  them,  in  German  Philosophy,  that 
causes,  in  great  part,  this  disappointment  of 
our  attempts  to  study  it,  and  the  evil  report 
which  the  disappointed  naturally  enough  bring 
back  with  them.  Let  the  reader  believe  us, 
the  Critical  Philosophers,  whatever  they  may 
be,  are  no  mystics,  and  have  no  fellowship 
with  mystics.  What  a  mystic  is,  we  have  said 
above.  But  Kant,  Fichte,  and  Schelling,  are 
men  of  cool  judgment,  and  determinate  ener- 
getic character  ;  men  of  science  and  profound 
and  universal  investigation;  nowhere  does  the 
world,  in  all  its  bearings,  spiritual  or  material, 
theoretic  or  practical,  lie  pictured  in  clearer  or 
truer  colours,  than  in  such  heads  as  these. 
We  have  heard  Kant  estimated  as  a  spiritual 
brother  of  Boehme ;  as  justly  might  we  take 
Sir  Isaac  Newton  for  a  spiritual  brother  of 
Count  Swedenborg,  and  Laplace's  Mechanism 
of  the  Heavens  for  a  peristyle  to  the  Vision  of  the 
New  Jerusalem.  That  this  is  no  extravagant 
comparison,  we  appeal  to  any  man  acquainted 
with  any  single  volume  of  Kant's  writings. 
Neither,  though  Schelling's  system  differs  still 
more  widely  from  ours,  can  we  reckon  Schell- 
ing a  mystic.  He  is  a  man  evidently  of  deep 
insight  into  individual  things ;  speaks  wisely, 
and  reasons  with  the  nicest  accuracy,  on  all 
matters  where  we  understand  his  data.  Fairer 
might  it  be  in  us  to  say  that  we  had  not  yet 
appreciated  his  truth,  and  therefore  could  not 
appreciate  his  error.  But  above  all,  the  mysti- 
cism of  Fichte  might  astonish  us.  The  cold, 
colossal,  adamantine  spirit,  standing  erect  and 
clear,  like  a  Cato  Major  among  degenerate 


men  :  fit  to  have  been  the  teacher  of  the  Stoa, 
and  to  have  discoursed  of  Beauty  and  Virtue 
in  the  groves  of  Academe !  Our  reader  has 
seen  some  words  of  Fichte's :  are  these  like 
words  of  a  mystic  ?  We  state  Fichte's  cha- 
racter, as  it  is  known  and  admitted  by  men  of 
all  parties  among  the  Germans,  when  we  say 
that  so  robust  an  intellect,  a  soul  so  calm,  so 
lofty,  massive,  and  immovable,  has  not  mingled 
in  philosophical  discussion  since  the  time  of 
Luther.  We  figure  his  motionless  look,  had 
he  heard  this  charge  of  mysticism !  For  the 
man  rises  before  us,  amid  contradiction  and 
debate,  like  a  granite  mountain  amid  clouds 
and  wind.  Ridicule,  of  the  best  that  could  be 
commanded,  has  been  already  tried  against 
him;  but  it  could  not  avail.  What  was  the 
wit  of  a  thousand  wits  to  him?  The  cry  of  a 
thousand  choughs  assaulting  that  old  cliff'  of 
granite  :  seen  from  the  summit,  these,  as  they 
winged  the  midway  air,  showed  scarce  so 
gross  as  beetles,  and  their  cry  was  seldom 
even  audible.  Fichte's  opinions  may  be  true 
or  false  ;  but  his  character,  as  a  thinker,  can 
be  slightly  valued  only  by  such  as  know  it  ill ; 
and  as  a  man,  approved  by  action  and  suffer- 
ing, in  his  life  and  in  his  death,  he  ranks  with 
a  class  of  men  who  were  common  only  in 
better  ages  than  ours. 

The  Critical  Philosophy  has  been  regarded 
by  persons  of  approved  judgment,  and  nowise 
directly  implicated  in  the  furthering  of  it,  as 
distinctly  the  greatest  intellectual  achievement 
of  the  century  in  which  it  came  to  light.  Au- 
gust Wilhelm  Schlegel  has  stated  in  plain  terms 
his  belief,  that,  in  respect  of  its  probable  in- 
fluence on  the  moral  culture  ofEurope,it  stands 
on  a  line  with  the  Reformation.  We  mention 
Schlegel  as  a  man  whose  opinion  has  a  known 
value  among  ourselves.  But  the  worth  of 
Kant's  philosophy  is  not  to  be  gathered  from 
votes  alone.  The  noble  system  of  morality, 
the  purer  theology,  the  lofty  views  of  man's  na- 
ture derived  from  it;  nay,  perhaps,  the  very 
discussion  of  such  matters,  to  which  it  gave  so 
strong  an  impetus,  have  told  with  remarkable 
and  beneficial  influence  on  the  whole  spiritual 
character  of  Germany.  No  writer  of  any  im- 
portance in  that  country,  be  he  acquainted  or 
not  with  the  Critical  Philosophy,  but  breathes 
a  spirit  of  devoutness  and  elevation  more  or  less 
directly  drawn  from  it.  Such  men  as  Goethe 
and  Schiller  cannot  exist  without  effect  in  any 
literature  or  in  any  century :  but  if  one  circum- 
stance more  than  another  has  contributed  to 
forward  their  endeavours,  and  introduce  that 
higher  tone  into  the  literature  of  Germany,  it 
has  been  this  philosopical  system ;  to  which, 
in  wisely  believing  its  results,  or  even  in  wisely 
denying  them,  all  that  was  lofty  and  pure  in 
the  genius  of  poetry,  or  the  reason  of  man,  so 
readily  allied  itself. 

That  such  a  system  must  in  the  end  become 
known  among  ourselves,  as  it  is  already  be- 
coming known  in  France  and  Italy,  and  over 
all  Europe,  no  one  acquainted  in  any  measure 
with  the  character  of  this  matter,  and  the  cha- 
racter of  England,  will  hesitate  to  predict. 
Doubtless  it  will  be  studied  here,  and  by  heads 
adequate  to  do  it  justice :  it  will  be  investigated 
duly  and  thoroughl}',  and  settled  in  our  minds 


STATE  OP  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


on  the  footing  which  belongs  to  it,  and  where 
thenceforth  it  must  continue.  Respecting  the 
degrees  of  truth  and  efror  which  will  then  be 
found  to  exist  in  Kant's  system,  or  in  the  mo- 
difications it  has  since  received,  and  is  still  re- 
ceiving, we  desire  to  be  understood  as  making 
no  estimate,  and  little  qualified  to  make  any. 
We  would  have  it  studied  and  known,  on  ge- 
neral grounds;  because  even  the  errors  of  such 
men  are  instructive;  and  because,  without  a 
large  admixture  of  truth,  no  error  caw  exist  un- 
der such  combinations,  and  become  diflfused  so 
widely.  To  judge  of  it  we  pretend  not :  we  are 
still  inquirers  in  the  mere  outskirts  of  the  mat- 
ter; and  it  is  but  inquiry  that  we  wish  to  see 
promoted. 

Meanwhile,  as  an  advance  or  first  step  to- 
wards this,  we  may  state  something  of  what 
has  most  struck  ourselves  as  characterizing 
Kant's  system  ;  as  distinguishing  it  from  every 
other  known  to  us ;  and  chiefly  from  the  Me- 
taphysical philosophy  which  is  taught  in  Bri- 
tain, or  rather  which  ivas  taught ;  for,  on  look- 
ing round,  we  see  not  that  there  is  any  such 
Philosophy  in  existence  at  the  present  day.* 
The  Kantist,  in  direct  contradiction  to  Locke 
and  all  his  followers,  both  of  the  French,  and 
English  or  Scotch  school,  commences  from 
within,  and  proceeds  outwards ;  instead  of 
commencing  from  without,  and,  with  various 
precautions  and  hesitations,  endeavouring  to 
proceed  inwards.  The  ultimate  aim  of  all  Phi- 
losophy must  be  to  interpret  appearances, — 
from  the  given  symbol  to  ascertain  the  thing. 
Now  the  first  step  towards  this,  the  aim  of  what 
may  be  called  Primary  or  Critical  Philosophy, 
must  be  to  find  some  indubitable  principle;  to 
fix  ourselves  on  some  unchangeable  basis  :  to 
discover  what  the  Germans  call  the  Urwahr, 
the  Primitive  Truth,  the  necessarily,  absolute- 
ly, and  eternally  True.  This  necessarily  True, 
this  absolute  basis  of  Truth,  Locke  silently, 
and  Reid  and  his  followers  with  more  tumult, 
find  in  a  certain  modified  Experience,  and  evi- 
dence of  Sense,  in  the  universal  and  natural 
persuasions  of  all  men.  Not  so  the  Germans  : 
they  deny  that  there  is  here  any  absolute  Truth, 


♦  The  name  of  Dugald  Stewart  is  a  name  venerable 
to  all  Europe,  and  to  none  more  dear  and  venerable  than 
to  ourselves.  Nevertheless  his  writings  are  not  a  phi- 
losophy, but  a  making  ready  for  one.  He  does  not  enter 
on  the  field  to  till  it,  he  only  encompasses  it  with  fences, 
invites  cultivators,  and  drives  away  intruders  ;  often 
(fallen  on  evil  days)  he'is  reduced  to  long  arguments 
with  passers  by,  to  prove  that  it  is  a  field,  that  this  so 
highly  prized  domain  of  his  is,  in  truth,  soil  and  sub- 
stance, not  clouds  and  shadow.  We  regard  his  discus- 
sions on  the  nature  of  philosophic  Language,  and  his  un- 
wearied eiforts  to  set  forth  and  guard  against  its  fallacies, 
as  worthy  of  all  acknowledgment ;  as  indeed  forming 
the  greatest,  perhaps  the  only  true  improvement,  which 
Philosophy  has  received  among  us  in  our  age.  It  is  only 
to  a  superficial  observer  that  the  import  of  these  discus- 
sions can  seem  trivial  :  rightly  understood  they  give  suf- 
ficient and  final  answer  to  Hartley's  and  Darwin's  and 
all  other  possible  forms  of  Materialism,  the  grand  Idola- 
try, as  we  may  rightly  call  it,  by  which,  in  all  times,  the 
true  Worship,  that  nf  the  invisible,  has  been  polluted 
and  withstood.  Mr.  Stewart  has  written  warmly  against 
Kant ;  but  it  would  surprise  him  to  find  how  much  of  a 
Kantist  he  himself  essentially  is.  Has  not  the  whole 
scope  of  his  laboiirs  been  to  reconcile  what  a  Kantist 
would  call  his  Understanding  with  his  Reason  ;  a  noble, 
but  still  too  fruitless  eflTort  to  overarch  the  chasm 
which,  for  all  minds  but  his  own,  separates  his  Science 
from  his  Religion  1  We  regard  the  assiduous  study  of 
his  Works,  as  the  best  preparation  of  studying  those  of 
Kant. 


or  that  any  Philosophy  whatever  can  be  built 
on  such  a  basis ;  nay,  they  go  the  length 
of  asserting,  that  such  an  appeal  even  to  the 
universal  persuasions  of  mankind,  gather  them 
with  what  precautions  you  may,  amounts  to  a 
total  abdication  of  Philosophy,  strictly  so  called, 
and  renders  not  only  its  further  progress,  but 
its  very  existence,  impossible.  What,  they 
would  say,  have  the  persuasions,  or  instinc- 
tive beliefs,  or  whatever  they  are  called,  of  men, 
to  do  in  this  matter?  Is  it  not  the  object  of 
Philosophy  to  enlighten,  and  rectify,  and  many 
times  directly  contradict  these  very  beliefs. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  voice  of  all  generations 
of  men  on  the  subject  of  Astronomy.  Will 
there,  out  of  any  age  or  climate,  be  one  dissen- 
tient against  the /art  of  the  Sun's  going  round 
the  Earth?  Can  any  evidence  be  clearer,  is 
there  any  persuasion  more  universal,  any  be- 
lief more  instinctive  1  And  yet  the  sun  moves 
no  hairsbreadth ;  but  stands  in  the  centre  of  his 
Planets,  let  us  vote  as  we  please.  So  is  it  like- 
wise with  our  evidence  for  an  external  inde- 
pendent existence  of  Matter,  and,  in  general, 
with  our  whole  argument  against  Hume; 
whose  reasonings,  from  the  premises  admitted 
both  by  him  and  us,  the  Germans  aflirm  to  be 
rigorously  consistent  and  legitimate,  and,  on 
these  premises,  altogether  uncontroverted  and 
incontrovertible.  British  Philosophy,  since  the 
time  of  Hume,  appears  to  them  nothing  more 
than  a  "laborious  and  unsuccessful  striving 
to  build  dike  after  dike  in  front  of  our  Churches 
and  Judgment-halls,  and  so  turn  back  from 
them  the  deluge  of  Skepticism,  with  which  that 
extraordinary  writer  overflowed  us,  and  still 
threatens  to  destroy  whatever  we  value  most." 
This  is  Schlegel's  meaning :  his  words  are  not 
before  us. 

The  Germans  take  up  the  matter  differently, 
and  would  assail  Hume,  not  in  his  outworks, 
but  in  the  centre  of  his  citadel.  They  deny 
his  first  principle,  that  Sense  is  the  only  inlet 
of  Knowledge,  that  Experience  is  the  primary 
ground  of  Belief.  Their  Primitive  Truth, 
however,  they  .seek,  not  historically  and  by 
experiment,  in  the  universal  persuasions  of 
men,  but  by  intuition,  in  the  deepest  and  purest 
nature  of  Man.  Instead  of  attempting,  which 
they  consider  vain,  to  prove  the  existence  of 
God,  Virtue,  an  immaterial  Soul,  by  inferences 
drawn,  as  the  conclusion  of  all  Philosophy,, 
from  the  world  of  sense,  they  find  these  things 
written  as  the  beginning  of  all  Philosophy,  in 
obscured  but  ineffaceable  characters,  within 
our  inmost  being;  and  themselves  first  afford- 
ing any  certainty  and  clear  meaning  to  that 
very  world  of  sense,  by  which  we  endeavour 
to  demonstrate  them.  God  t>,  nay,  alone  is, 
for  with  like- emphasis  we  cannot  say  that  any 
thing  else  is.  This  is  the  Absolute,  the  Primi- 
tively True,  which  the  philosopher  seeks. 
Endeavouring,  by  logical  argument,  to  prove 
the  existence  of  God,  a  Kantist  might  say, 
would  be  like  taking  out  a  candle  to  look  for 
the  sun  ;  nay,  gaze  steadily  into  your  candle- 
light, and  the  sun  himself  may  be  invisible.. 
To  open  the  inward  eye  to  the  sight  of  this 
Primitively  True ;  or,  rather,  we  might  call  it, 
to  clear  oif  the  Obscurations  of  sense,  which 
eclipse  this  truth  within  us,  so  that  we  may 


34 


CABLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


see  it,  and  believe  it  not  only  to  be  true,  but 
the  foundation  and  essence  of  all  other  truth, 
may,  in  such  language  as  we  are  here  using, 
be  said  to  be  the  problem  of  Critical  Phi- 
losophy. 

In  this  point  of  view,  Kant's  system  may 
be  thought  to  have  a  remote  affinity  to  those 
of  Malebranche  and  Descartes.  But  if  they 
in  some  measure  agree  as  to  their  aim,  there 
is  the  widest  difference  as  to  the  means. 
We  state  what  to  ourselves  has  long  appeared 
the  grand  characteristic  of  Kant's  Philosophy, 
when  we  mention  his  distinction,  seldom  per- 
haps expressed  so  broadly,  but  uniformly  im- 
plied, between  Understanding  and  Reason 
(Verstand  and  Vernunft).  To  most  of  our 
readers  this  may  seem  a  distinction  without  a 
difference;  nevertheless,  to  the  Kantists  it  is 
by  no  means  such.  They  believe  that  both 
Understanding  and  Reason  are  organs,  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  modes  of  operation,  by 
which  the  mind  discovers  truth;  but  they 
think  that  their  manner  of  proceeding  is  es- 
sentially different:  that  their  provinces  are 
separable  and  distinguishable,  nay,  that  it  is 
of  the  last  importance  to  separate  and  distin- 
guish them.  Reason,  the  Kantists  say,  is  of  a 
higher  nature  than  Understanding;  it  works 
by  more  subtle  methods,  on  higher  objects, 
and  requires  a  far  finer  culture  for  its  de- 
velopment, indeed  in  many  men  it  is  never 
developed  at  all;  but  its  results  are  no  less 
certain,  nay,  rather,  they  are  much  more  so ; 
for  Reason  discerns  Truth  itself,  the  absolutely 
and  primitively  True;  while  Understanding 
discerns  only  relations,  and  cannot  decide  with- 
out if.  The  proper  province  of  Understand- 
ing is  all,  strictly  speaking,  rea/,  practical,  and 
material  knowledge,  Mathematics,  Physics, 
Political  Economy,  the  adaptation  of  means 
to  ends  in  the  whole  business  of  life.  In  this 
province  it  is  the  strength  and  universal  im- 
plement of  the  mind:  an  indispensable  ser- 
vant, without  which,  indeed,  existence  itself 
would  be  impossible.  Let  it  not  step  beyond 
this  province,  however,  not  usurp  the  province 
of  Reason,  which  it  is  appointed  to  obej'^,  and 
cannot  rule  over  without  ruin  to  the  whole 
spiritual  man.  Should  Understanding  attempt 
to  prove  the  existence  of  God,  it  ends,  if 
thorough-going  and  consistent  with  itself,  in 
Atheism,  or  a  faint  possible  Theism,  which 
scarcely  differs  from  this  :  should  it  speculate 
of  Virtue,  it  ends  in  Utility,  making  Prudence 
and  a  sufficiently  cunning  love  of  Self  the 
highest  good.  Consult  Understanding  about 
the  Beauty  of  Poetry,  and  it  asks,  where  is 
this  Beauty?  or  discovers  it  at  length  in 
rhythms  and  fitnesses,  and  male  and  female 
rhymes.  Witness  also  its  everlasting  para- 
doxes on  Necessity  and  the  Freedom  of  the 
Will ;  its  ominous  silence  on  the  end  and 
meaning  of  man;  and  the  enigma  which, 
under  such  inspection,  the  whole  purport  of 
existence  becomes. 

Nevertheless,  say  the  Kantists,  there  is  a 
truth  in  these  things.  Virtue  is  Virtue,  and 
not  prudence ;  not  less  surely  than  the  angle 
in  a  semicircle  is  a  right  angle,  and  no  trape- 
zium :  Shakspeare  is  a  Poet,  and  Boileau  is 
none,  think  of  it  as  you  may :   Neither  is  it 


more  certain  that  I  myself  exist,  than  that  God 
exists,  infinite,  eternal,  invisible,  the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and'  for  ever.  To  discern 
these  truths  is  the  province  of  Reason,  which 
therefore  is  to  be  cultivated  as  the  highest 
faculty  in  man.  Not  by  logic  and  argument 
does  it  work;  yet  surely  and  clearly  may  it 
be  taught  to  work :  and  its  domain  lies  in  that 
higher  region  whither  logic  and  argument 
cannot  reach;  in  that  holier  region,  where 
Poetry,  and  Virtue,  and  Divinity  abide,  in 
whose  presence  Understanding  wavers  and 
recoils,  dazzled  into  utter  darkness  by  that 
"sea  of  light,"  at  once  the  fountain  and  the 
termination  of  all  true  knowledge. 

Will  the  Kantists  forgive  us  for  the  loose 
and  popular  manner  in  which  we  must  here 
speak  of  these  things,  to  bring  them  in  any 
measure  before  the  eyes  of  our  readers? — It 
may  illustrate  this  distinction  still  farther,  if 
we  say,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  a  Kantist,  the 
French  are  of  all  European  nations  the  moat 
gifted  with  Understanding,  and  the  most  desti 
tute  of  Reason  ;*  that  David  Hume  had  no 
forecast  of  this  latter,  and  that  Shakspeare 
and  Luther  dwelt  perennially  in  its  purest 
sphere. 

Of  the  vast,  nay,  in  these  days  boundless, 
importance  of  this  distinction,  could  it  be 
scientifically  established,  we  need  remind  no 
thinking  man.  For  the  rest,  far  be  it  from  the 
reader  to  suppose  that  this  same  Reason  is 
but  a  new  appearance,  under  another  name, 
of  our  own  old  "  Wholesome  Prejudice,"  so 
well  known  to  most  of  us  !  Prejudice,  whole- 
some or  unwholesome,  is  a  personage  for 
whom  the  German  Philosophers  disclaim  all 
shadow  of  respect;  nor  do  the  vehement 
among  them  hide  their  deep  disdain  for  all 
and  sundry  who  fight  under  her  flag.  Truth 
is  to  be  loved  purely  and  solely  because  it  is 
true.  With  moral,  political,  religious  con- 
siderations, high  and  dear  as  they  may  other- 
wise be,  the  Philosopher,  as  such,  has  no  con- 
cern. To  look  at  them  would  but  perplex  him, 
and  distract  his  vision  from  the  task  in  his 
hands.  Calmly  he  constructs  his  theorem,  as 
the  Geometer  does  his,  without  hope  or  fear, 
save  that  he  may  or  may  not  find  the  solution  ; 
and  stands  in  the  middle,  by  the  one,  it  maybe, 
accused  as  an  Infidel,  by  the  other  as  an  Enthu- 
siast and  a  Mystic,  till  the  tumult  ceases,  and 
what  was  true  is  and  continues  true  to  the  end 
of  all  time. 

Such  are  some  of  the  high  and  momentous 
questions  treated  of,  by  calm,  earnest,  and 
deeply  meditative  men,  in  this  system  of  Phi- 
losophy, which  to  the  wiser  minds  among  us 
is  still  unknown,  and  by  the  unwiser  is  spoken 
of  and  regarded  as  their  nature  requires.  The 
profoundness,  subtilty,  extent  of  invpstigation, 
which  the  answer  of  these  questions  presup- 
poses, need  not  be  farther  pointed  out.  With 
the  truth  or  falsehood  of  the  system,  we  have 
here,  as  already  stated,  no  concern  ;  our  aim 
has  been,  so  far  as  might  be  done,  to  show  it  as 
it  appeared  to  us  ;  and  to  ask  such  of  our  read- 
ers as  pursue  these  studies,  whether  this  also 


*  Schelling  has  said  as  much  or  more,  (Methode  des 
Academischcn  Studiain,  pp.  105 — 111,)  in  terms  which  we 
could  wish  we  had  space  to  transcribe. 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


35 


is  not  worthy  of  some  study.    The  reply  we 
must  now  leave  to  themselves. 

As  an  appendage  to  the  charge  of  Mysticism 
brought  against  the  Germans,  there  is  often 
added  the  seemingly  incongruous  one  of  Irre- 
ligion.  On  this  point  also  we  had  much  to 
say ;  but  must  for  the  present  decline  it.  Mean- 
while, let  the  reader  be  assured,  that  to  the 
charge  of  Irreligion,  as  to  so  many  others,  the 
Germans  will  plead  not  guilty.  On  the  contra- 
ry, they  will  not  scruple  to  assert  that  their  lite- 
rature is,  in  a  positive  sense,  religious ;  nay, 
perhaps  to  maintain,  that  if  ever  neighbouring 
nations  are  to  recover  that  pure  and  high  spirit 
of  devotion,  the  loss  of  which,  however  we  may 
disguise  it  or  pretend  to  overlook  it,  can  be 
hidden  from  no  observant  mind,  it  must  be  by 
travelling,  if  not  on  the  same  path,  at  least  in 
the  same  direction,  in  which  the  Germans  have 
already  begun  to  travel.  We  shall  add,  that 
the  Religion  of  Germany  is  a  subject  not  for 
slight  but  for  deep  study,  and,  if  we  mistake 
not,  may  in  some  degree  reward  the  deepest. 

Here,  however,  we  must  close  our  examina- 
tion or  defence.  We  have  spoken  freely,  be- 
cause we  felt  distinctly,  and  thought  the  matter 
worthy  of  being  stated,  and  more  fully  inquired 
into.  Farther  than  this,  we  have  no  quarrel 
for  the  Germans ;  we  would  have  justice  done 
them,  as  to  all  men  and  all  things ;  but  for  their 
literature  or  character  we  profess  no  sectarian 
or  exclusive  preference.  We  think  their  re- 
cent Poetry,  indeed,  superior  to  the  recent 
Poetry  of  any  other  nation;  but  taken  as  a 
whole,  inferior  to  that  of  several;  inferior  not 
to  our  own  only,  but  to  that  of  Italy,  nay,  per- 
haps to  that  of  Spain.  Their  Philosophy,  too, 
must  still  be  regarded  as  uncertain;  at  best 
only  the  beginning  of  better  things.  But  surely 
even  this  is  not  to  be  neglected.  A  little  light 
is  precious  in  great  darkness :  nor,  amid  the 
myriads  of  Poetasters  and  Philosophes,  are  Poets 
and  Philosophers  so  numerous  that  we  should 
reject  such,  when  they  speak  to  us  in  the  hard, 
but  manly,  deep,  and  expressive  tones  of  that 


old  Saxon  speech,  which  is  also  our  mother- 
tongue. 

We  confess  the  present  aspect  of  spiritual 
Europe  might  fill  a  melancholic  observer  with 
doubt  and  foreboding.  It  is  mournful  to  see  so 
many  noble,  tender,  and  high-aspiring  minds 
deserted  of  that  religious  light  which  once 
guided  all  such:  standing  sorrowful  on  the 
scene  of  past  convulsions  and  controversies,  as 
on  a  scene  blackened  and  burnt  up  with  fire ; 
mourning  in  the  darkness,  because  there  is  de- 
solation, and  no  home  for  the  soul ;  or  what  is 
worse,  pitching  tents  among  the  ashes,  and 
kindling  weak  earthly  lamps  which  we  are  to 
take  for  stars.  This  darkness  is  but  transitory 
obscuration  ;  these  ashes  are  the  soil  of  future 
herbage  and  richer  harvests.  Religion,  Poetry, 
is  not  dead;  it  will  never  die.  Its  dwelling 
and  birthplace  is  in  the  soul  of  man,  and  it  is 
eternal  as  the  being  of  man.  In  any  point  of 
Space,  in  any  section  of  Time,  let  there  be  a 
living  Man:  and  there  is  an  Infinitude  above 
him  and  beneath  him,  and  an  eternity  encom- 
passes him  on  this  hand  and  on  that ;  and  tones 
of  Sphere-music,  and  tidings  from  loftier 
worlds,  will  flit  round  him,  if  he  can  but  listen, 
and  visit  him  with  holy  influences,  even  in  the 
thickest  press  of  trivialities,  or  th^din  of  busiest 
life.  Happjr  the  man,  happy  the  nation  that 
can  hear  the'se  tidings ;  that  has  them  written  in 
fit  characters,  legible  to  every  eye,  and  the  so- 
lemn import  of  them  present  at  all  moments  to 
every  heart !  That  there  is,  in  these  days,  no 
nation  so  happy,  is  too  clear;  but  that  all  na- 
tions, and  ourselves  in  the  van,  are,  with  more 
or  less  discernment  of  its  nature,  struggling 
towards  this  happiness,  is  the  hope  and  the 
glory  of  our  time.  To  us,  as  to  others,  success, 
at  a  distant  or  a  nearer  day,  cannot  be  uncer- 
tain. Meanwhile,  the  first  condition  of  success 
is,  that,  in  striving  honestly  ourselves,  we  ho- 
nestly acknowledge  the  striving  of  our  neigh- 
bour ;  that  with  a  Will  unwearied  in  seeking 
Truth,  we  have  a  Sense  open  for  it,  whereso- 
ever and  howsoever  it  may  arise. 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


[Foreign  Review,  182S.] 


If  the  charm  of  fame  consisted,  as  Horace 
has  mistakenly  declared,  "  in  being  pointed  at 

*  1.  Lebens-Mriss  Friedrich  Ludrcig  ZachariasWerners . 
Von  dem  Heraus/reher  von  Hoffmanns  Lehan  vnd  JVach- 
lass.)  Sketch  of  the  Life  of  Frederic  Liidwi?  Zacharias 
Wernert  By  the  Editor  of  "  Hoffmann's  Life  and  Re- 
mains.")    Berlin,  1823. 

2.  Die  SoliJie  dcs  Thais.  (The  Sons  of  the  Valley.) 
A  Dramatic  Poem.  Part  1.  Die  Templcr  auf  Cypern. 
(The  Templars  in  Cyprus.)  Part  IL  Die  Kreuzesbrilder. 
(The  Brethren  of  the  Cross.)  Berlin,  1801,  1802. 

3.  Das  Kreui  an  der  Ostsee,  (The  Cross  on  the  Baltic  ) 
A  Tragedy.    Berlin,  1806. 

4.  Martin  Luther,  oder  Die  Weihe  der  Kraft.  (Martin 
Luther,  or  the  Consecration  of  Strength.)  A  Trairedy 
Berlin,  1807. 

5.  Die  Mutter  der  Makkah&er.  (The  Mother  of  the 
Maccabees.)  A  Tragedy.    Vienna,  1820. 


with  the  finger,  and  having  it  said.  This  is  he!" 
few  writers  of  the  present  age  could  boast  of 
more  fame  than  Werner.  It  has  been  the  un- 
happy fortune  of  this  man  to  stand  for  a  long 
period  incessantly  before  the  world,  in  a  far 
stronger  light  than  naturally  belonged  to  him, 
or  could  exhibit  him  to  advantage.  Twenty 
years  ago  he  was  a  man  of  considerable  note, 
which  has  ever  since  been  degenerating  into 
notoriety.  The  mystic  dramatist,  the  skepti- 
cal etithusiast,  was  known  and  partly  esteemed 
by  all  students  of  poetry ;  Madame  de  Stael, 
we  recollect,  allows  him  an  entire  chapter  in 
her  "  Allemagne."  It  was  a  much  coarser  cu- 
riosity, and  in  a  much  wider  circle,  which  the 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


dissipated  man,  by  successive  indecorums,  oc- 
casioned; till  at  last  the  convert  to  Popery,  the 
preaching  zealot,  came  to  figure  in  all  news- 
papers ;  and  some  picture  of  him  was  required 
for  all  heads  that  would  not  sit  blank  and  mute 
in  the  topic  of  every  coffeehouse  and  cesthetic 
tea.  In  dim  heads,  that  is,  in  the  great  majo- 
rity, the  picture  was,  of  course,  perverted  into 
a  strange  bugbear,  and  the  original  decisively 
enough  condemned;  but  even  the  few,  who 
might  see  him  in  his  true  shape,  felt  too  well 
that  nothing  loud  could  be  said  in  his  behalf; 
that,  with  so  many  mournful  blemishes,  if  ex- 
tenuation could  not  avail,  no  complete  defence 
was  to  be  attempted. 

At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  the  history  of  a 
mere  literary  profligate  that  we  have  here  to  do 
with.  Of  men  whom  fine  talents  cannot  teach 
the  humblest  prudence,  whose  high  feeling, 
unexpressed  in  noble  action,  must  lie  smould- 
ering with  baser  admixtures  in  their  own 
bosom,  till  their  existence,  assaulted  from 
without  and  from  within,  becomes  a  burnt  and 
blackened  ruin,  to  be  sighed  over  by  the  few, 
and  stared  at,  or  trampled  on,  by  the  many, — 
there  is  unhappily  no  want  in  any  country; 
nor  can  the  unnatural  union  of  genius  with 
depravity  and  degradation  have  such  charms 
for  our  readers,  that  we  should  gj)  abroad  in 
quest  of  it,  or  in  any  case  to  dwell  on  it,  other- 
wise than  with  reluctance.  Werner  is  some- 
thing more  than  this  :  a  gifted  spirit,  struggling 
earnestly  amid  the  new,  complex,  tumultuous 
influences  of  his  time  and  country,  but  without 
force  to  body  himself  forth  from  amongst  them; 
a  keen  adventurous  swimmer,  aiming  towards 
high  and  distant  landmarks,  but  too  weakly  in 
so  rough  a  sea,  for  the  currents  drive  him  far 
astray,  and  he  sinks  at  last  in  the  waves,  at- 
taining little  for  himsel.'',  and  leaving  little, 
save  the  memory  of  his  failure,  to  others.  A 
glance  over  his  history  may  not  be  unprofita- 
ble ;  if  the  man  himself  can  less  interest  us, 
the  ocean  of  German,  of  European  Opinion, 
still  rolls  in  wild  eddies  to  and  fro ;  and  with 
its  movements  and  refluxes,  indicated  in  the 
history  of  such  men,  every  one  of  us  is  con- 
cerned. 

Our  materials  for  this  survey  are  deficient, 
not  so  much  in  quantity  as  quality.  The  "Life," 
now  known  to  be  by  Hitzig  of  Berlin,  seems  a 
very  honest,  unpresuming  performance;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  much  too  fragmentary 
and  discursive  for  our  wants  ;  the  features  of 
the  man  are  nowhere  united  into  a  portrait, 
but  left  for  the  reader  to  unite  as  he  may ;  a 
task  which,  to  most  readers,  will  be  hard 
enough :  for  the  work,  short  in  compass,  is 
more  than  proportionally  short  in  details  of 
facts;  and  Werner's  history,  much  as  an  in- 
timate friend  must  have  known  of  it,  still  lies 
before  us,  in  great  part,  dark  and  unintelligible. 
For  what  he  has  done  we  should  doubtless 
thank  our  Author;  yet  it  seems  a  pity,  that,  in 
this  instance,  he  had  not  done  more  and  better. 
A  singular  chance  made  him,  at  the  same  time, 
companion  of  both  Hoffmann  and  Werner, 
perhaps  the  two  most  showy,  heterogeneous, 
and  misinterpretable  writers  of  his  day ;  nor 
shall  we  deny,  that,  in  performing  a  friend's 
duty  to  their  memory,  he  has  done  truth  also  a 


service.  His  "  Life  of  Hoffmann,"  pretending 
to  no  artfulness  of  arrangement,  is  redundant, 
rather  than  defective, in  minuteness;  but  there, 
at  least,  the  means  of  a  correct  judgment  are 
brought  within  our  reach,  and  the  work,  as 
usual  with  Hitzig,  bears  marks  of  the  utmost 
fairness  ;  and  of  an  accuracy  which  we  might 
almost  call  professional :  for  the  author,  it 
would  seem,  is  a  legal  functionary  of  long 
standing,  and  now  of  respectable  rank ;  and 
he  examines  and  records,  with  a  certain  notarial 
strictness  too  rare  in  compilations  of  this  sort. 
So  far  as  Hoffmann  is  concerned,  therefore, 
we  have  reason  to  be  satisfied.  In  regard  to 
Werner,  however,  we  cannot  say  so  much: 
here  we  should  certainly  have  wished  for  more 
facts,  though  it  had  been  with  fewer  conse- 
quences drawn  from  them  ;  were  these  some- 
what chaotic  expositions  of  Werner's  charac- 
ter exchanged  for  simple  particulars  of  his  walk 
and  conversation,  the  result  would  be  much 
surer,  and,  especially  to  foreigners,  much  more 
complete  and  luminous.  As  it  is,  from  repeated 
perusals  of  this  biography,  we  have  failed 
to  gather  any  very  clear  notion  of  the  man ; 
nor  with,  perhaps,  more  study  of  his  writings 
than,  on  other  grounds,  they  might  have  mer- 
ited, does  his  manner  of  existence  still  stand 
out  to  us  with  that  distinct  cohesion  which 
puts  an  end  to  doubt.  Our  view  of  him  the 
reader  will  accept  as  an  approximation,  and  be 
content  to  wonder  with  us,  and  charitably  pause 
where  we  cannot  altogether  interpret. 

Werner  was  born  at  Konigsberg,  in  East 
Prussia,  on  the  18th  of  November,  1768.  His 
father  was  Professor  of  History  and  Eloquence 
in  the  University  there;  and  further,  in  virtue 
of  this  ofllice.  Dramatic  Censor,  which  latter 
circumstance  procured  young  Werner  almost 
daily  opportunity  of  visiting  the  theatre,  and 
so  gave  him,  as  he  says,  a  greater  acquaint- 
ance with  the  mechanism  of  the  stage  than 
even  most  players  are  possessed  of.  A  strong 
taste  for  the  drama  it  probably  enough  gave 
him ;  but  this  skill  in  stage  mechanism  may 
be  questioned,  for  often  in  his  own  plays  no 
such  skill,  but  rather  the  want  of  it,  is  evinced. 

The  Professor  and  Censor,  of  whom  we  hear 
nothing  in  blame  or  praise,  died  in  the  four- 
teenth year  of  his  son,  and  the  boy  now  fell  to 
the  sole  charge  of  his  mother,  a  woman  whom 
he  seems  to  have  loved  warmly,  but  whose 
guardianship  could  scarcely  be  the  best  for 
him.  Werner  himself  speaks  of  her  in  earnest 
commendation,  as  of  a  pure,  high-minded,  and 
heavily-afflicted  being.  Hoffmann,  however, 
adds,  that  she  was  hypochondriacal,  and  gen- 
erally quite  delirious,  imagining  herself  to  be 
the  Virgin  Mary,  and  her  son  to  be  the  promised 
Shiloh !  Hoffmann  had  opportunity  enough 
of  knowing ;  for  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  these 
two  singular  persons  were  brought  up»  under 
the  same  roof,  though,  at  this  time,  by  reason 
of  their  difference  of  age,  Werner  being  eight 
years  older,  they  had  little  or  no  acquaintance. 
What  a  nervous  and  melancholic  parent  was, 
Hoffmann,  by  another  unhappy  coincidence, 
had  also  full  occasion  to  know :  his  own  mother 
parted  from  her  husband,  lay  helpless  and 
broken-hearted  for  the  last  seventeen  years  of 
her  life,  and  the  fiirst  seventeen  of  his ;  a  source 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


37 


of  painful  influences,  which  he  used  to  trace 
through  the  whole  of  his  own  character;  as  to 
the  like  cause  he  imputed  the  primary  perver- 
sion of  Werner's.  How  far  his  views  on  this 
point  were  accurate  or  exaggerated,  we  have 
no  means  of  judging. 

Of  Werner's  early  years  the  biographer  says 
little  or  nothing.  We  learn  only  that,  about 
the  usual  age,  he  matriculated  in  the  Konigs- 
herg  University,  intending  to  qualify  himself 
for  the  business  of  a  lawyer ;  and  with  his  pro- 
fessional studies  united,  or  attempted  to  unite, 
the  study  of  philosophy  under  Kant.  His 
college-life  is  characterized  by  a  single,  but  too 
expressive  word :  "  It  is  said,"  observes  Hitzig, 
**  to  have  been  very  dissolute."  His  progress 
in  metaphysics,  as  in  all  branches  of  learning, 
might  thus  be  expected  to  be  small ;  indeed, 
at  no  period  of  his  life  can  he,  even  in  the 
language  of  panegyric,  be  called  a  man  of  cul- 
ture or  solid  information  on  any  subject.  Never- 
theless, he  contrived,  in  his  twenty-first  year, 
to  publish  a  little  volume  of"  Poems,"  apparent- 
ly in  very  tolerable  magazine  metre,  and  after 
some  "  roamings"  over  Germany,  having  loiter- 
ed for  a  while  at  Berlin,  and  longer  at  Dresden, 
he  betook  himself  to  more  serious  business, 
applied  for  admittance  and  promotion  as  a 
Prussian  man  of  law;  the  employment  which 
young  jurists  look  for  in  that  country  being 
chiefly  in  the  hands  of  government:  consist- 
ing, indeed,  of  appointments  in  the  various 
judicial  or  administrative  Boards  by  which  the 
Provinces  are  managed.  In  1793,  Werner  ac- 
cordingly was  made  Kammcrsecretdr  (Exchequer 
Secretary ;)  a  subaltern  office,  which  he  held 
successively  in  several  stations,  and  last  and 
longest  in  Warsaw,  where  Hitzig,  a  young  man 
following  the  same  profession,  first  became  ac- 
quainted with  him  in  1799. 

What  the  purport  or  result  of  Werner's 
"roamings"  may  have  been, or  how  he  had  de- 
meaned himself  in  office  or  out  of  it,  we  are 
nowhere  informed;  but  it  is  an  ominous  cir- 
cumstance that,  even  at  this  period,  in  his 
thirtieth  year,  he  had  divorced  two  wives,  the 
last  at  least  by  mutual  consent,  and  was  look- 
ing out  for  a  third !  Hitzig,  with  whom  he 
seems  to  have  formed  a  prompt  and  close  in- 
timacy, gives  us  no  full  picture  of  him  under 
any  of  his  aspects :  yet  we  can  see,  that  his 
life,  as  naturally  it  might,  already  wore  some- 
what of  a  shattered  appearance  in  his  own 
eyes,  that  he  was  broken  in  character,  in  spirit, 
perhaps  in  bodily  constitution ;  and,  content- 
ing himself  with  the  transient  gratifications  of 
so  gay  a  city,  and  so  tolerable  an  appointment, 
had  renounced  all  steady  and  rational  hope 
either  of  being  happy  or  of  deserving  to  be  so. 
Of  unsteady  and  irrational  hopes,  however,  he 
had  still  abundance.  The  fine  enthusiasm  of 
his  nature,  undestroyed  by  so  many  external 
perplexities,  nay,  to  which,  perhaps,  these  very 
perplexities  had  given  fresh  and  undue  excite- 
ment, glowed  forth  in  strange  many-coloured 
brightness,  from  amid  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes, 
and  led  him  into  wild  worlds  of  speculation, 
the  more  vehemently,  that  the  real  world  of 
action  and  duty  had  become  so  unmanageable 
in  his  hands. 

Werner's  early  publication  had  sunk,  after  a 


brief  provincial  life,  into  merited  oblivion  ;  in 
fact,  he  had  then  only  been  a  rhymer,  and  was 
now,  for  the  first  time,  beginning  to  be  a  poet. 
We  have  one  of  those  youthful  pieces  tran- 
scribed in  this  volume,  and  certainly  it  exhibits 
a  curious  contrast  with  his  subsequent  writ- 
ings, both  in  form  and  spirit.  In  form,  because, 
unlike  the  first  fruits  of  a  genius,  it  is  cold  and 
correct:  while  his  later  works,  without  excep- 
tion, are  fervid,  extravagant,  and  full  of  gross 
blemishes.  In  spirit  no  less,  because,  treating 
of  his  favourite  theme,  Religion,  it  treats  of  it 
harshly  and  skeptically;  being,  indeed,  little 
more  than  a  metrical  version  of  common  Util- 
itarian Freethinking,  as  it  may  be  found 
(without  metre)  in  most  taverns  and  debating- 
societies.  Werner's  intermediate  secret  history 
might  form  a  strange  chapter  in  psychology : 
for  now,  it  is  clear,  his  French  skepticism  had 
got  overlaid  with  wondrous  theosophic  garni- 
ture; his  mind  was  full  of  visions  and  cloudy 
glories,  and  no  occupation  pleased  him  better 
than  to  controvert,  in  generous  inquiring  minds, 
that  very  unbelief  which  he  appears  to  haye 
once  entertained  in  his  own.  From  Hitzig's 
account  of  the  matter,  this  seems  to  have 
formed  the  strongest  link  of  his  intercourse 
with  Werner.  The  latter  was  his  senior  by  ten 
years  of  time,  and  by  more  than  ten  years  of 
unhappy  experience;  the  grand  questions  of 
Immortality,  ofFate,  Free-will,  Fore-knowledge 
absolute,  were  in  continual  agitation  between 
them ;  and  Hitzig  still  remembers  with  grati- 
tude these  earnest  warnings  against  irregular- 
ity of  life,  and  so  many  ardent  and  not  ineffec- 
tual endeavours  to  awaken  in  the  passionate 
temperament  of  youth  a  glow  of  purer  and  en- 
lightening fire. 

"Some  leagues  from  Warsaw,"  says  the 
Biographer,  "  enchantingly  embosomed  in  a 
thick  wood,  close  by  the  high  banks  of  the 
Vistula,  lies  the  Cameldulensian  Abbey  of 
Bielany,  inhabited  by  a  class  of  monks,  who  in 
strictness  of  discipline  yield  only  to  those  of 
La  Trappe.  To  this  cloistral  solitude  Werner 
was  wont  to  repair  with  his  friend,  every  fine 
Saturday  of  the  summer  of  1800,  so  soon  as 
their  occupations  in  the  city  were  over.  In 
defect  of  any  formal  inn,  the  two  used  to 
bivouac  in  the  forest,  or  at  best  to  sleep  under 
a  temporary  tent.  The  Sunday  was  then  spent 
in  the  open  air;  in  roving  about  the  woods; 
sailing  on  the  river,  and  the  like ;  till  late  night 
recalled  them  to  the  city.  On  such  occasions, 
the  younger  of  the  party  had  ample  room  to 
unfold  his  whole  heart  before  his  more  mature 
and  settled  companion ;  to  advance  his  doubts 
and  objections  against  many  theories,  which 
Werner  was  already  cherishing:  and  so,  by 
exciting  him  with  contradiction,  to  cause  him 
to  make  them  clearer  to  himself." 

Week  after  week,  these  discussions  were 
carefully  resumed  from  the  point  where  they 
had  been  left:  indeed,  to  Werner,  it  would 
seem,  this  controversy  had  unusual  attractions ; 
for  he  was  now  busy  composing  a  Poem,  inr 
tended  principally  to  convince  the  world  of 
those  very  truths  which  he  was  striving  to  im- 
press on  his  friend  ;  and  to  which  the  world,  as 
might  be  expected,  was  likely  to  give  a  similar 
reception.  The  character,  or  at  least  the  way 
D 


38 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  thought,  attributed  to  Robert  d'Heredon,  the 
Scottish  Templar,  in  the  Sons  of  the  Valley,  was 
borrowed,  it  appears,  as  if  by  regular  instal- 
ments, from  these  conferences  with  Hitzig;  the 
result  of  the  one  Sunday  being  duly  entered  in 
dramatic  form  during  the  week;  then  audited 
on  the  Sunday  following;  and  so  forming  the 
text  for  further  disquisition.  "Blissful  days," 
adds  Hitzig,  "pure  and  innocent,  which  doubt- 
less Werner  also  ever  held  in  pleased  remem- 
brance !" 

The  Soline  des  Thais,  composed  in  this  rather 
questionable  fashion,  was  in  due  time  forth- 
coming; the  First  Part  in  1801,  the  Second 
about  a  year  afterwards.  It  is  a  drama,  or 
rather  two  dramas,  unrivalled  at  least  in  one 
particular,  in  length;  each  Part  being  a  play 
of  six  acts,  and  the  whole  amounting  to  some- 
what more  than  eight  hundred  small  octavo 
pages !  To  attempt  any  analysis  of  such  a 
work  would  but  fatigue  our  readers  to  little 
purpose:  it  is,  as  might  be  anticipated,  of  a 
most  loose  and  formless  structure:  expanding 
on  all  sides  into  vague  boundlessness,  and,  on 
the  whole,  resembling  not  so  much  a  poem  as 
the  rude  materials  of  one.  The  subject  is  the 
destruction  of  the  Templar  Order;  an  event 
which  has  been  dramatized  more  than  once, 
but  on  which,  notwithstanding,  Werner,  we 
suppose,  may  boast  of  being  entirely  original. 
The  fate  of  Jacques  Molay,  and  his  brethren, 
acts  here  but  like  a  little  leaven ;  and  lucky 
were  we,  could  it  leaven  the  lump ;  but  it  lies 
buried  under  such  a  mass  of  Mystical  theology. 
Masonic  mummery.  Cabalistic  tradition,  and 
Rosicrucian  philosophy,  as  no  power  could 
work  into  dramatic  union.  The  incidents  are 
few,  and  of  little  interest ;  interrupted  contin- 
ually by  flaring  shows  and  long-winded  specu- 
lations; for  Werner's  besetting  sin,  that  of 
loquacity,  is  here  in  decided  action ;,  and  so  we 
wander,  in  aimless  windings,  through  scene 
after  scene  of  gorgeousness  or  gloom ;  till  at 
last  the  whole  rises  before  us  like  a  Avild  phan- 
tasmagoria; cloud  heaped  on  cloud,  painted 
indeed  here  and  there  with  prismatic  hues,  but 
representing  nothing,  or  at  least  not  the  subject, 
but  the  author. 

In  this  last  point  of  view,  however,  as  a  pic- 
ture of  himself,  independently  of  other  consid- 
erations, this  play  of  Werner's  may  still  have 
a  certain  value  for  us.  The  strange  chaotic 
nature  of  the  man  is  displayed  in  it:  his  skep- 
ticism and  theosophy ;  his  audacity,  yet  in- 
trinsic weakness  of  character;  his  baffled 
longings,  but  still  ardent  endeavours  after 
Truth  and  Good;  his  search  for  them  in  far 
journeyings,  not  on  the  beaten  highways,  but 
through  the  pathless  infinitude  of  Thought. 
To  call  it  a  work  of  art  would  be  a  misappli- 
cation of  names  :  it  is  little  more  than  a  rhap- 
sodic eff'usion;  the  outpouring  of  a  passionate 
and  mystic  soul,  only  half  knowing  what  it 
utters,  and  not  ruling  its  own  movements,  but 
ruled  by  them.  It  is  fair  to  add  that  such  also, 
in  a  great  measure,  was  Werner's  own  view 
of  the  matter:  most  likely  the  utterance  of 
these  things  gave  him  such  relief,  that,  crude 
as  they  were,  he  could  not  suppress  them.  For 
it  ought  to  be  remembered,  that  in  this  per- 
formance one  condition,  at  least,  of  genuine  in- 


spiration is  not  wanting:  Werner  evidently 
thinks  that  in  these  his  ultramundane  excur- 
sions he  has  found  truth ;  he  has  som.ething 
positive  to  set  forth,  and  he  feels  himself  as  if 
bound  on  a  high  and  holy  mission  in  preach- 
ing it  to  his  fellow-men. 

To  explain  with  any  minuteness  the  articles 
of  Werner's  creed,  as  it  was  now  fashioned, 
and  is  here  exhibited,  would  be  a  task  perhaps 
too  hard  for  us,  and,  at  all  events,  unprofitable 
in  proportion  to  its  diflTiculty.  We  have  found 
some  separable  passages,  in  which,  under  dark 
symbolical  figures,  he  has  himself  shadowed 
forth  a  vague  likeness  of  it:  these  we  shall 
now  submit  to  the  reader,  with  such  exposi- 
tions as  we  gather  from  the  context,  or  as  Ger- 
man readers,  from  the  usual  tone  of  specula- 
tion in  that  country,  are  naturally  enabled  to 
supply.  This  may,  at  the  same  time,  convey 
as  fair  a  notion  of  the  work  itself,  with  its 
tawdry  splendours,  and  tumid  grandiloquence, 
and  mere  playhouse  thunder  and  lightning,  as 
by  any  other  plan  our  limits  would  admit. 

Let  the  reader  fancy  himself  in  the  island 
of  Cyprus,  where  the  Order  of  the  Templars 
still  subsists,  though  the  heads  of  it  are  already 
summoned  before  the  French  King  and  Pope 
Clement ;  which  summons  they  are  now,  not 
without  dreary  enough  forebodings,  preparing 
to  obey.  The  purport  of  this  First  Part,  so  far 
as  it  has  any  dramatic  purport,  is  to  paint  the 
situation,  outward  and  inward,  of  that  once 
pious  and  heroic,  and  still  magnificent  and 
powerful  body.  It  is  entitled  The  Templars  in 
Cyprus ;  but  why  it  should  also  be  called  The 
Sons  of  the  Valley  does  not  so  well  appear ;  for 
the  Brotherhood  of  the  Valley  has  yet  scarcely 
come  into  activity,  and  only  hovers  before  us 
in  glimpses,  of  so  enigmatic  a  sort^  that  we 
know  not  fully  so  much  as  whether  these  its 
Sons  are  of  flesh  and  blood  like  ourselves,  or  of 
some  spiritual  nature,  or  of  something  inter- 
mediate, and  altogether  nondescript.  For  the 
rest,  it  is  a  series  of  spectacles  and  disserta- 
tions ;  the  action  cannot  so  much  be  said  to 
advance  as  to  revolve.  On  this  occasion  the 
Templars  are  admitting  two  new  members; 
the  acolytes  have  already  passed  their  prelim- 
inary trials;  this  is  the  chief  and  final  one: — 

ACT  FIFTH.— SCENE  first. 

Midnight.  Interior  of  the  Temple  Church.  Backwards,  a  deep  perspec- 
tive of  Altars  and  Gothic  Pillars.  On  the  right-hand  side  of  the  foreground, 
a  little  Chapel  ;  and  in  this  an  Altar  with  the  figure  of  St.  Sebastian.  The 
scene  is  lighted  very  dimly  by  a  single  Lamp  which  hangs  before  the  Altar. 

#  «  *  *  #  » 

ADALBEUT  (dressed  in  white,  without  mantle  or  doublet; 

groping  his  way  in  the  dark.) 

Was  it  not  at  the  Altar  of  Sebastian 
That  I  was  bid  to  wait  for  the  unknown  ? 
Here  should  it  be  ;  but  darkness  with  her  veil 
Inwraps  the  figures. 

(Advancing  to  the  Mltar.) 
Here  is  the  fifth  pillar! 
Yes,  this  is  he,  tho  Sainted.— How  the  glimmer 
Of  that  faint  lamp  falls  on  his  fading  eye! — 
Ah,  it  is  not  the  spears  o'  th'  Saracens, 
It  is  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love  that  burning 
Transfix  thy  heart,  poor  Comrade  ! — O  my  Agnes, 
May  not  thy  spirit,  in  this  earnest  hour, 
Be  looking  on  1    Art  hovering  in  that  moon-beam 
Which  struggles  through  the  painted  window,  and  dies 
Amid  the  cloister's  gloom  1    Or  linger'st  thou 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  \^RNER. 


39 


Behind  these  pillars,  which,  ominous  and  black, 
Look  down  on  me,  like  horrors  of  the  Past 
Upon  the  Present;  and  hidest  thy  gentle  form, 
Lest  with  thy  paleness  thou  too  much  affright  me  ? 
Hide  not  thyself,  pale  shadow  of  my  Agnes, 
Thou  affrightest  not  thy  lover.— Hush  !— 
Hark !     Was  there  not  a  rustling  1~Father  !    You  1 

PHILIP  {rushing  in  with  wild  looks.) 
Yes,  Adalbert !— But  time  is  precious  !— Come, 
My  son,  my  one  sole  Adalbert,  come  with  me  ! 

ADALBERT. 

What  would  you,  father,  in  this  solemn  hour  1 

PHILIP. 

This  hour,  or  never '. 

(Leading  Adalbert  to  the  Mtar.) 
Hither !— Know'st  thou  Am  ? 


ADALBERT. 


'Tis  Saint  Sebastian. 


Because  he  would  not 
Renounce  his  faith,  a  tyrant  had  him  murder'd. 

{Points  to  his  head.) 
These  furrows,  too,  the  rage  of  tyrants  ploughed 
In  thy  old  father's  face.    My  son,  my  first-born  child, 
In  this  great  hour  I  do  conjure  thee !     Wilt  thou, 
Wilt  tho-i  obey  me  1 

ADALBERT. 

Be  it  just,  I  will! 


Then  swear,  in  this  great  hour,  in  this  dread  presence, 
Here  by  thy  father's  head  made  early  gray. 
By  the  remembrance  of  thy  mother's  agony, 
And  by  the  ravished  blossom  of  thy  Agnes, 
Against  the  Tyranny  which  sacrificed  us, 
Inexpiable,  bloody,  everlasting  hate  ! 

ADALBERT. 

Ha  !     This  the  All-avenger  spoke  through  thee  !— 
Yes!    Bloody  shall  my  Agnes'  death-torch  burn 
In  Philip's  heart ;  I  swear  it ! 

PHILIP  {with  increasing  vehemence.) 

And  if  thou  break 
This  oath,  and  if  thou  reconcile  thee  to  him, 
Or  let  his  golden  chains,  his  gifts,  his  prayers, 
His  dying-moan  itself,  avert  thy  dagger 
When  th'  hour  of  vengeance  conies, — shall  this  gray  head, 
Thy  mother's  wail,  the  last  sigh  of  thy  Agnes, 
Accuse  thee  at  the  bar  of  the  Eternal? 

ADALBERT. 

go  be  it,  if  I  break  my  oath ! 


Then  man  thee !—  ^ 
(Looking  up,  then  shrinking  together  as  with  dazzled  eyes.) 
Ha  !  was  not  that  his  lightning  1— Fare  thee  well ! 
I  hear  the  footstep  of  the  Dreaded ! — Firm  ! — 
Remember  me,  remember  this  stern  midnight ! 

(Retires  hastily.) 
ADALBERT  (alone) 

Yes,  Grayhead,  whom  the  beckoning  of  the  Lord 
Sent  hither  to  awake  me  out  of  craven  sleep, 
I  will  remember  thee  and  this  stern  midnight, 
And  my  Agnes'  spirit  shall  have  vengeance  ! 

Enter  an  armed  man.     (He  is  mailed  from  head  to  foot  in 
black  harness  ;  hia  visor  is  closed.) 


I  ARMED    MAX. 

Pray  • 
(ADALBERT  kneels.) 

Bare  thyself! 

(He  strips  him  to  the  girdle  and  raises  him.) 
Look  on  the  ground,  and  follow ! 

(He  leads  him  into  the  back-ground  to  a  trap  door,  on  the 
right.  He  descends  first  himself;  and  when  Adalbert  has 
followed  him,  it  closes.) 


SCENE  SECOND. 

Cemetery  of  the  Templars,  under  the  Church.  The  scene  is  lighted  only 
by  a  Lamp  which  hangs  down  from  the  vault.  Around  are  Tombstones  of 
deceased  Knights,  marked  with  Crosses  and  sculptured  Bone*.  In  the  back- 
ground, two  colossal  Skeletons  holding  between  them  a  large  white  Book, 
marked  wilh  a  red  Cross;  from  the  under  end  of  the  Book  hangs  a  long 
black  curtain.  The  Book,  of  which  only  the  cover  is  visible,  has  an  inscrip- 
tion in  black  ciphers.  The  Skeleton  on  the  right  holds  in  its  right  hand  a 
naked  drawn  sword  ;  that  on  the  left  holds  in  its  left  hand  a  Palm  turned 
downwards.  On  the  right  side  of  the  foreground,  stands  a  black  Coffin  open ; 
on  the  left,  a  similar  one  with  the  body  of  a  Templar  in  full  dress  of  his 
Order;  on  both  Coffins  are  inscriptions  in  white  ciphers.  On  each  side, 
nearer  the  back-ground,  are  seen  the  lowest  steps  of  the  stairs,  which  lead 
up  into  the  Temple  Church  above  the  vault. 

ARMED  MAX  (not  yet  visible  ;  above  on  the  right-hand 
stairs.) 
Dreaded !  Is  the  grave  laid  open  1 

CONCEALED  VOICES. 

Yea! 

ARMED  MAN  (who  after  a  pause  shows  himself  on  the 
stairs.) 

Shall  he  behold  the  Tombs  o'  th'  fathers  1 

CONCEALED  VOICES. 

Yea ! 

(armed  man  with  drawn  sword  leads  Adalbert  carefully 
down  the  steps  on  the  right  hand.) 

ARMED  MATf   (to  ADALBERT.) 
Look  down  !  'Tis  on  thy  life ! 

(Leads  him  to  the  open  Coffi.n.) 
What  seest  thou  ? 


ADALBERT. 

An  open  empty  Coffin. 

ARMED    MAN. 

'Tis  the  house 
Where  thou  one  day  shalt  dwell.    Canst  read  th'  inscrip- 
tion 1 

ADALBERT. 

No. 

ARMED  MAK. 

Hear  it,  then ;  "  Thy  wages.  Sin,  is  Death." 
{Leads  him  to  the  opposite  Coffin  where  the  Body  is  lying.) 
Look  down !  'T  is  on  thy  life !— What  seest  thou  ? 
{Shows  the  Coffin.) 

ADALBERT. 

A  Coffin  with  a  Corpse. 

ARMED    MAN. 

He  is  thy  Brother ; 
One  day  thou  art  as  he.— Canst  read  the  inscription? 

ADALBERT. 

No. 


40 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


AHMED    MAN. 

Hear :  "Corruption  is  the  name  of  Life." 
Now  look  around ;  go  forward,— move,  and  act  !— 

{He  pushes  him  towards  the  back-ground  of  the  stage.) 

ADALBERT  (observing  the  Book.) 

Ha !  Here  the  Book  of  Ordination  !— Seems 
(jSpproaching.) 
As  if  th'  inscription  on  it  might  be  read. 

(He  reads  it.) 
"Knock  four  times  on  the  ground, 
Thou  Shalt  behold  thy  loved  one." 
O  Heavens !  And  may  I  see  thee,  sainted  Agnes  ? 

(Hastening  close  to  the  Book.) 
My  bosom  yearns  for  thee  !— 

( With  the  following  words,  he  stamps  four  times  on  the 
ground.) 
One,— Two,— Three,— Pour  :— 
(The  Curtain  hanging  from  the  Book  rolls  rapidly  up, 
and  covers  it.    A  colossal  DeviVs-head  appears  between  the 
two  Skeletons :   its  form  is  horrible ;  it  is  gilt  ;   has  a 
huge  golden  Crown,  a  Heart  of  the  same  in  its  Brow  ;  roll- 
ing flaming  Eyes:   Serpents   instead  of   Hair:  golden 
Chains  round  its  neck,  which  is  visible  to  the  breast :  and  a 
golden  Cross,  yet  not  a  Crucifix,  which  rises  over  its  right 
shoulder,  as  if  crushing  it  down.     The  whole  Bust  rests 
on  four  gilt  Dragon's  feet.    M  sight  of  it,  Adalbert 
starts  back  in  horror,  and  exclaims :) 
Defend  us  I 

ARMED    MAIS'. 

Dreaded,  may  be  hear  it  1 

CONCEALED    VOICES. 

Yea! 
ARMED  MAN  (touches  the  Curtain  with  his  sword:  it 
rolls  down  over  the  Devil' s-head,  concealing  it  again ;  and 
above,  as  before,  appears  the  Book,  but  now  opened,  with 
white  colossal  leaves  and  red  characters.  The  armed  man, 
pointing  constantly  to  the  Book  with  his  Sword,  and  there- 
with turning  the  leaves,  addresses  Adalbert,  who  stands 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Book,  and  nearer  the  foreground.) 

List  to  the  Story  of  the  Fallen  Master. 

(He  reads  the  following  from  the  Book :  yet  not  stand- 
ing before  it  but  on  one  side,  at  some  paces  distance,  and 
whilst  he  reads,  turning  the  leaves  with  his  sword.) 
'*  So  now  when  the  foundation-stone  was  laid, 
The  Lord  called  forth  the  Master,  Baffometus, 
And  said  to  him  :  Go  and  complete  my  Temple  I 
But  in  his  heart  the  Master  thought :  What  boots  it 
Building  thee  a  temple  1  and  took  the  stones. 
And  built  himself  a  dwelling,  and  what  stones 
Were  left  he  gave  for  filthy  gold  and  silver. 
Now  after  forty  moons  the  Lord  returned, 
And  spake  :  W^here  is  my  temple,  Baffometus  t 
The  Master  said  :  I  had  to  build  myself 
A  dwelling  :  grant  me  other  forty  weeks. 
And  after  forty  weeks,  the  Lord  returns, 
And  asks  :  where  is  my  temple,  Baffometus? 
He  said :  There  were  no  stones  (but  he  had  sold  them 
For  filthy  gold  ;)  so  wait  yet  forty  days. 
In  forty  days  thereafter  came  the  Lord, 
And  cried  :  Where  is  my  temple,  Baffometus  1 
Then  like  a  mill-stone  fell  it  on  his  soul 
How  he  for  lucre  had  betrayed  his  Lord  ; 
But  yet  to  other  sin  the  Fiend  did  tempt  him, 
And  he  answered,  saying  :  Give  me  forty  hours  ! 
And  when  the  forty  hours  were  gone,  the  Lord 
Came  down  in  wrath  :  My  Temple,  Baffometus? 
Then  fell  he  quaking  on  his  face,  and  cried 
For  mercy  ;  but  the  Lord  was  wroth,  and  said  : 
Since  thou  hast  cozened  me  with  empty  lies. 
And  those  the  stones  I  lent  thee  for  my  Temple 
Hast  sold  them  for  a  purse  of  filthy  gold, 
Lo,  I  will  cast  thee  forth,  and  with  the  Mammon 
Will  chastise  thee,  until  a  Saviour  rise 
Of  thy  own  seed,  who  shall  redeem  thy  trespass. 
Then  did  the  Lord  lift  up  the  purse  of  Gold; 


And  shook  the  gold  into  a  melting-pot, 

And  set  the  melting-pot  upon  the  Sun, 

So  that  the  metal  fused  into  a  fluid  mass. 

And  then  he  dipt  a  finger  in  the  same, 

And,  straightway  touching  Baffometus, 

Anoints  him  on  the  chin  and  brow  and  cheeks. 

Then  was  the  face  of  Baffometus  changed  : 

His  eye-balls  rolled  like  fire-flames, 

His  nose  became  a  crooked  vulture's  bill. 

The  tongue  hung  bloody  from  his  throat ;  the  flesh 

Went  from  his  hollow  cheeks;  and  of  his  hair 

Grew  snakes,  and  of  the  snakes  grew  Devil's-horns. 

Again  the  Lord  put  forth  his  finger  with  the  gold 

And  pressed  it  upon  Baffometus'  heart; 

Whereby  the  heart  did  bleed  and  wither  up, 

And  all  his  members  bled  and  withered  up, 

And  fell  away,  the  one  and  then  the  other. 

At  last  his  back  itself  sunk  into  ashes : 

The  head  alone  continued  gilt  and  living; 

And  instead  of  back,  grew  dragon's-talons, 

Which  destroyed  all  life  from  off  the  Earth. 

Then  from  the  ground  the  Lord  took  up  the  heart, 

Which,  as  he  touched  it,  also  grew  of  gold. 

And  placed  it  on  the  brow  of  Baffometus ; 

And  of  the  other  metal  in  the  pot 

He  made  for  h'm  a  burning  crown  of  gold. 

And  crushed  it  on  his  serpent-hair,  so  that 

Ev'n  to  the  bone  and  brain,  the  circlet  scorched  him. 

And  round  the  neck  he  twisted  golden  chains. 

Which  strangled  him  and  pressed  his  breath  together. 

What  in  the  pot  remained  he  poured  upon  the  ground. 

Athwart,  along,  and  there  it  formed  a  cross ; 

The  which  he  lifted  and  laid  upon  his  neck. 

And  bent  him  that  he  could  not  raise  his  head. 

Two  Deaths  moreover  he  appointed  warders 

To  guard  him  :  Death  of  Life,  and  Death  of  Hope. 

The  sword  of  the  first  he  sees  not  but  it  smites  him; 

The  other's  Palm  he  sees,  but  it  escapes  him. 

So  languishes  the  outcast  Baffometus 

Four  thousand  years  and  four-and-forty  moons, 

Till  once  a  Saviour  rise  from  his  own  seed, 

Redeem  his  trespass,  and  deliver  him." 

(To  ADALBERT.) 

This  is  the  Story  of  the  Fallen  Master. 
(With  his  sword  he  totiches  the  Curtain,  which  now  as 
before  rolls  up  over  the  book :  so  that  the  head  U7ider  it 
again  becomes  visible,  in  its  former  shape.) 

ADALBERT  (looking  af  tAe  HEAD.) 
Hah,  what  a  hideous  shape ! 

HEAD    (with  a  hollow  voice.) 

Deliver  me ! 

ARMED    MAN. 

Dreaded !  Shall  the  work  begin  ? 

CONCEALED    VOICES. 

Yea! 
ARMED    MAN   (to  ADALBERT.) 

Take  the  Neckband 
Away  !  (Pointing  to  the  head.) 
ADALBERT. 

I  dare  not ! 
HEAD  (with  a  still  more  piteous  tone.) 
O,  deliver  me ! 

ADALBERT  (taking  off  the  chains.) 
Poor  fallen  one ! 

ARMED    MAN. 

Now  lift  the  Crown  from  's  head '. 

ADALBERT. 

It  seems  so  heavy ! 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


41 


ARSIEB  MAK. 

Touch  it,  it  grows  light. 
ADALBERT  (taking  off  the  Crown,  and  casting  it,  as  he 
did  the  chains,  on  the  ground.) 

ARMED  MA'S. 

Now  take  the  golden  heart  from  off  his  brow ! 

ADALBERT. 

It  seems  to  burn ! 

ARMED  MAN. 

Thou  errest ;  ice  is  warmer. 
ADALBERT  (taking  the  Heart  from  the  Brow.) 
Hah !  shivering  frost  • 

ARMED  MAN. 

Take  from  his  back  the  Cross, 
And  throw  it  from  thee  :— 

ADALBERT. 

How !  the  Saviour's  token  1 


Deliver,  O  deliver  me  ! 

ARMED  MAN. 

This  Cross 
Is  not  thy  Master's,  not  that  bloody  one : 
Its  counterfeit  is  this  :  throw  't  from  thee  ! 

ADALBERT  (taking  it  from  the  Bust,  and  laying  it  softly 

on  the  ground.) 
The  Cross  of  the  Good  Lord  that  died  for  me  1 

ARMED  MAN. 
Thou  shalt  no  more  believe  in  one  that  died  ; 
Thou  shalt  henceforth  believe  in  one  that  livetb 
And  never  dies  ! — Obey,  and  question  not, — 
Step  over  it ! 

ADALBERT. 

Take  pity  on  me  ! 
ARMED  MAN  (threatening  him  with  his  sword.) 
Step! 

ADALBERT. 

I  do  't  with  shuddering— 

(Steps  over,  and  then  looks  up  to  the  head  which  raises 
itself,  as  if  freed  from  a  load.) 
How  the  figure  rises 
And  looks  in  gladness ! 

ARMED  MAN. 

Him  whom  thou  hast  served 
TDl  now,  deny ! 

ADALBERT  (Jiorror-strtuk.) 

Deny  the  Lord  ray  God  1 

ARMED  MAN. 
Thy  God  'tis  not :  the  Idol  of  this  world! 
Deny  him,  or— 

(Pressing  on  him  with  the  Sword  in  a  threatening  pos- 
ture.) 
—thou  diest ! 

ADALBERT. 

I  deny ! 
ARMED  MAN  {pointing  to  the  Head  with  his  Sword.) 
Go  to  the  Fallen  ! — Kiss  his  lips ! — 

— And  SO  on  through  many  other  sulphurous 
pages !  How  much  of  this  mummery  is  copied 
from  the  actual  practice  of  the  Templars  we 
know  not  with  certainty ;  nor  what  precisely 
either  they  or  Werner  intended,  by  this  mar- 


vellous "  Story  of  the  Fallen  Master,"  to  sha- 
dow forth.  At  first  view,  one  might  take  it  for 
an  allegory,  couched  in  masonic  language, — 
and  truly  no  flattering  allegory, — of  the  Catho- 
lic Church ;  and  this  trampling  on  the  Cross, 
which  is  said  to  have  been  actually  enjoined 
on  every  Templar  at  his  initiation,  to  be  a  type 
of  his  secret  behest  to  undermine  that  Institu- 
tion, and  redeem  the  spirit  of  Religion  from  the 
state  of  thraldom  and  distortion  under  which  it 
was  there  held.  It  is  known  at  least,  and  was 
well  known  to  Werner,  that  the  heads  of  the 
Templars  entertained  views,  both  on  religion 
and  politics,  which  they  did  not  think  meet  for 
communicating  to  their  age,  and  only  imparted 
by  degrees,  and  under  mysterious  adumbra- 
tions, to  the  wiser  of  their  own  Order.  They 
had  even  publicly  resisted,  and  succeeded  in 
thwarting,  some  iniquitous  measures  of  Phi- 
lippe Auguste,  the  French  King,  in  regard  to  his 
coinage;  and  this,  while  it  secured  them  the 
love  of  the  people,  was  one  great  cause,  per- 
haps second  only  to  their  wealth,  of  the  hatred 
which  that  sovereign  bore  them,  and  of  the 
savage  doom  which  he  at  last  executed  on  the 
whole  body. 

But  on  these  secret  principles  of  theirs,  as 
on  Werner's  manner  of  conceiving  them,  we 
are  only  enabled  to  guess ;  for  Werner,  too, 
has  an  esoteric  doctrine,  which  he  does  not 
promulgate,  except  in  dark  Sybilline  enigmas, 
to  the  unitiated.  As  we  are  here  seeking  chief- 
ly for  his  religious  creed,  which  forms,  in 
truth,  with  its  changes,  the  main  thread  where- 
by his  wayward,  desultory  existence  attains  any 
unity  or  even  coherence  in  our  thoughts,  we 
may  quote  another  passage  from  the  same 
First  Pan  of  this  rhapsody;  which,  at  the 
same  time,  will  afford  us  a  glimpse  of  his 
favourite  hero,  Robert  d'Heredon,  lately  the  dar- 
ling of  the  Templars,  but  now,  for  some  mo- 
mentary infraction  of  their  rules,  cast  into 
prison,  and  expecting  death,  or,  at  best,  exclu- 
sion from  the  Order.  Gottfried  is  another 
Templar,  in  all  points  the  reverse  of  Robert. 

ACT  FOURTH.    SCENE  FIRST. 

(Prison ;  at  the  wall  a  Table.  Robert,  without  sword^ 
cap,  or  mantle,  sits  downcast  on  one  side  of  it :  Gott- 
fried, who  keeps  watch  by  him,  sitting  at  the  other.) 

GOTTFRIED. 

But  how  could'st  thou  so  far  forget  thyself  1 

Thou  wert  our  pride,  the  Master's  friend  and  favourite  I 


I  did  it,  thou  perceivest ! 

GOTTFRIED. 

How  could  a  word 
Of  the  old  surly  Hugo  so  provoke  thee  ? 

ROBERT. 

Ask  not !— Man's  being  is  a  spider-web : 
The  passionate  flash  o'  th'  soul— comes  not  of  him; 
It  iE  the  breath  of  that  dark  Genius, 
Which  whirls  invisible  along  the  threads : 
A  servant  of  eternal  Destiny, 
It  purifies  them  from  the  vulgar  dust. 
Which  earthward  strives  to  press  the  net : 
But  Fate  gives  sign  ;  the  breath  becomes  a  whirlwind. 
And  in  a  moment  rends  to  shreds  the  thing 
We  thought  was  woven  for  Eternity. 
D  2 


42 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


GOTTFRIED. 

Yet  each  man  shapes  his  destiny  himself. 


Small  soul !    Dost  thou  too  know  it  1    Has  the  story 

Of  Force  and  free  Volition,  that,  defying 

The  corporal  Atoms  and  Annihilation, 

Methodic  guides  the  car  of  Destiny, 

Come  down  to  thee  ?    Dream'st  thou,  poor  Nothingness, 

That  thou,  and  like  of  thee,  and  ten  times  better 

Than  thou  or  I,  can  lead  the  wheel  of  Fate 

One  hair's-breadth  from  its  everlasting  track  1 

I  too  have  had  such  dreams  :  but  fearfully 

Have  I  been  shook  from  sleep;  and  they  are  fled! — 

Look  at  our  Order :  has  it  spared  its  thousands 

Of  noblest  lives,  the  victims  of  its  Purpose; 

And  has  it  gained  this  Purpose  ;  can  it  gain  if? 

Look  at  our  noble  Molay's  silvered  hair  : 

The  fruit  of  watchful  nights  and  stormful  days, 

And  of  the  broken  yet  still  burning  heart ! 

That  mighty  heart!— Through  sixty  battling  years, 

'T  has  beat  in  pain  for  nothing  :  his  creation 

Remains  the  vision  of  his  own  great  soul; 

It  dies  with  him  ;  and  one  day  shall  the  pilgrim 

Ask  where  his  dust  is  lying,  and  not  learn  ! 

GOTTFRIED  {yawning.) 
But  then  the  Christian  has  the  joy  of  Heaven 
For  recompense  :  in  his  flesh  he  shall  see  God. 


In  his  flesh  1— Now  fair  befal  the  journey! 
Wilt  stow  it  in  behind,  by  way  of  luggage, 
When  the  Angel  comes  to  coach  thee  into  Glory  1 
Mind  also  that  the  memory  of  those  fair  hours 
When  dinner  smoked  before  thee,  or  thou  usedst 
To  dress  thy  nag,  or  scour  thy  rusty  harness. 
And  such  like  noble  business  be  not  left  behind  I- 
Ha !  self-deceiving  bipeds,  is  it  not  enough 
The  carcass  should  at  every  step  oppress. 
Imprison  you  ;  that  toothache,  headache. 
Gout,— who  knows  what  all,— at  every  moment, 
Degrades  the  god  of  Earth  into  a  beast; 
But  you  would  take  this  villanous  mingle, 
The  coarser  dross  of  all  the  elements. 
Which,  by  the  Light-beam  from  on  high  that  visits 
And  dwells  in  it,  but  baser  shows  its  baseness,^ 
Take  this,  and  all  the  freaks  which,  bubble-like, 
Spring  forth  o'  th'  blood,  and  which  by  such  fair  names 
You  call,— along  with  you  into  your  Heaven  ?— 
Well,  be  it  so  !  much  good  may't— 
i^s  his  eye,  by  chance,  lights  on  Gottfried,  who  mean- 
while has  fallen  asleep) 

— Sound  already  1 
There  is  a  race  for  whom  all  serves  as — pillow. 
Even  rattling  chains  are  but  a  lullaby. 

This  Robert  d'Heredon,  whose  preaching 
has  here  such  a  narcotic  virtue,  is  destined  ul- 
timately for  a  higher  office  than  to  rattle  his 
chains  by  way  of  lullaby.  He  is  ejected  from 
the  Order;  not,  however,  with  disgrace  and  in 
anger,  but  in  sad  feeling  of  necessity,  and  with 
tears  and  blessings  from  his  brethren  ;  and  the 
messenger  of  the  Valley,  a  strange,  ambigu- 
ous, little  sylph-like  maiden,  gives  him  obscure 
encouragement,  before  his  departure,  to  pos- 
sess his  soul  in  patience;  seeing,  if  he  can 
learn  the  grand  secret  of  Renunciation,  his 
course  is  not  ended,  but  only  opening  on  a 
fairer  scene.  Robert  knows  not  well  what  to 
make  of  this ;  but  sails  for  his  native  Hebrides, 
in  darkness  and  contrition,  as  one  who  can  do 
no  other. 

In  the  end  of  the  Second  Part,  which  is  re- 
presented as  divided  from  the  First  by  an 
interval  of  seven  years,  Robert  is  again  sum- 


moned forth ;  and  the  whole  surprising  secret 
of  his  mission,  and  of  the  Valley  which  ap- 
points it  for  him,  is  disclosed.  This  Frieden- 
thai  (Valley  of  Peace),  it  now  appears,  is  an 
immense  secret  association,  which  has  its 
chief  seat  somewhere  about  the  roots  of  Mount 
Carmel,  if  we  mistake  not ;  but,  comprehending 
in  its  ramifications  the  best  heads  and  hearts 
of  every  country,  extends  over  the  whole  civi- 
lized world;  and  has,  in  particular,  a  strong 
body  of  adherents  in  Paris,  and  indeed  a  sub- 
terraneous, but  seemingly  very  commodious 
suite  of  rooms,  under  the  Carmelite  Monastery 
of  that  city.  Here  sit  in  solemn  conclave  the 
heads  of  the  Establishment;  directing  from 
their  lodge,  in  deepest  concealment,  the  princi- 
pal movements  of  the  kingdom  :  for  William 
of  Paris,  Archbishop  of  Sens,  being  of  their 
number,  the  king  and  his  other  ministers,  fan- 
cying within  themselves  the  utmost  freedom 
of  action,  are  nothing  more  than  puppets  in 
the  hands  of  this  all-powerful  Brotherhood, 
which  watches,  like  a  sort  of  Fate,  over  the  in- 
terests of  mankind,  and  by  mysterious  agen- 
cies, forwards,  we  suppose,  *'  the  cause  of  civil 
and  religious  liberty  over  all  the  world."  It  is 
they  that  have  doomed  the  Templars;  and, 
without  malice  or  pity,  are  sending  their  lead- 
ers to  the  dungeon  and  the  stake.  That  knight- 
ly Order,  once  a  favourite  minister  of  good,  has 
now  degenerated  from  its  purity,  and  come  to 
mistake  its  purpose,  having  taken  up  politics 
and  a  sort  of  radical  reform  ;  and  so  must  now 
be  broken  and  reshaped,  like  a  worn  imple- 
ment, which  can  no  longer  do  its  appointed 
work. 

Such  a  magnificent  "Society  for  the  Sup- 
pression of  Vice"  may  well  be  supposed  to 
walk  by  the  most  philosophical  principles. 
These  Friedcnthalers,  in  fact,  profess  to  be  a 
sort  of  Invisible  Church  ;  preserving  in  vestal 
purity  the  sacred  fire  of  religion,  which  burns 
with  more  or  less  fuliginous  admixture  in  the 
worship  of  every  people,  but  only  with  its  clear 
sidereal  lustre  in  the  recesses  of  the  Valley. 
They  are  Bramins  on  the  Ganges,  Bonzes  on 
the  Hoangho,  Monks  on  the  Seine.  They  ad- 
dict themselves  to  contemplation,  and  the  sub- 
tilest  study;  have  penetrated  far  into  the  mys- 
teries of  spiritual  and  physical  nature;  they 
command  the  deep-hidden  virtues  of  plant  and 
mineral;  and  their  sages  can  discriminate  the 
eye  of  the  mind  from  its  sensual  instruments, 
and  behold,  without  type  or  material  embody- 
ment,  the  essence  of  Being.  Their  activity  is 
all-comprehending  and  unerringly  calculated  : 
they  rule  over  the  world  by  the  authority  of 
wisdom  over  ignorance. 

In  the  Fifth  Act  of  the  Second  Part,  we  are 
at  length,  after  many  a  hint  and  significant 
note  of  preparation,  introduced  to  the  privacies 
of  this  philosophical  Sainie  Hermandad.  A 
strange  Delphic  cave  this  of  theirs,  under  the 
very  pavements  of  PaYis!  There  are  brazen 
folding  doors,  and  concealed  voices,  and 
sphinxes,  and  naptha-lamps,  and  all  manner 
of  wondrous  furniture.  It  seems,  moreover,  to 
be  a  sort  of  gala  evening  with  them  ;  for  the 
"Old  Man  of  Carmel,  in  eremite  garb,  with  a 
long  beard  reaching  to  his  girdle,"  is  for  a  mo- 
ment discovered  "  reading  in  a  deep  monoto- 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


43 


nous  voice."  The  "  Strong  Ones,"  meanwhile, 
are  out  in  quest  of  Robert  d'Heredon  ;  who,  by 
cunning  practices,  has  been  enticed  from  his 
Hebridean  solitude,  in  the  hope  of  saving  Mo- 
lay,  and  is  even  now  to  be  initiated,  and  equip- 
ped for  his  task.  After  a  due  allowance  of 
pompous  ceremonial,  Robert  is  at  last  ushered 
in,  or  rather  dragged  in  ;  for  it  appears  that  he 
has  made  a  stout  debate,  not  submitting  to  the 
customary  form  of  being  ducked, — an  essential 
preliminary,  it  would  seem, — till  compelled  by 
the  direst  necessity.  He  is  in  a  truly  Highland 
anger,,as  is  natural:  but  by  various  manipula- 
tions and  solacements,  he  is  reduced  to  reason 
again,  finding,  indeed,  the  fruitlessness  of  any 
thing  else;  for  when  lance  and  sword  and  free 
space  are  given  him,  and  he  makes  a  thrust  at 
Adam  of  Valincourt,  the  master  of  the  cere- 
monies, it  is  to  no  purpose :  the  old  man  has  a 
torpedo  quality  in  him,  which  benumbs  the 
stoutest  arm;  and  no  death  issues  from  the 
baffled  sword-point,  but  only  a  small  spark  of 
electric  fire.  With  his  Scottish  prudence, 
Robert,  under  these  circumstances,  cannot  but 
perceive  that  quietness  is  best.  The  people 
hand  him,  in  succession,  the  "  Cup  of  Strength," 
the  "  Cup  of  Beauty,"  and  the  "  Cup  of  Wis- 
dom;" liquors  brewed,  if  we  may  judge  from 
their  effect,  with  the  highest  stretch  of  Rosi- 
crucian  art;  and  which  must  have  gone  far  to 
disgust  Robert  d'Heredon  with  his  natural  us- 
quebaugh, however  excellent,  had  that  fierce 
drink  been  in  use  then.  He  rages  in  a  fine 
frenzy;  dies  away  in  raptures;  and  then,  at 
last,  "considers  what  he  wanted  and  what  he 
wants."  Now  is  the  time  for  Adam  of  Valin- 
court to  strike  in  with  an  interminable  exposi- 
tion of  the  "objects  of  the  societ)-."  To  not 
unwilling,  but  still  cautious  ears,  he  unbosoms 
himself,  in  mystic  wise,  with  extreme  copious- 
ness ;  turning  aside  objections  like  a  veteran 
disputant,  and  leading  his  apt  and  courageous 
pupil,  by  signs  and  wonders,  as  well  as  by 
logic,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  secrets  of 
theosophic  and  thaumaturgic  science.  A  little 
glimpse  of  this  our  readers  may  share  with  us  ; 
though  we  fear  the  allegory  will  seem  to  most 
of  them  but  a  hollow  nut.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
an  allegory — of  its  sort ;  and  we  can  profess  to 
have  translated  with  entire  fidelity. 


ADAM. 

Thy  riddle  by  a  second  will  be  solved, 
(ffe  leads  him  to  the  Sphinx.) 
Behold  this  Sphinx  :  Half-beast,  half-angel,  both 
Combined  in  one,  it  is  an  emblem  to  thee 
Of  th'  ancient  Mother,  Nature,  herself  a  riddle, 
And  only  by  a  deeper  to  be  master'd. 
Eternal  clearness  in  th'  eternal  Ferment  : 
This  is  the  riddle  of  Existence  :— read  it,— 
Propose  that  other  to  her,  and  she  serves  thee  ! 
(7'/i«  door  on  the  right  hand  opens,  and,  in  the  space 
behind  it  appears,  as  before,  the  OLD  >rAN  OF  CAHMEL, 
sitting  at  a  Table,  and  reading  in  a  large  Volume.     The 
deep  strokes  of  a  Bell  are  heard.) 

OLD  MAN  OF  CABMEL  (reading  with  a  loud  but  still  mo- 
notonous  voice.) 
"And  when  the  Lord  saw  Phosphoros"— 
ROBERT  (interrupting  him.) 

Ha !  Again 
A  story  as  of  Baffometus  1 


ADAM. 

Not  so. 
That  tale  of  theirs  was  but  some  poor  distortion 
Of  th'  outmost  image  of  our  sanctuary. — 
Keep  silence  here  ;  and  see  thou  interrupt  not. 
By  too  bold  cavilling,  this  mystery. 

OLD  MAN  (reading.) 

"  And  when  the  Lord  saw  Phosplioros  his  pride, 

Being  wroth  thereat,  he  cast  him  forth, 

And  shut  him  in  a  prison  called  Life  ; 

And  gave  him  for  a  Garment,  earth  and  water, 

And  bound  him  straitly  in  four  Azure  Chains, 

And  pour'd  for  him  the  bitter  Cup  of  Fire. 

The  Lord  moreover  spake  :  Because  thou  hast  forgotten 

My  will  I  yield  thee  to  the  Element, 

And  thou  shalt  be  his  slave,  and  have  no  longer 

Remembrance  of  thy  birthplace  or  my  name. 

And  sithence  thou  hast  sinn'd  against  me  by 

Thy  prideful  Thought  of  being  One  and  Somewhat, 

I  leave  with  thee  that  thought  to  be  thy  whip, 

And  this  thy  weakness  for  a  Bit  and  Bridle ; 

Till  once  a  Saviour  from  the  waters  rise. 

Who  shall  again  baptize  thee  in  my  bosom, 

That  so  thou  may'st  be  Nought  and  All. 

"And  when  the  Lord  had  spoken,  he  drew  back 
As  in  a  mighty  rushing ;  and  the  Element 
Rose  up  round  Phosphoros,  and  tower'd  itself 
Aloft  to  Heav'n  ;  and  he  lay  stunn'd  beneath  it. 

"But  when  his  first-born  Sister  saw  his  pain, 
Her  heart  was  full  of  sorrow,  and  she  turn'd  her 
To  the  Lord  ;  and  with  veil'd  face,  thus  spake  Mylitta  :* 
Pity  my  Brother,  and  let  me  console  him  ! 

"  Then  did  the  Lord  in  pity  rend  asunder 
A  little  chink  in  Phosphoros  his  dungeon. 
That  so  he  might  behold  his  Sister's  face  : 
And  when  she  silent  peep'd  into  his  Prison, 
She  left  with  him  a  Mirror  for  his  solace. 
And  when  he  look'd  therein,  his  earthly  Garment 
Pressed  him  less  ;  and,  like  the  gleam  of  morning. 
Some  fitint  remembrance  of  his  Birthplace  davvn'd 

"But  yet  the  Azure  Chains  she  could  not  break, 
The  bitter  Cup  of  Fire  not  take  from  him. 
Therefore  she  pray'd  to  Mythras,  to  her  Father, 
To  save  his  younger-born  :  and  Mythras  went 
Up  to  the  footstool  of  the  Lord,  and  said  : 
Take  pity  on  my  Son  !— Then  said  the  Lord  ; 
Have  I  not  sent  Mylitta  that  he  may 
Behold  his  Birthplace  1— Wherefore  Mythras  answer'd: 
What  profits  it  1    The  chains  she  cannot  break, 
The  bitter  Cup  of  Fire  not  take  from  him. 
So  will  I,  said  the  Lord,  the  Salt  be  given  him. 
That  so  the  bitter  Cup  of  Fire  be  soflened ; 
But  yet  the  Azure  Chains  must  lie  on  him 
Till  once  a  Saviour  rise  from  out  the  Waters. — 
And  when  the  Salt  was  laid  on  Phosphor's  tongue 
The  Fire's  piercing  ceased;  but  th'  Element 
Congeal'd  the  Salt  to  Ice,  and  Phosphoros 
Lay  there  benumb'd,  and  had  not  power  to  move. 
But  Isis  saw  him,  and  thus  spake  the  mother ; 

"Thou  who  art  Father,  Strength  and  Word  and 
Light : 
Shall  he  my  last-born  grandchild  lie  fbr  ever 
In  pain,  the  down-press*d  thrall  of  his  rude  Brother  1 
Then  had  the  Lord  compassion,  and  be  sent  him 
The  Herald  of  the  Saviour  from  the  Waters  ; 
The  cup  of  Fluidness,  and  in  the  Cup 
The  drops  of  Sadness  and  the  drops  of  Longing ; 
And  then  the  Ice  was  thawed,  the  Fire  grew  cool, 
And  Phosphoros  again  had  room  to  breathe. 
But  yet  the  earthy  Garment  cumber'd  him, 
The  Azure  chains  still  gall'd,  and  the  Remembrance 
Of  the  Name,  the  Lord's,  which  he  had  lost,  was  want< 
ing. 

"  Then  the  Mother's  heart  was  moved  with  pity. 
She  beckoned  the  Son  to  her,  and  said  : 
Thou  who  art  more  than  I,  and  yet  my  nursling. 


*Mylitta,  in  the  old  Persian  mysteries,  was  the 
of  the  Moon  ;  jVythras  that  of  the  Sun. 


44 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Put  on  this  Robe  of  Earth,  and  show  thyself 
To  fallen  Phosphoros  bound  in  the  dungeon. 
And  open  him  that  dungeon's  narrow  cover. 
Then  said  the  Word  :  It  shall  be  so  !  and  sent 
His  messenger  Disease;  she  broke  the  roof 
Of  Phosphor's  Prison,  so  that  once  again 
The  Fount  of  Light  he  saw  :  the  Element 
Was  dazzled  blind ;  but  Phosphor  knew  his  Father. 
And  when  the  Word,  in  Earth,  came  to  the  Prison, 
The  Element  address'd  him  as  his  like  ; 
But  Phosphoros  look'd  up  to  him,  and  said  : 
Thou  art  sent  hither  to  redeem  from  Sin, 
Yet  art  thou  not  the  Saviour  from  the  Waters. — 
Then  spake  the  Word  :  The  Saviour  from  the  Waters 
I  surely  am  not ;  yet  when  thou  hast  drunk 
•^he  Cup  of  Fluidness,  I  will  Redeem  thee. 
Then  Phosphor  drank  the  Cup  of  Fluidness, 
Of  Longing,  and  of  Sadness;  and  his  Garment 
Did  drop  sweet  drops  ;  wherewith  the  Messenger 
Of  the  Word  wash'd  all  his  Garment,  till  its  folds 
And  stiffness  vanish'd,  and  it  'gan  grow  light. 
And  when  the  Prison  Life  she  touch'd,  straightway 
It  wax'd  thin  and  lucid  like  to  crystal. 
But  yet  the  Azure  Chains  she  could  not  break.— 
Then  did  the  Word  vouchsafe  him  the  Cup  of  Faith, 
And  having  drunk  it,  Phosphoros  look'd  up. 
And  saw  the  Saviour  standing  in  the  Waters. 
Both  hands  the  Captive  stretch'd  to  grasp  that  Saviour ; 
But  he  fled. 

"  So  Phosphoros  was  grieved  in  heart : 
But  yet  the  Word  spake  comfort,  giving  him 
The  Pillow  Patience,  there  to  lay  his  head. 
And  having  rested,  he  rais'd  his  head,  and  said  : 
Wilt  thou  redeem  me  from  the  Prison  too  1 
Then  said  the  Word  :  Wait  yet  in  peace  seven  moons, 
It  may  be  nine,  until  thy  hour  shall  come. 
And  Phosphor  answer'd.  Lord,  thy  will  be  done  ! 

"Which  when  the  mother  Isis  saw,  it  grieved  her; 
She  called  the  Rainbow  up,  and  said  to  him  : 
Go  thou  and  tell  the  Word  that  he  forgive 
The  Captive  these  seven  moons  !     And  Rainbow  flew 
Where  he  was  sent ;  and  as  he  shook  his  wings 
There  dropt  from  them  the  Oil  of  Purity  : 
And  this  the  Word  did  gather  in  a  Cup, 
And  cleansed  with  it  the  Sinner's  head  and  bosom. 
Then  passing  forth  into  his  Father's  Garden, 
He  breathed  upon  the  ground,  and  there  arose 
A  flow'ret  out  of  it,  like  milk  and  rose-bloom; 
Which  having  wetted  with  the  dew  of  Rapture, 
He  crown'd  therewith  the  Captive's  brow ;  then  grasp'd 

him 
With  his  right  hand,  the  Rainbow  with  the  left; 
Mylitta  likewise  with  the  Mirror  came. 
And  Phosphoros  looked  into  it,  and  saw 
Wrote  on  the  Azure  of  Infinity 
The  long-forgotten  Name,  and  the  Remembrance 
Of  his  Birthplace,  gleaming  as  in  light  of  gold, 

"  Then  fell  there  as  if  scales  from  Phosphor's  eye>, 
He  left  the  Thought  of  being  One  and  Somewhat, 
His  nature  melted  in  the  mighty  All ; 
Like  sighings  from  above  came  balmy  healing, 
So  that  his  heart  for  very  bliss  was  bursting. 
For  Chains  and  Garment  cumber'd  him  no  more  : 
The  Garment  he  had  changed  to  royal  purple, 
And  of  his  Chains  were  fashion'd  glancing  jewels. 

"  True,  still  the  Saviour  from  the  Waters  tarried  ; 
Yet  came  the  Spirit  over  him  ;  the  Lord 
Turn'd  towards  him  a  gracious  countenance, 
And  Isis  held  him  in  her  mother-arms. 

"This  is  the  last  Evangile. 

(The  door  closes^  and  again  conceals  the  old  man  of 
CARMEL.) 

The  purport  of  this  enigma  Robert  confesses 
that  he  does  not  "wholly"  understand;  an  ad- 
mission in  which,  we  suspect,  most  of  our 
readers,  and  the  Old  Man  of  Carmel  himself, 
were  he  candid,  might  be  inclined  to  agree 
with  him.  Sometimes,  in  the  deeper  consider- 
ation which  translators  are  bound  to  bestow 


on  such  extravagances,  we  have  fancied  we 
could  discern  in  this  apologue  some  glimmer- 
ings of  meaning,  scattered  here  and  there  like 
weak  lamps  in  the  darkness ;  not  enough  to 
interpret  the  riddle,  but  to  show  that  by  possi- 
bility it  might  have  an  interpretation, — was  a 
typical  vision,  with  a  certain  degree  of  signifi- 
cance in  the  wild  mind  of  the  poet,  not  an  in- 
ane fever-dream.  Might  not  Phosphoros,  for 
example,  indicate  generally  the  spiritual  es- 
sence of  a  man,  and  this  story  be  an  emblem 
of  his  history]  He  longs  to  be  "One  and 
Somewhat;"  that  is,  he  labours  under  the 
very  common  complaint  of  egoHsni :  cannot,  in 
the  grandeur  of  Beauty  and  Virtue,  forget  his 
own  so  beautiful  and  virtuous  Self;  but,  amid 
the  glories  of  the  majestic  All,  is  still  haunted 
and  blinded  by  some  shadow  of  his  own  little 
Me.  For  this  reason  he  is  punished ;  impri- 
soned in  the  "Element"  (of  a  material  body,) 
and  has  the  "four  Azure  Chains"  (the  four 
principles  of  matter)  bound  round  him ;  so 
that  he  can  neither  think  nor  act,  except  in  a 
foreign  medium,  and  under  conditions  that 
confuse  him.  The  "Cup  of  Fire"  is  given 
him  ;  perhaps,  the  rude,  barbarous  passion  and 
cruelty  natural  to  all  uncultivated  tribes'!  But, 
at  length,  he  beholds  the  "Moon;"  begins  to 
have  some  sight  and  love  of  material  Nature ; 
and,  looking  into  her  "  Mirror,"  forms  to  him- 
self, under  gross  emblems,  a  theogony  and  sort 
of  mythologic  poetry ;  in  which,  if  he  cannot 
behold  the  "Name,"  and  has  forgotten  his  own 
"  Birthplace,"  both  of  which  are  blotted  out 
and  hidden  by  the  "Element,"  he  finds  some 
spiritual  solace,  and  breathes  more  freely. 
Still,  however,  the  "  Cup  of  Fire  "  tortures  him ; 
till  the  "Salt"  (intellectual  culture?)  is  vouch- 
safed ;  which,  indeed,  calms  the  raging  of  that 
furious  bloodthirstiness  and  warlike  strife,  but 
leaves  him,  as  mere  culture  of  the  understand- 
ing may  be  supposed  to  do,  frozen  into  irreli- 
gion  and  moral  inactivity,  and  farther  from 
the  "Name"  and  his  "Own  Original"  than 
ever.  Then  is  the  "  Cup  of  Fluidness  "  a  more 
merciful  disposition  ?  and  intended,  with  "  the 
Drops  of  Sadness  and  the  Drops  of  Longing," 
to  shadow  forth  that  wo-struck,  desolate,  yet 
softer  and  devouter  state  in  which  mankind 
displayed  itself  at  the  coming  of  the  "  Word," 
at  the  first  promulgation  of  the  Christian  reli- 
gion ?  Is  the  "Rainbow"  the  modern  poetry 
of  Europe,  the  Chivalry,  the  new  form  of  Sto- 
icism, the  whole  romantic  feeling  of  these  later 
days  1  But  who  or  what  the  ''Hciland  aus  den 
Wassern^'  (Saviour  from  the  Waters)  maybe, 
we  need  not  hide  our  entire  ignorance ;  this 
being  apparently  a  secret  of  the  Valley,  which 
Robert  d'Heredon,  and  Werner,  and  men  of 
like  gifts,  are  in  due  time  to  show  the  world, 
but  unhappily  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  bring- 
ing to  light.  Perhaps,  indeed,  our  whole  in- 
terpretation may  be  thought  little  better  than 
lost  labour;  a  reading  of  what  was  only 
scrawled  and  flourished,  not  written;  a  shap- 
ing of  gay  castles  and  metallic  palaces  from 
the  sunset  clouds,  which,  though  mountain- 
like, and  purple  and  golden  of  hue,  and  tow- 
ered together  as  if  by  Cyclopean  arms,  are  but 
dyed  vapour. 
Adam  of  Valin court  continues  his  exposi- 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


45 


tion  in  the  most  liberal  way ;  but,  through 
many  pages  of  metrical  lecturing,  he  does 
little  to  satisfy  us.  What  was  more  to  his 
purpose,  he  partly  succeeds  in  satisfying  Ro- 
bert d'Heredon  ;  who,  after  due  preparation, — 
Molay  being  burnt  like  a  martyr,  under  the 
most  promising  omens,  and  the  Pope  and  the 
King  of  France  struck  dead,  or  nearly  so, — 
sets  out  to  found  the  order  of  St.  Andrews  in 
his  own  country,  that  of  Calatrava  in  Spain, 
and  other  knightly  Missions  of  the  Heiland  aus 
den  Wassern  elsewhere ;  and  thus,  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  all  parties,  the  Sons  of  the  Valley 
terminates,  "positively  for  the  last  time." 

Our  reader  may  have  already  convinced 
himself  that  in  this  strange  phantasmagoria 
there  are  not  wanting  indications  of  very  high 
poetic  talent.  We  see  a  mind  of  great  depth, 
if  not  of  sufficient  strength ;  struggling  with 
objects  which,  though  it  cannot  master  them, 
are  essentially  of  richest  significance.  Had 
the  writer  only  kept  his  piece  till  the  ninth 
year ;  meditating  it  with  true  diligence  and  un- 
wearied will !  But  the  weak  Werner  was  not 
a  man  for  such  things  :  he  must  reap  the  har- 
vest on  the  morrow  after  seed-day,  and  so 
stands  before  us  at  last,  as  a  man  capable  of 
much,  only  not  of  bringing  aught  to  perfec- 
tion. 

Of  his  natural  dramatic  genius,  this  work, 
ill-concocted  as  it  is,  affords  no  unfavourable 
specimen  ;  and  may,  indeed,  have  justified  ex- 
pectations which  were  never  realized.  It  is 
true,  he  cannot  yet  give  form  and  animation  to 
a  character,  in  the  genuine  poetic  sense ;  we 
do  not  see  any  of  his  dramatis  personce,  but  only 
hear  of  them :  yet,  in  some  cases  his  endea- 
vour, though  imperfect,  is  by  no  means  abor- 
tive ;  and  here,  for  instance,  Jacques  Molay, 
Philip  Adalbert,  Hugo,  and  the  like,  though 
not  living  men,  have  still  as  much  life  as  many 
a  bufF-and-scarlet  Sebastian  or  Barbarossa, 
whom  we  find  swaggering,  for  years,  with  ac- 
ceptance, on  the  boards.  Of  his  spiritual 
beings,  whom  in  most  of  his  plays  he  intro- 
duces too  profusely,  we  cannot  speak  in  com- 
mendation: they  are  of  a  mongrel  nature, 
neither  rightly  dead  nor  alive ;  in  fact,  they 
sometimes  glide  about  like  real,  though  rather 
singular  mortals,  through  the  whole  piece; 
and  only  vanish  as  ghosts  in  the  fifth  act. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  in  contriving  theatrical 
incidents  and  sentiments ;  in  scenic  shows, 
and  all  manner  of  gorgeous,  frightful,  or  as- 
tonishing machinery,  Werner  exhibits  a  copi- 
ous invention,  and  strong  though  untutored 
feeling.  Doubtless,  it  is  ajl  crude  enough ;  all 
illuminated  by  an  impure,  barbaric  splendour; 
not  the  soft,  peaceful  brightness  of  sunlight, 
but  the  red,  resinous  glare  of  playhouse  torches. 
Werner,  however,  was  still  young;  and  had  he 
been  of  a  right  spirit,  all  that  was  impure  and 
crude  might  in  time  have  become  ripe  and 
clear ;  and  a  poet  of  no  ordinary  excellence 
would  have  been  moulded  out  of  him. 

But  as  matters  stood,  this  was  by  no  means 
the  thing  Werner  had  most  at  heart.  It  is  not 
the  degree  of  poetic  talent  manifested  in  the 
Sons  of  the  Valley  that  he  prizes,  but  the  reli- 
gious truth  shadowed  forth  in  it.  To  judge  from 
the  parables  of  Baffometus  and  Phosphoros, 


our  readers  may  be  disposed  to  hold  his  reve- 
lations on  this  subject  rather  cheap.  Never- 
theless, taking  up  the  character  of  Vates  in  its 
widest  sense,  Werner  earnestly  desires  not 
only  to  be  a  poet,  but  a  prophet ;  and,  indeed, 
looks  upon  his  merits  in  the  former  province 
as  altogether  subservient  to  his  higher  pur- 
poses in  the  latter.  We  have  a  series  of  the 
most  confused  and  long-winded  letters  to  Hit- 
zig,  who  had  now  removed  to  Berlin ;  setting 
forth,  with  a  singular  simplicity,  the  mighty 
projects  Werner  was  cherishing  on  this  head. 
He  thinks  that  there  ought  to  be  a  new  Creed 
promulgated,  a  new  Body  of  Religionists  es- 
tablished ;  and  that,  for  this  purpose,  not  writ- 
ing, but  actual  preaching,  can  avail.  He 
detests  common  Protestantism,  under  which 
he  seems  to  mean  a  sort  of  Socinianism,  or 
diluted  French  Infidelity ;  he  talks  of  Jacob 
Boehme,  and  Luther,  and  Schleiermacher,  and 
a  new  Trinity  of  "Art,  Religion,  and  Love." 
All  this  should  be  sounded  in  the  ears  of  men, 
and  in  a  loud  voice,  that  so  their  torpid  slum- 
ber, ihe  harbinger  of  spiritual  death,  may  be 
driven  away.  With  the  utmost  gravity  he 
commissions  his  correspondent  to  wait  upon 
Schlegel,  Tieck,  and  others  of  a  like  spirit, 
and  see  whether  they  will  not  join  him.  For 
his  own  share  in  the  matter,  he  is  totally  in- 
different; will  serve  in  the  meanest  capacity, 
and  rejoice  with  his  whole  heart,  if,  in  zeal 
and  ability  as  poets  and  preachers,  not  some 
only,  but  every  one,  should  infinitely  outstrip 
him.  We  suppose,  he  had  dropped  the  thought 
of  being  "One  and  Somewhat;"  and  now 
wished,  rapt  away  by  this  divine  purpose,  to 
be  "Nought  and  All." 

On  the  Heiland  aus  den  Wassern  this  corre- 
spondence throws  no  further  light :  what  the 
new  Creed  specially  was,  which  Werner  felt 
so  eager  to  plant  and  propagate,  we  nowhere 
learn  with  any  distinctness.  Probably,  he 
might  himself  have  been  rather  at  a  loss  to 
explain  it  in  brief  compass.  His  theogony,  we 
suspect,  was  still  very  much  in  posse ;  and 
perhaps  only  the  moral  part  of  this  system 
could  stand  before  him  with  some  degree  of 
clearness.  On  this  latter  point,  indeed,  he  is 
determined  enough ;  well  assured  of  his  dog- 
mas, and  apparently  waiting  but  for  some 
proper  vehicle  in  which  to  convey  them  to 
the  minds  of  men.  His  fundamental  princi- 
ple of  morals  we  have  seen  in  part  already : 
it  does  not  exclusively  or  primarily  belong 
to  himself;  being  little  more  than  that  high 
tenet  of  entire  Self-forgetfulness,  that  "  merg- 
ing of  the  Me  in  the  Idea-'^  a  principle  which 
reigns  both  in  Stoical  and  Christian  ethics, 
and  is  at  this  day  common,  in  theory,  among 
all  German  philosophers,  especially  of  the 
Transcendental  class.  Werner  has  adopted 
this  principle  with  his  whole  heart  and  his 
whole  soul,  as  the  indispensable  condition  of 
all  Virtue.  He  believes  it,  we  should  say,  in- 
tensely, and  without  compromise,  exaggerating 
rather  than  softening  or  concealing  its  peculi- 
arities. He  will  not  have  Happiness,  under 
any  form,  to  be  the  real  or  chief  end  of  man  ; 
this  is  but  love  of  enjoyment,  disguise  it  as 
we  like ;  a  more  complex  and  sometimes  more 
respectable  species  of  hunger,  he  would  say ' 


46 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


to  be  admitted  as  an  indestructible  element  m 
human  nature,  but  nowise  to  be  recognised  as 
the  highest;  on  the  contrary,  to  be  resisted  and 
incessantly  warred  with,  till  it  become  obedi- 
ent to  love  of  God,  which  is  only,  in  the  truest 
sense,  love  of  Goodness,  and  the  germ  of  which 
lies  deep  in  the  inmost  nature  of  man  ;  of  au- 
thority superior  to  all  sensitive  impulses; 
forming,  in  fact,  the  grand  law  of  his  being,  as 
subjection  to  it  forms  the  first  and  last  condi- 
tion of  spiritual  health.  He  thinks  that  to  pro- 
pose a  reward  for  virtue  is  to  render  virtue  im- 
possible. He  warmly  seconds  Schleiermacher 
in  declaring  that  even  the  hope  of  Immortality  is 
a  consideration  unfit  to  be  introduced  into  re- 
ligion, and  tending  only  to  pervert  it,  and  im- 
pair its  sacredness.  Strange  as  this  may  seem, 
Werner  is  firmly  convinced  of  its  importance  ; 
and  has  even  enforced  it  specifically  in  a  pas- 
sage of  his  Sdhne  des  Thais,  which  he  is  at  the 
pains  to  cite  and  expound  in  his  correspond- 
ence with  Hitzig.  Here  is  another  fraction  of 
that  wondrous  dialogue  between  Robert  d'Here- 
don  and  Adam  of  Valincourt,  in  the  cavern  of 
the  Valley: 

*.***»  * 

HOBEHT. 

And  Death,— po  dawns  it  on  me,— Death  perhaps, 
The  doom  that  leaves  nought  of  this  Me  remaining, 
May  be  perhaps  the  Symbol  of  thai  Self-denial, — 

Perhaps  still  more, perhaps, — I  have  it,  friend  I — 

That  cripplish  Immortality,— think'st  not?— 

Which  but  spins  forth  our  paltry  JUIe,  so  thin 

And  pitiful,  into  Infinitude, 

That  too  must  die  ?— This  shallow  Self  of  ours, 

We  are  not  nail'd  to  it  eternally  1 

We  can,  we  must  be  free  of  it,  and  then 

Uncumber'd  wanton  in  the  Force  of  All ! 

ADAM  {.calling  joyfully  into  the  interior  of  the  Cavern.) 

Brethren,  he  has  renounced !  Himself  has  found  it! 
Oh :  praised  be  Light !  He  sees  !  The  North  is  saved  ! 
CONCEALED  VOICES  of  the  old  men  of  the  Valley. 

Hail  and  joy  to  thee,  thou  Strong  One  ; 
Force  to  thee  from  above,  and  Light  I 
Complete, — complete  the  work ! 

ADAM  (embracing  Robert.) 
Come  to  my  heart:— &c.  &c. 

Such  was  the  spirit  of  that  new  Faith,  which, 
symbolized  under  mythuses  of  Baflfometus  and 
Phosphoros,  and  "  Saviours  from  the  Waters," 
and  "Trinities  of  Art,  Religion,  and  Love," 
and  to  be  preached  abroad  by  the  aid  of  Schlei- 
ermacher, and  what  was  then  called  the  New 
Poetical  School,  Werner  seriously  purposed,  like 
another  Luther,  to  cast  forth,  as  good  seed, 
among  the  ruins  of  decayed  and  down-trodden 
Protestantism !  Whether  Hitzig  was  still  young 
enough  to  attempt  executing  his  commission, 
and  applying  to  Schlegel  and  Tieck  for  help ; 
and  if  so,  in  what  gestures  of  speechless  asto- 
nishment, or  what  peals  of  inextinguishable 
laughter  they  answered  him,  we  are  not  in- 
formed. One  thing,  however,  is  clear :  that  a 
man  with  so  unbridled  an  imagination,  joined  to 
so  weak  an  understanding,  and  so  broken  a  voli- 
tion ;  who  had  plunged  so  deep  into  Theoso- 
phy,  and  still  hovered  so  near  the  surface  in 
all  practical  knowledge  of  men  and  their  af- 
fairs ;  who,  shattered  and  degraded  in  his  own 
private  character,  could  meditate  such  apos- 
tolic enterprises,  was  a  man  likely,  if  he  lived 


long,  to  play  fantastic  tricks  in  abundance; 
and,  at  least,  in  his  religious  history,  to  set  the 
world  a-wondering.  Conversion,  not  to  Pope- 
ry, but,  if  it  so  chanced,  to  Braminism,  was  a 
thing  nowise  to  be  thought  impossible. 

Nevertheless,  let  his  missionary  zeal  have 
justice  from  us '  It  does  seem  to  have  been 
grounded  on  no  wicked  or  even  illaudable 
motive :  to  all  appearance,  he  not  only  believed 
what  he  professed,  but  thought  it  of  the  high- 
est moment  that  others  should  believe  it.  And 
if  the  proselytizing  spirit,  which  dwells  in  all 
men,  be  allowed  exercise  even  when  it  only 
assaults  what  it  reckons  Errors,  still  more 
should  this  be  so,  when  it  proclaims  what  it 
reckons  Truth,  and  fancies  itself  not  taking 
from  us  what  in  our  eyes  may  be  good,  but 
adding  thereto  what  is  better. 

Meanwhile,  Werner  was  not  so  absorbed  in 
spiritual  schemes,  that  he  altogether  over- 
looked his  own  merely  temporal  comfort.  In 
contempt  of  former  failures,  he  was  now  court- 
ing for  himself  a  third  wife,  "  a  young  Poless 
of  the  highest  personal  attractions;"  and  this 
under  difficulties  which  would  have  appalled 
an  ordinary  wooer:  for  the  two  had  no  lan- 
guage in  common ;  he  not  understanding 
three  words  of  Polish,  she  not  one  of  Ger- 
man. Nevertheless,  nothing  daunted  by  this 
circumstance,  nay,  perhaps  discerning  in  it 
an  assurance  against  many  a  sorrowful  cur- 
lain  lecture,  he  prosecuted  his  suit,  we  sup- 
pose by  signs  and  dumb-show,  with  such 
ardour,  that  he  quite  gained  the  fair  mute ; 
wedded  her  in  1801 ;  and  soon  after,  in  her 
company  quitted  Warsaw  for  Konigsberg, 
where  the  helpless  state  of  his  mother  re- 
quired immediate  attention.  It  is  from  Konigs- 
berg that  most  of  his  missionary  epistles  to 
Hitzig  are  written  ;  the  latter,  as  we  have  hint- 
ed above,  being  now  stationed,  by  his  official 
appointment,  in  Berlin.  The  sad  duty  of 
watching  over  his  crazed,  forsaken,  and  dying 
mother,  Werner  appears  to  have  discharged 
with  true  filial  assiduity :  for  three  years  she 
lingered  in  the  most  painful  state,  under  his 
nursing;  and  her  death,  in  1804,  seems  not- 
withstanding to  have  filled  him  with  the  deep- 
est sorrow.  This  is  an  extract  of  his  letter  to 
Hitzig  on  that  mournful  occasion : 

"  I  know  not  whether  thou  hast  heard  that  on 
the  24th  pf  February,  (the  same  day  when  our 
excellent  Mnioch  died  in  Warsaw,)  ray  mother 
departed  here,  in  my  arms.  My  Friend  !  God 
knocks  with  an  iron  hammer  at  our  hearts ; 
and  we  are  duller  than  stone,  if  we  do  not  feel 
it;  and  madder  than  mad,  if  we  think  it  shame 
to  cast  ourselves  into  the  dust  before  the  All- 
powerful,  and  let  our  whole  so  highly  misera- 
ble Self  be  annihilated  in  the  sentiment  of  His 
infinite  greatness  and  long-suffering.  I  wish  I 
had  words  to  paint  how  inexpressibly  pitiful 
my  Sohie  des  Thais  appeared  to  me  in  that  hour, 
when,  after  eighteen  years  of  neglect,  I  again 
went  to  partake  in  the  Communion!  This 
death  of  my  mother, — the  pure,  royal  poet-and- 
martyr  spirit,  who  for  eight  years  had  Iain  con- 
tinually on  a  sick-bed,  and  suffered  unspeaka- 
ble things, — affected  me,  (much  as,  for  her  sake 
and  my  own,  I  could  not  but  wish  it  with  alto- 
gether agonizing  feelings.)     Ah,  Friend,  how 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


47 


heavy  do  my  youthful  faults  lie  on  me  !  How 
much  would  I  give  to  have  my  mother — (though 
both  I  and  my  wife  have  of  late  times  lived 
wholly  for  her,  and  had  much  to  endure  on  her 
account) — how  much  would  I  give  to  have  her 
back  to  me  but  one  week,  that  I  might  dis- 
burden my  heavy-laden  heart  with  tears  of  re- 
pentance !  My  beloved  Friend,  give  thou  no 
grief  to  thy  parents !  ah,  no  earthly  voice  can 
awaken  the  dead !  God  and  Parents,  that  is 
the  first  concern ;  all  else  is  secondary." 

This  affection  for  his  mother  forms,  as  it 
were,  a  little  island  of  light  and  verdure  in 
Werner's  history,  where,  amid  so  much  that  is 
dark  and  desolate,  one  feels  it  pleasant  to  lin- 
ger. Here  was  at  least  one  duty,  perhaps,  in- 
deed, the  only  one,  which,  in  a  wayward, 
wasted  life,  he  discharged  with  fidelity :  from 
his  conduct  towards  this  one  hapless  being,  we 
may,  perhaps,  still  learn  that  his  heart,  how- 
ever perverted  by  circumstances,  was  not  in- 
capable of  true,  disinterested  love.  A  rich  heart 
by  Nature ;  but  unwisely  squandering  its  riches, 
and  attaining  to  a  pure  union  only  with  this  one 
heart ;  for  it  seems  doubtful  whether  he  ever 
loved  another!  His  poor  mother,  while  alive, 
was  the  haven  of  all  his  earthly  voyagings ;  and, 
in  after  years,  from  amid  far  scenes,  and  crush- 
ing perplexities,  he  often  looks  back  to  her 
grave  with  a  feeling  to  which  all  bosoms  must 
respond.*  The  date  of  her  decease  became  a 
memorable  era  in  his  mind;  as  may  appear 
from  the  title  which  he  gave,  long  afterwards, 
to  one  of  his  most  popular  and  tragical  pro- 
ductions. Die  Vier-und-zwanzigste  Februar  (The 
Twenty-fourth  of  February.) 

After  this  event,  which  left  him  in  posses- 
sion of  a  small  but  competent  fortune,  Werner 
returned  with  his  wife  to  his  post  at  Warsaw. 
By  this  time,  Hitzig,  too,  had  been  sent  back, 
and  to  a  higher  post:  he  was  now  married 
likewise  ;  and  the  two  wives,  he  says,  soon  be- 
came as  intimate  as  their  husbands.  In  a  lit- 
tle while  Hoffmann  joined  them ;  a  colleague 
in  Hitzig's  office,  and  by  him  ere  long  intro- 
duced to  Werner,  and  the  other  circle  of  Prus- 
sian men  of  law,  who,  in  this  foreign  capital, 
formed  each  other's  chief  society;  and,  of 
course,  cleave  to  one  another  more  closely 
than  they  might  have  done  elsewhere.  Hoff- 
mann does  not  seem  to  have  loved  Werner ; 
as,  indeed,  he  was  at  all  times  rather  shy  in 
his  attachments  ;  and,  to  his  quick  eye,  and 
more  rigid,  fastidious  feeling,  the  lofty  theory 
and  low  selfish  practice,  the  general  diffuse- 
ness,  nay,  incoherence  of  character,  the  pe- 
dantry and  solemn  affectation,  too  visible  in 
the  man,  could  nowise  be  hidden.  Neverthe- 
less, he  feels  and  acknowledges  the  frequent 


*  See,  for  example,  the  Preface  to  his  Mutter  der  Mak- 
kablier,  written  at  Vienna,  in  1819.  The  tone  of  still,  but 
deep  and  heartfelt  sadness,  which  runs  through  the 
whole  of  this  piece,  cannot  be  communicated  in  extracts. 
We  quote  only  a  half  stanza,  which,  except  in  prose,  we 
shall  not  venture  to  translate  : 

frh,  dem  der  Liebe  Kosen 
Und  alle  Freudenrosen, 
Bcyvi  ersten  Schaufdtosen 
Am  Mutterffrab'  entjlohn.— 

"I,  for  whom  the  caresses  of  love  and  all  roses  of  joy 
withered  away,  as  the  first  shovel  with  its  mould  sound- 
ed on  the  coffin  of  my  mother." 


charm  of  his  conversation :  for  Werner  many 
times  could  be  frank  and  simple;  and  the  true 
humour  and  abandonment  with  which  he  often 
launched  forth  into  bland  satire  on  his  friends, 
and  still  ofteneron  himself,  atoned  for  many  of 
his  whims  and  weaknesses.  Probably  the  two 
could  not  have  lived  together  by  themselves : 
but  in  a  circle  of  common  men,  where  these 
touchy  elements  were  attempered  by  a  fair  ad- 
dition of  wholesome  insensibilities  and  for- 
malities, they  even  relished  one  another;  and, 
indeed,  the  whole  social  union  seems  to  have 
stood  on  no  undesirable  footing.  For  the  rest, 
Warsaw  itself  was,  at  this  time,  a  gay,  pic- 
turesque, and  stirring  city;  full  of  resources 
for  spending  life  in  pleasant  occupation,  either 
wisely  or  unwisely.* 

It  was  here,  that,  in  1805,  Werner's  Kreuz 
an  der  Ostsee  (Cross  on  the  Baltic)  was  writ- 
ten :  a  sort  of  half-operatic  performance,  for 
which  Hoffmann,  who  to  his  gifts  as  a  writer 
added  perhaps  still  higher  attainments,  both  as 
a  musician  and  a  painter,  composed  the  ac- 
companiment. He  complains  that,  in  this  mat- 
ter, Werner  was  very  ill  to  please.  A  ridicu- 
lous scene,  at  the  first  reading  of  the  piece,  the 
same  shrewd  wag  has  recorded  in  his  Sera- 
pions-Bruder ;  Hitzig  assures  us  that  it  is  lite- 
rally true,  and  that  Hoffmann  himself  was  the 
main  actor  in  the  business. 

"  Our  Poet  had  invited  a  few  friends,  to  read 
to  them,  in  manuscript,  his  Kreuz  an  der  Ostsee, 
of  which  they  already  knew  some  fragments 
that  had  raised  their  expectations  to  the  high- 
est stretch.^  Planted,  as  usual,  in  the  middle 
of  the  circle,  at  a  little  miniature  table,  on  which 
two  clear  lights,  stuck  in  high  candlesticks, 
were  burning,  sat  the  poet :  he  had  drawn  the 
manuscript  from  his  breast;  the  huge  snuff-box, 
the  blue-checked  handkerchief,  aptly  reminding 
you  of  Baltic  muslin,  as  in  use  for  petticoats  and 
other  indispensable  things,  lay  arranged  in 
order  before  him. — Deep  silence  on  all  sides ! — 
Not  a  breath  heard ! — The  poet  cuts  one  of 
those  unparalleled,  ever-memorable,  altogether 
indescribable  faces  you  have  seen  in  him,  and 
begins. — Now  you  recollect,  at  the  rising  of  the 
curtain,  the  Prussians  are  assembled  on  the 
coast  of  the  Baltic,  fishing  amber,  and  com- 


*  Hitzig  has  thus  described  the  first  aspect  it  presented 
to  Hoffmann  :  "  Streets  of  stately  breadth,  formed  of  pa- 
laces in  tlMj'finest  Italian  style,  and  wooden  huts  which 
threatened  every  moment  to  rush  down  over  the  heads 
of  their  inmates;  in  these  edifices,  Asiatic  pomp  com- 
bined in  strange  union  with  Greenland  squalor.  An 
ever-moving  population,  forming  the  sharpest  contrasts, 
as  in  a  perpetual  masquerade :  long-bearded  Jews ; 
monks  in  the  garb  of  every  order  ;  here  veiled  and  deep- 
ly-shrouded nuns  of  strictest  discipline,  walking,  self- 
secluded  and  apart :  there  flights  of  young  Polesses,  in 
silk  mantles  of  the  brightest  colours,  talking  and  prome- 
nading over  broad  squares.  The  venerable  ancient  Po- 
lish noble,  with  moustaches,  caftan,  girdle,  sabre,  and 
red  or  yellow  boots  :  the  new  generation  equipt  to  the 
utmost  pitch  as  Parisian  Incroyables ;  with  Turks, 
Greeks,  Russians,  Italians,  Frenchmen,  in  ever-chang- 
ing throng.  Add  to  this  a  police  of  inconceivable  toler- 
ance, disturbing  no  popular  sport ;  so  that  little  puppet- 
theatres,  apes,  camels,  dancing  bears,  practised  inces- 
santly in  open  spaces  and  streets  ;  while  the  most  elegant 
equipages,  and  the  poorest  pedestrian  bearers  of  burden, 
stood  gazing  at  them.  Further,  a  theatre  in  the  national 
language  ;  a  good  French  company ;  an  Italian  opera  ; 
German  players  of  at  least  a  very  passable  sort  ;  mask- 
ed-balls on  a  quite  original  but  highly  entertaining  plan; 
places  for  pleasure-excursions  all  round  the  city,"  &c, 
&c. — Hoffmann's  Leben  und  JVachlass,  b.  i.  p.  287. 


48 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


mence  by  calling  on  the  god  who  presides  over 
this  vocation. — So — begins  : 

Bangputtis!  Bangputtis  !  Bangputtis  ! 
—Brief  pause  !— Incipient  stare  in  the  audi- 
ence ! — and  from  a  fellow  in  the  corner  comes 
a  small  clear  voice :  '  My  dearest,  most  valued 
friend !  my  best  of  poets  !  If  thy  whole  dear 
opera  is  written  in  that  cursed  language,  no 
soul  of  us  knows  a  syllable  of  it;  and  I  beg, 
in  the  Devil's  name,  thou  wouldst  rather  have 
the  goodness  to  translate  it  first !'  "* 

Of  this  Kreuz  an  der  Ostsee  our  limits  will 
permit  us  to  say  but  little.  It  is  still  a  frag- 
ment ;  the  Second  Part,  which  was  often  pro- 
mised, and,  we  believe,  partly  written,  having 
never  yet  been  published.  In  some  respects, 
it  appears  to  us  the  best  of  Werner's  dramas  : 
there  is  a  decisive  coherence  in  the  plot,  such 
as  we  seldom  find  with  him;  and  a  firmness,  a 
rugged  nervous  brevity  in  the  dialogue,  which 
is  equally  rare.  Here,  too,  the  mystic  dreamy 
agencies,  which,  as  in  most  of  his  pieces,  he 
has  interwoven  with  the  action,  harmonize 
more  than  usually  with  the  spirit  of  the  whole. 
It  is  a  wild  subject,  and  this  helps  to  give  it  a 
corresponding  wildness  of  locality.  The  first 
planting  of  Christianity  among  the  Prussians, 
by  the  Teutonic  Knights,  leads  us  back  of 
itself  into  dim  ages  of  antiquity,  of  supersti- 
tious barbarism,  and  stern  apostolic  zeal :  it  is 
a  scene  hanging,  as  it  were,  in  half-ghastly 
chiaroscuro,  on  a  ground  of  primeval  Night: 
where  the  Cross  and  St.  Adalbert  come  in  con- 
tact with  the  Sacred  Oak  and  the  Idols  of 
Romova,  we  are  not  surprised  that  spectral 
shapes  peer  forth  on  us  from  the  gloom. 

In  the  constructing  and  depicting  of  charac- 
ters, Werner,  indeed,  is  still  little  better  than  a 
mannerist:  his  persons,  differing  in  external 
figure,  differ  too  slightly  in  inward  nature ;  and 
no  one  of  them  comes  forward  on  us  with  a 
rightly  visible  or  living  air.     Yet,  in  scenes 
and  incidents, in  what  maybe  called  the  gene- 
ral costume  of  his  subject,  he  has  here  attained 
a   really   superior  excellence.      The    savage 
Prussians,  with  their  amber-fishing,  their  bear- 
hunting,  their  bloody  idolatry,  and  stormful  un- 
tutored energy,  are  brought  vividly  into  view ; 
no  less  so  the  Polish  Court  of  Plozk,  and  the 
German  Crusaders,  in  their  bridal-feasts  and 
battles,  as  they  live  and  move,  here  placed  on 
the  verge  of  Heathendom,  as  it  were,  the  van- 
guard of  Light  in  conflict  with  the  kingdoms 
of  Darkness.     The  nocturnal  assault  on  Plozk 
by  the  Prussians,  where  the  handful  of  Teuto- 
nic Knights  is  overpowered,  but  the  city  saved 
from  ruin  by  the  miraculous  interposition  of 
the  "  Harper,"  who  now  proves  to  be  the  spirit 
of  St.  Adalbert;   this,  with  the  scene  which 
follows  it,  on  the  Island  of  the  Vistula,  where 
the  dawn  slowly  breaks  over  doings  of  wo  and 
horrid  cruelty,  but  of  wo  and  cruelty  atoned 
for  by  immortal  hope,— belongs  undoubtedly 
to  Werner's   most  successful  efforts.     With 
much  that  is  questionable,  much  that  is  merely 
common,  there  are  intermingled  touches  from 
the  true  Land  of  Wonders ;  indeed,  the  whole 
is  overspread  with  a  certain   dim   religious 
light,  in  which  its  many  pettinesses  and  exag- 


*  Hoffmann's  Serapions-Briider,  b.  iv.  s. 


gerations  are  softened  into  something  which' 
at  least  resembles  poetic  harmony.  We  give 
this  drama  a  high  praise,  when  we  say  that 
more  than  once  it  has  reminded  us  of  Cal- 
deron. 

The  "  Cross  on  the  Baltic"  had  been  bespoke 
by  Iffland  for  the  Berlin  theatre ;  but  the  com- 
plex machinery  of  the  piece,  the  "  little  flames" 
springing,  at  intervals,  from  the  heads  of  cer- 
tain characters,  and  the  other  supernatural 
ware  with  which  it  is  replenished,  were  found 
to  transcend  the  capabilities  of  any  merely 
terrestrial  stage.  Iffland,  the  best  actor  in 
Germany,  was  himself  a  dramatist,  and  a  man 
of  talent,  but  in  all  points  differing  from  Wer- 
ner, as  a  stage-machinist  may  differ  from  a 
man  with  the  second-sight.  Hoffmann  chuckles 
in  secret  over  the  perplexities  in  which  the 
shrewd  prosaic  manager  and  playwright  must 
have  found  himself,  when  he  came  to  the 
"  little  flames."  Nothing  remained  but  to  write 
back  a  refusal,  full  of  admiration  and  expostu- 
lation :  and  Iffland  wrote  one  which,  says  Hoff- 
mann, "  passes  for  a  master-piece  of  theatrical 
diplomacy." 

In  this  one  respect,  at  least,  Werner's  next 
play  was  happier,  for  it  actually  crossed  the 
"Stygian  marsh"  of  green-room  hesitations, 
and  reached,  though  in  a  maimed  state,  the 
Elysium  of  the  boards ;  and  this  to  the  great 
joy,  as  it  proved,  both  of  Iffland  and  all  other 
parties  interested.  We  allude  to  the  Martin 
LutheVy  Oder  die  Wci-he  der  Kraft,  (Martin  Luther, 
or  the  Consecration  of  Strength,)  Werner's' 
most  popular  performance,  which  came  out  at 
Berlin  in  1807,  and  soon  spread  over  all  Ger- 
many, Catholic  as  well  as  protestant,  being 
acted,  it  would  seem,  even  in  Vienna,  to  over- 
flowing and  delighted  audiences. 

If  instant  acceptance,  therefore,  were  a 
measure  of  dramatic  merit,  this  play  should 
rank  high  among  that  class  of  works.  Never- 
theless, to  judge  from  our  own  impressions, 
the  sober  reader  of  Martin  Luther  will  be  far 
from  finding  in  it  such  excellence.  It  cannot 
be  named  among  the  best  dramas:  it  is  not 
even  the  best  of  Werner's.  There  is,  indeed, 
much  scenic  exhibition,  many  a  "  fervid  senti- 
ment," as  the  newspapers  have  it ;  nay,  with 
all  its  mixture  of  coarseness,  here  and  there 
a  glimpse  of  genuine  dramatic  inspiration; 
but,  as  a  whole,  the  work  sorely  disappoints 
us  ;  it  is  of  so  loose  and  mixed  a  structure  and 
falls  asunder  in  our  thoughts,  like  the  iron  and 
clay  in  the  Chaldean's  Dream.  There  is  an 
interest,  perhaps  of  no  trivial  sort,  awakened 
in  the  First  Act ;  but,  unhappily,  it  goes  on  de- 
clining, till,  in  the  Fifth,  an  ill-natured  critic 
might  almost  say,  it  expires.  The  story  is  too 
wide  for  Werner's  dramatic  lens  to  gather  into 
a  focus ;  besides,  the  reader  brings  with  him 
an  image  of  it,  too  fixed  for  being  so  boldly 
metamorphosed,  and  too  high  and  august  for 
being  ornamented  with  tinsel  and  gilt  paste- 
board. Accordingly,  the  Diet  of  Worms, 
plentifully  furnished  as  it  is  with  sceptres  and 
armorial  shields,  continues  a  much  grander 
scene  in  History,  than  it  is  here  in  Fiction. 
Neither,  with  regard  to  the  persons  of  the  play, 
excepting  those  of  Luther  and  Catharine,  the 
Nun  whom  he  weds,  can  we  find  much  scope 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


49 


for  praise.    Nay,  our  praise  even  of  these 
two  must  have  many  limitations.     Catharine, 
though  carefully  enough  depicted,  is,  in  fact, 
little  more  than  a  common  tragedy-queen,  with 
the  storminess,  the  love,  and  other  stage-hero- 
ism, which  belong  prescriptively  to  that  class 
of  dignitaries.  W^ith  regard  to  Luther  himself, 
it  is  evident  that  Werner  has  put  forth  his 
whole  strength  in  this  delineation  ;  and,  trying 
him  by  common  standards,  we  are  far  from 
saying  that  he  has  failed.    Doubtless  it  is,  in 
some  respects,  a  significant  and  even  sublime 
delineation :   yet  must  we  ask  whether  it  is 
Luther,  the  Luther  of  History,  or  even  the 
Luther  proper  for  this  drama;  and  not  rather 
some  ideal  portraiture  of  Zacharias  Werner 
himself  1     Is  not  this  Luther,  with  his  too  as- 
siduous flute-playing,  his  trances  of  three  days, 
his  visions  of  the  Devil,  (at  whom,  to  the  sor- 
row of  the  housemaid,  he  resolutely  throws  his 
huge  ink-bottle,)  by  much  too  spasmodic  and 
brainsick  a  personage  ]     We  cannot  but  ques- 
tion the  dramatic  beauty,  whatever  it  may  be 
in  history,  of  that  three  days'  trance  ;  the  hero 
must  before  this  have  been  in  want  of  mere 
victuals  ;  and  there,  as  he  sits  deaf  and  dumb, 
with  his  eyes  sightless,  yet  fixed  and  staring, 
are  we  not  tempted  less  to  admire,  than  to  send 
in  all  haste  for  some  oflicer  of  the  Humane 
Society? — Seriously,  we    cannot    but    regret 
that  these  and  other  such  blemishes  had  not 
been  avoided,  and  the  character,  worked  into 
chasteness  and  purity,  been  presented  to  us  in 
the  simple  grandeur  which  essentially  belongs 
to  it.    For,  censure  as  we  may,  it  were  blind- 
ness to  deny  that  this  figure  of  Luther  has  in 
it  features  of  an  austere  loveliness,  a  mild,  yet 
awful  beauty :  undoubtedly  a  figure  rising  from 
the  depths  of  the  poet's  soul ;  and,  marred  as  it 
is  with  such  adhesions,  piercing  at  times  into 
the  depths  of  ours  !     Among  so  many  poetical 
sins,  it  forms  the  chief  redeeming  virtue,  and 
truly  were  almost  in  itself  a  sort  of  atone- 
ment. 

As  for  the  other  characters,  they  need  not 
detain  us  long.  Of  Charles  the  Fifth,  by  far 
the  most  ambitious, — meant,  indeed,  as  the 
counterpoise  of  Luther, — we  may  say,  without 
hesitation,  that  he  is  a  failure.  An  empty  Gas- 
con this ;  bragging  of  his  power,  and  honour, 
and  the  like,  in  a  style  which  Charles,  even  in 
his  nineteenth  year,  could  never  have  used. 
"  One  God,  one  Charles,"  is  no  speech  for  an 
emperor;  and,  besides,  is  borrowed  from  some 
panegyrist  of  a  Spanish  opera-singer.  Neither 
can  we  fall  in  with  Charles,  when  he  tells  us, 
that  "  he  fears  nothing, — not  even  God."  We 
humbly  think  he  must  be  mistaken.  With  the 
old  Miners,  again,  with  Hans  Luther  and  his 
Wife,  the  Reformer's  parents,  there  is  more 
reason  to  be  satisfied ;  yet  in  Werner's  hands 
simplicity  is  always  apt,  in  such  cases,  to  be- 
come too  simple,  and  these  honest  peasants, 
like  the  honest  Hugo  in  the  •*  Sons  of  the  Val- 
ley," are  very  garrulous. 

This  drama  of  "Martin  Luther"  is  named 
likewise  the  "  Consecration  of  Strength  ;"  that 
is,  we  suppose,  the  purifying  of  this  great 
theologian  from  all  remnants  of  earthly  pas- 
sion, into  a  clear  heavenly  zeal;  an  operation 
which  is  brought  about,  strangely  enough,  by 
7 


two  half-ghosts  and  one  whole  ghost, — a  little 
fairy  girl,  Catharine's  servant,  who  imper- 
sonates Faith ;  a  little  fairy  youth,  Luther's 
servant,  who  represents  Art ;  and  the  "  Spirit 
of  Cotta's  wife,"  an  honest  housekeeper,  but 
defunct  many  years  before,  who  stands  for 
Purity.  These  three  supernaturals  hover  about 
in  very  whimsical  wise,  cultivating  flowers, 
playing  on  flutes,  and  singing  dirge-like  epitha- 
lamiums  over  unsound  sleepers :  we  cannot  see 
how  aught  of  this  is  to  "consecrate  strength;" 
or,  indeed,  what  such  jack-o'-lantern  person- 
ages have  in  the  least  to  do  with  so  grave  a 
business.  If  the  author  intended  by  such 
machinery  to  elevate  his  subject  from  the 
Common,  and  unite  it  with  the  higher  region 
of  the  Infinite  and  the  Invisible,  we  cannot 
think  that  his  contrivance  has  succeeded,  or 
was  worthy  to  succeed.  These  half-allegorical, 
half-corporeal  beings  yield  no  contentment 
anywhere  :  Abstract  Ideas,  however  they  may 
put  on  fleshly  garments,  are  a  class  of  charac- 
ters whom  we  cannot  sympathize  with  or  de- 
light in.  Besides,  how  can  this  mere  imbody- 
ment  of  an  allegory  be  supposed  to  act  on  the 
rugged  materials  of  life,  and  elevate  into  ideal 
grandeur  the  doings  of  real  men,  that  live  and 
move  amid  the  actual  pressure  of  worldly 
things  1  At  best,  it  can  stand  but  like  a  hand 
in  the  margin :  it  is  not  performing  the  task  pro- 
posed, but  only  telling  us  that  it  was  meant  to 
be  performed.  To  our  feelings,  this  entire 
episode  runs  like  straggling  bindweed  through 
the  whole  growth  of  the  piece,  not  so  much 
uniting  as  encumbering  and  choking  up  what 
it  nieets  with ;  in  itself,  perhaps,  a  green  and 
rather  pretty  weed ;  yet  here  superfluous,  and, 
like  any  other  weed,  deserving  only  to  be  alto- 
gether cut  away. 

Our  general  opinion  of  "  Martin  Luther,"  it 
would  seem,  therefore,  corresponds  ill  with  that 
of  the  "  overflowing  and  delighted  audiences" 
over  all  Germany.  We  believe,  however,  that 
now,  in  its  twentieth  year,  the  work  may  be 
somewhat  more  calmly  judged  of  even  there. 
As  a  classical  drama  it  could  never  pass  with 
any  critic ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  shall  we 
ourselves  deny  that,  in  the  lower  sphere  of  a 
popular  spectacle,  its  attractions  are  manifold. 
We  find  it,  what,  more  or  less,  we  find  all 
Werner's  pieces  to  be,  a  splendid,  sparkling 
mass ;  yet  not  of  pure  metal,  but  of  many- 
coloured  scoria,  not  unmingled  with  metal ;  and 
must  regret,  as  ever,  that  it  had  not  been  re- 
fined in  a  stronger  furnace,  and  kept  in  the 
crucible  till  the  true  silver-gleam,  glancing  from 
it,  had  shown  that  the  process  was  complete. 

Werner's  dramatic  popularity  could  not  re- 
main without  influence  on  him,  more  espe- 
cially as  he  was  now  in  the  very  centre  of  its 
brilliancy,  having  changed  his  residence  from 
Warsaw  to  Berlin,  some  time  before  his  Weihe 
der  Kraft  was  acted,  or  indeed  written.  Von 
Schrotter,  one  of  the  state-ministers,  a  man 
harmonizing  with  Werner  in  his  "  zeal  both  for 
religion  and  freemasonry,"  had  been  persuaded 
by  some  friends  to  appoint  him  his  secretary^ 
Werner  naturally  rejoiced  in  such  promotion ; 
yet,  combined  with  his  theatrical  success,  it 
perhaps,  in  the  long  run,  did  him  more  harm 
than  good.    He  might  now,  for  the  first  time^ 


50 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


be  said  to  see  the  busy  and  influential  world 
■with  his  own  eyes:  but  to  draw  future  instruc- 
tion from  it,  or  even  to  guide  himself  in  its 
present  complexities,  he  was  little  qualified. 
He  took  a  shorter  method:  "he  plunged  into 
the  vortex  of  society,"  says  Hitzig,  with  brief  ex- 
pressiveness ;  became  acquainted,  indeed,  with 
Fichte,  Johannes  Miiller  and  other  excellent 
men,  but  united  himself  also,  and  with  closer 
partiality,  to  players,  play-lovers,  and  a  long 
list  of  jovial,  admiring,  but  highly  unprofitable 
companions.  His  religious  schemes,  perhaps, 
rebutted  by  collision  with  actual  life,  lay  dor- 
mant for  the  time,  or  mingled  in  strange  union 
■with  wine-vapours,  and  the  "feast  of  reason, 
and  the  flow  of  soul."  The  result  of  all  this 
might,  in  some  measure,  be  foreseen.  In  eight 
weeks,  for  example,  Werner  had  parted  with 
his  wife.  It  was  not  to  be  expected,  he  writes, 
that  she  should  be  happy  with  him.  "  I  am 
no  bad  man,"  continues  he,  with  considerable 
candour;  "yet  a  weakling  in  many  respects, 
(for  God  strengthens  me  also  in  several,)  fret- 
ful, capricious,  greedy,  impure.  Thou  knowest 
me !  Still,  immersed  in  my  fantasies,  in  my 
occupation :  so  that  here,  what  with  playhouses, 
what  with  social  parties,  she  had  no  manner 
of  enjoyment  with  me.  She  is  innocent.  I, 
too,  perhaps,  for  can  I  pledge  myself  that  I  am 
so  1"  These  repeated  divorces  of  Werner's  at 
length  convinced  him  that  he  had  no  talent  for 
managing  wives ;  indeed,  we  subsequently  find 
him,  more  than  once,  arguing  in  dissuasion  of 
marriage  altogether.  To  our  readers  one  other 
consideration  may  occur:  astonishment  at 
the  state  of  marriage-law,  and  the  strange  foot- 
ing this  "sacrament"  must  stand  on  throughout 
Protestant  Germany.  For  a  Christian  man,  at 
least  not  a  Mohammedan,  to  leave  three  widows 
behind  him,  certainly  wears  a  peculiar  aspect. 
Perhaps  it  is  saying  much  for  German  morality, 
that  so  absurd  a  system  has  not,  by  the  dis- 
orders resulting  from  it,  already  brought  about 
its  own  abrogation. 

Of  Werner's  further  proceedings  in  Berlin, 
except  by  implication,  we  have  little  notice. 
After  the  arrival  of  the  French  armies,  his 
secretaryship  ceased;  and  now  wifeless  and 
placeless,  in  the  summer  of  1807, "  he  felt  him- 
self," he  says,  "  authorized  by  Fate  to  indulge 
his  taste  for  pilgriming."  Indulge  it  accord- 
ingly he  did;  for  he  wandered  to  and  fro  many 
years,  nay,  we  may  almost  say  to  the  end  of 
his  life,  like  a  perfect  Bedouin.  The  various 
stages  and  occurrences  of  his  travels,  he  has 
himself  recorded  in  a  paper,  furnished  by  him 
for  his  own  Name,  in  some  Biographical  Dic- 
tionary. Hitzig  quotes  great  part  of  it,  but  it 
is  too  long  and  too  meagre  for  being  quoted 
here.  Werner  was  at  Prague,  Vienna,  Munich, 
— everywhere  received  with  open  arms  ;  "  saw 
at  Jena,  in  December,  1807,  for  the  first  time, 
the  most  universal  and  the  clearest  man  of  his 
age,  (the  man  whose  like  no  one  that  has  seen 
him  will  ever  see  again,)  the  great,  nay,  only 
Goethe;  and,  under  his  introduction,  the  pat- 
tern of  German  princes,"  (the  Duke  of 
Weimar;)  and  then,  "after  three  ever-memora- 
ble months  in  this  society,  beheld  at  Berlin  the 
triumphant  entry  of  the  pattern  of  European 
tyrants,"  (Napoleon.)     On  the  summit  of  the 


Rigi,  at  sunrise,  he  became  acquainted  with 
the  Crown-Prince,  King  of  Bavaria  ;  was  by 
him  introduced  to  the  Swiss  festival  at  In- 
terlacken,  and  to  the  most  "  intellectual  lady 
of  our  time,  the  Baroness  de  Stael ;"  and  must 
beg  to  be  credited  when,  after  sufficient  in- 
dividual experience,  he  can  declare,  that  the 
heart  of  this  high  and  noble  woman  was  at 
least  as  great  as  her  genius.  Coppet,  for  a 
while,  was  his  head  quarters,  but  he  went  to 
Paris,  to  Weimar,*  again  to  Switzerland ;  in 
short,  trudged  and  hurried  hither  and  thither, 
inconstant  as  an  ignis  fatuus,  and  restless  as 
the  Wandering  Jew. 

On  his  mood  of  mind  during  all  this  period, 
Werner  gives  us  no  direct  information  ;  but  so 
unquiet  an  outward  life  betokens  of  itself  no 
inward  repose ;  and  when  we,  from  other  lights, 
gain  a  transient  glimpse  into  the  wayfarer's 
thoughts,  they  seem  still  more  fluctuating  than 
his  footsteps.  His  project  of  a  New  Religion 
was  by  this  time  abandoned :  Hitzig  thinks 
his  closer  survey  of  life  at  Berlin  had  taught 
him  the  impracticability  of  such  chimeras. 
Nevertheless,  the  subject  of  Religion,  in  one 
shape  or  another,  nay,  of  propagating  it  in  new 
purity  by  teaching  and  preaching,  had  nowise 
vanished  from  his  meditations.  On  the  con- 
trary, we  can  perceive  that  it  still  formed  the 
master-principle  of  his  soul,  "  the  pillar  of 
cloud  by  day,  and  the  pillar  of  fire  by  night," 
which  guided  him,  so  far  as  he  had  any  guid- 
ance, in  the  pathless  desert  of  his  now  solitary, 
barren,  and  cheerless  existence.  What  his 
special  opinions  or  prospects  on  the  matter 
had,  at  this  period,  become,  we  nowhere  learn  ; 
except,  indeed,  negatively, — for  if  he  has  not 
yet  found  the  new,  he  still  cordially  enough 
detests  the  old.  All  his  admiration  of  Luther 
cannot  reconcile  him  to  modern  Lutheranism. 
This  he  regards  but  as  another  and  more  hide- 
ous impersonation  of  the  Utilitarian  spirit  of  the 
age,  nay,  as  the  last  triumph  of  Infidelity,  which 
has  now  dressed  itself  in  priestly  garb,  and 
even  mounted  the  pulpit,  to  preach,  in  heaven- 
ly symbols,  a  doctrine  which  is  altogether  of 
the  earth.  A  curious  passage  from  his  pre- 
face to  the  "Cross  on  the  Baltic"  we  may 
quote,  by  way  of  illustration.  After  speaking 
of  St.  Adalbert's  miracles,  and  how  his  body, 
when  purchased  from  the  heathen  for  its 
weight  in  gold,  became  light  as  gossamer,  he 
proceeds: 

"  Though  these  things  may  be  justly  doubted ; 
yet  onf  miracle  cannot  be  denied  him,  the  mi- 
racle, namely,  that  after  his  death  he  has  ex- 
torted from  this  Spirit  of  Protestantism  against 
Strength  in  general, — which  now  replaced  the 
old  heathen  and  catholic  Spirit  of  Persecution, 
and  weighs  almost  as  much  as  Adalbert's  body, 
— the  admission,  that  he  knew  what  he  wanted ; 
was  what  he  wished  to  be ;  was  so  wholly ;  and 
therefore  must  have  been  a  man,  at  all  points 
diametrically  opposite  both  to  that  Protestant- 
ism, and  to  the  culture  of  our  day."  In  a  Note, 
he  adds:    "There   is   another  Protestantism, 


*  It  was  here  that  Hitzig  saw  him,  for  the  last  time, 
in  1809,  found  admittance,  through  his  means,  to  a  court 
festival  in  honour  of  Bernadotte  ;  and  he  still  recollects, 
with  gratification,  "  the  lordly  spectacle  of  Goethe  and 
that  sovereign  standing  front  to  front,  engaged  in  the 
liveliest  conversation." 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


St 


however,  which  constitutes  in  Conduct,  what 
Art  is  in  Speculation,  and  which  I  reverence 
so  highly,  that  I  even  place  it  above  Art,  as 
Conduct  is  above  Speculation  at  all  times.  But 
in  this,  St.  Adalbert  and  St.  Luther  are — col- 
leagues :  and  if  God,  which  I  daily  pray  for, 
should  awaken  Luther  to  us  before  the  Last 
Day,  ihe  first  task  he  would  find,  in  respect  of 
that  degenerate  and  spurious  Protestantism, 
would  be,  in  his  somewhat  rugged  manner,  to 
— protest  against  it." 

A  similar,  or  pe^haps  still  more  reckless 
temper,  is  to  be  traced  elsewhere,  in  passages 
of  a  gay,  as  well  as  grave  character.  This  is 
the  conclusion  of  a  letter  from  Vienna,  in 
1807 

"We  have  Tragedies  here  which  contain  so 
many  edifying  maxims,  that  you  might  use 
them  instead  of  Jesus  Sirach,  and  have  them 
read  from  beginning  to  end  in  the  Berlin  Sun- 
day-schools. Comedies,  likewise,  absolutely 
bursting  with  household  felicity  and  nobleness 
of  mind.  The  genuine  Kasperl  is  dead,  and 
Schikandergonehis  ways;  but  here, too, Bigotry 
and  Superstition  are  attacked  in  enlightened 
Journals  with  such  profit,  that  the  people  care 
less  for  Popery  than  even  you  in  Berlin  do ; 
and  prize,  for  instance,  the  Weihe  der  Kraft, 
which  has  also  been  declaimed  in  Regensburg 
and  Munich  to  thronging  audiences, — chiefly 
for  the  multitude  of  liberal  Protestant  opinions 
therein  brought  to  light ;  and  regard  the  author, 
all  his  struggling  to  the  contrary  unheeded,  as 
a  secret  Jlluminatus,  or  at  worst  an  amiable 
Enthusiast.  In  a  word,  Vienna  is  determined, 
without  loss  of  time,  to  overtake  Berlin  in  the 
career  of  improvement;  and  when  I  recollect 
that  Berlin,  on  her  side,  carries  Porsten's 
Hymn-book  with  her,  in  her  reticule,  to  the 
shows  in  the  Thiergarten;  and  that  the  ray 
of  Christiano-catholico-platonic  Faith  pierces 
deeper  and  deeper  into  your  (already  by  nature 
very  deep)  Privy-councillor  Mamsell, — I  al- 
most fancy  that  Germany  is  one  great  mad- 
house ;  and  could  find  in  my  heart  to  pack  up 
my  goods,  and  set  ofl"  for  Italy  to-morrow  morn- 
ing ; — not,  indeed,  that  I  might  work  there, 
where  follies  enough  are  to  be  had  too;  but 
that,  amid  ruins  and  dowers,  I  might  forget  all 
things,  and  myself  in  the  first  place." — Lebens- 
Abriss,  s.  70. 

To  Italy  accordingly  he  went,  though  with 
rather  different  objects,  and  not  quite  so  soon 
as  on  the  morrow.  In  the  course  of  his  wander- 
ings, a  munificent  ecclesiastical  Prince,  the 
Fiirst  Primas  von  Dalberg,  had  settled  a  year- 
ly pension  on  him ;  so  that  now  he  felt  still 
more  at  liberty  to  go  whither  he  listed.  In 
the  course  of  a  second  visit  to  Coppet,  and 
which  lasted  four  months,  Madame  de  Stael 
encouraged  and  assisted  him  to  execute  his 
favourite  project;  he  set  out,  through  Turin 
and  Florence,  and  '*  on  the  9th  of  December, 
1809,  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the  capital  of  the 
world!"  Of  his  proceedings  here,  much  as 
we  should  desire  to  have  minute  details,  no 
information  is  given  in  this  narrative ;  and 
Hitzig  seems  to  know,  by  a  letter,  merely,  that 
"  he  knelt  with  streaming  eyes  over  the  graves 
of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul."  This  little  phrase 
says  much.   Werner  appears  likewise  to  have 


assisted  at  certain  "Spiritual  Exercitations" 
(Geistliche  Uebungen;)  a  new  invention  set  on 
foot  at  Rome  for  quickening  the  devotion  of 
the  faithful,  consisting,  so  far  as  we  can  gather, 
in  a  sort  of  fasting-and-prayer  meetings,  con- 
ducted on  the  most  rigorous  principles,  the 
considerable  band  of  devotees  being  bound 
over  to  strict  silence,  and  secluded  for  several 
days,  with  conventual  care,  from  every  sort  of 
intercourse  with  the  world.  The  effect  of  these 
Exercitations,  Werner  elsewhere  declares,  was 
edifying  to  an  extreme  degree  ;  at  parting  on 
the  threshold  of  their  holy  tabernacle,  all  the 
brethren  "  embraced  each  other,  as  if  intoxi- 
cated with  divine  joy;  and  each  confessed  to 
the  other,  that  throughout  these  precious  days 
he  had  been,  as  it  were,  in  heaven  ;  and  now, 
strengthened  as  by  a  soul-purifying  bath,  was 
but  loath  to  venture  back  into  the  cold  week- 
day world."  The  next  step  from  these  Tabor- 
feasts,  if,  indeed,  it  had  not  preceded  them,  was 
a  decisive  one:  "On  the  19th  of  April,  1811, 
Werner  had  grace  given  him  to  return  to  the 
Faith  of  his  fathers,  the  Catholic!" 

Here,  then,  the  "crowning  mercy"  had  at 
length  arrived!  This  passing  of  the  Rubicon 
determined  the  whole  remainder  of  Werner's 
life,  which  had  henceforth  the  merit,  at  least, 
of  entire  consistency.  He  forthwith  set  about 
the  professional  study  of  Theology ;  then  being 
perfected  in  this,  he  left  Italy  in  181.3,  taking 
care,  however,  by  the  road, "  to  supplicate,  and 
certainly  not  in  vain,  the  help  of  the  Gracious 
Mother  at  Loretto;  and  after  due  preparation, 
under  the  superintendence  of  his  patron,  the 
Prince  Archbishop  von  Dalberg,  had  himself 
ordained  a  Priest  at  Aschaffenburg,  in  June, 
1814.  Next,  from  Aschaffenburg  he  hastened 
to  Vienna ;  and  there,  with  all  his  might,  began 
preaching;  his  first  auditory  being  the  Con- 
gress of  the  Holy  Alliance,  which  had  then 
justbegun  its  venerable  sessions.  "The  novelty 
and  strangeness,"  he  says,  "nay,  originality 
of  his  appearance,  secured  him  an  extraor- 
dinary concourse  of  hearers."  He  was,  indeed, 
a  man  worth  hearing  and  seeing ;  for  his  name, 
noised  abroad  in  many-sounding  peals,  was 
filling  all  Germany  from  the  hut  to  the  palace. 
This,  he  thinks,  might  have  affected  his  head ; 
but  he  "  had  a  trust  in  God,  which  bore  him 
through."  Neither  did  he  seem  anywise  anx- 
ious to  still  this  clamour  of  his  judges,  least  of 
all  to  propitiate  his  detractors :  for  already, 
before  arriving  at  Vienna,  he  had  published, 
as  a  pendant  to  his  "  Martin  Luther,  or  the 
Consecration  of  Strength,"  a  pamphlet,  in  dog- 
grel  metre,  entitled  the  "Consecration  of 
Weakness,"  wherein  he  proclaims  himself  to 
the  whole  world  as  an  honest  seeker  and  finder 
of  truth,  and  takes  occasion  to  revoke  his  old 
"Trinity,"  of  art,  religion,  and  love;  love  hav- 
ing now  turned  out  to  be  a  dangerous  ingredi- 
ent in  such  mixtures.  The  writing  of  this 
Weihe  der  Unkraft  was  reckoned  by  many  a 
bold  but  injudicious  measure, — a  throwing 
down  of  the  gauntlet  when  the  lists  were  full 
of  tumultuous  foes,  and  the  knight  was  but 
weak,  and  his  cause,  at  best,  of  the  most  ques- 
tionable sort.  To  reports,  and  calumnies,  and 
criticisms,  and  vituperations,  there  was  no 
limit. 


62 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


What  remains  of  this  strange  eventful  his- 
tory may  be  summed  up  in  few  words.  Wer- 
ner accepted  no  special  charge  in  the  Church  ; 
but  continued  a  private  and  secular  Priest; 
preaching  diligently,  but  only  where  he  him- 
self saw  good ;  oftenest  at  Vienna,  but  in  sum- 
mer over  all  parts  of  Austria,  in  Styria,  Carin- 
thia,  and  even  Venice.  Everywhere,  he  says, 
the  opinions  of  his  hearers  were  "violently 
divided."  At  one  time,  he  thought  of  becom- 
ing Monk,  and  had  actually  entered  on  a  sort 
of  noviciate ;  but  he  quitted  the  establishment 
rather  suddenly,  and,  as  he  is  reported  to  have 
said,  "for  reasons  known  only  to  God  and 
himself."  By  degrees,  his  health  grew  very 
weak ;  yet  he  still  laboured  hard  both  in  public 
and  private  -,  writing  or  revising  poems,  devo- 
tional or  dramatic;  preaching,  and  officiating 
as  father-confessor,  in  which  last  capacity  he 
is  said  to  have  been  in  great  request.  Of  his 
poetical  productions  during  this  period,  there 
is  none  of  any  moment  known  to  us,  except  the 
Mother  of  the  Maccabees  (1819);  a  tragedy  of 
careful  structure,  and  apparently  in  high  favour 
with  the  author,  but  which,  notwithstanding, 
need  not  detain  us  long.  In  our  view,  it  is  the 
worst  of  all  his  pieces ;  a  pale,  bloodless,  in- 
deed quite  ghost-like  affair ;  for  a  cold  breath 
as  from  a  sepulchre  chills  the  heart  in  perus- 
ing it:  there  is  no  passion  or  interest,  but  a 
certain  wo-struck  martyr  zeal,  or  rather  frenzy, 
and  this  not  so  much  storming  as  shrieking; 
not  loud  and  resolute,  but  shrill,  hysterical,  and 
bleared  with  ineffectual  tears.  To  read  it  may 
well  sadden  us :  it  is  a  convulsive  fit,  whose 
uncontrollable  writhings  indicate,  not  strength, 
but  the  last  decay  of  it.* 

Werner  was,  in  fact,  drawing  to  his  latter 
end:  his  health  had  long  been  ruined;  espe- 
cially of  later  years,  he  had  suffered  much 
from  disorders  of  the  lungs.  In  1817,  he  was 
thought  to  be  dangerously  ill;  and  afterwards, 
in  1822,  when  a  journey  to  the  Baths  partly 
restored  him ;  though  he  himself  still  felt  that 
his  term  was  near,  and  spoke  and  acted  like  a 
man  that  was  shortly  to  depart.  In  January, 
1823,  he  was  evidently  dying:  his  affairs  he 
had  already  settled ;  much  of  his  time  he  spent 
in  prayer;  was  constantly  cheerful,  at  inter- 
vals even  gsij.  "His  death,"  says  Hitzig,"  was 
especially  mild.  On  the  eleventh  day  of  his 
disorder,  he  felt  himself,  particularly  towards 
evening,  as  if  altogether  light  and  well;  so 
that  he  would  hardly  consent  to  have  any  one 
to  watch  with  him.  The  servant  whose  turn 
it  was  did  watch,  however;  he  had  sat  down 
by  the  bedside  between  two  and  three  next 
morning,  (the  17th,)  and  continued  there  a  con- 
siderable while,  in  the  belief  that  his  patient 
was  asleep.  Surprised,  however,  that  no 
breathing  was  to  be  heard,  he  hastily  aroused 

*  Of  his  ^ttila,  (1808,)  his  Vier-und-iwanzigste  Fehruar, 
(1809,)  his  Cuneo-unde,  (1814,)  and  various  other  pieces 
written  in  his  wanderings,  we  have  not  room  to  speak. 
It  is  the  less  necessary,  as  the  J9ttilu  and  Twevty-fourth 
of  Febriiarif,  by  much  the  best  of  these,  have  already  been 
forcibly,  aiid,  on  the  whole,  fairly  characterized  by  Ma- 
dame de  Staiil.  Of  the  last-named  little  work  we  m^ofht 
say,  with  double  emphasis,  JVcc  pueros  coram  populo  Me- 
dea trucidet :  it  has  a  deep  and  genuine  tragic  interest, 
were  it  not  so  painfully  protracted  into  the  regions  of 
pure  horror.  Werner's  Sermons,  his  Hymns,  his  Preface 
to  Thomas  ii  Kempisy  Src,  are  entirely  unknown  to  ub. 


the  household,  and  it  was  found  that  Werner 
had  already  passed  away." 

In  imitation,  it  is  thought,  of  Lipsius,  he 
bequeathed  his  Pen  to  the  treasury  of  the  Vir- 
gin at  Mariazell, "  as  a  chief  instrument  of  his 
aberrations,  his  sins,  and  his  repentance."  He 
was  honourably  interred  at  Enzersdorf  on  the 
Hill,  where  a  simple  inscription,  composed  by 
himself,  begs  the  wanderer  to  "  pray  charitably 
for  his  poor  soul ;"  and  expresses  a  trembling 
hope  that,  as  to  Mary  Magdalen,  "  because  she 
loved  much,"  so  to  him  also,  "  much  may  be 
forgiven." 

We  have  thus,  in  hurried  movement,  travelled 
over  Zacharias  Werner's  Life  and  Works; 
noting  down  from  the  former  such  particulars 
as  seemed  most  characteristic;  and  gleaning 
from  the  latter  some  more  curious  passages, 
less  indeed  with  a  view  to  their  intrinsic  ex- 
cellence, than  to  their  fitness  for  illustrating  the 
man.  These  scattered  indications  we  must 
now  leave  our  readers  to  interpret  each  for 
himself:  each  will  adjust  them  into  that  com- 
bination which  shall  best  harmonize  with  his 
own  way  of  thought.  As  a  writer,  Werner's 
character  will  occasion  little  difficulty.  A 
richly  gifted  nature;  but  never  wisely  guided, 
or  resolutely  applied :  a  loving  heart ;  an  in- 
tellect subtile  and  inqui.sitive,  if  not  always 
clear  and  strong;  a  gorgeous,  deep,  and  bold 
imagination ;  a  true,  nay,  keen  and  burning 
sympathy  with  all  high,  all  tender  and  holy 
things; — here  lay  the  main  elements  of  no 
common  poet;  save  only  that  one  was  still 
wanting, — the  force  to  cultivate  them,  and 
mould  them  into  pure  union.  But  they  have 
remained  uncultivated,  disunited,  too  often 
struggling  in  wild  disorder:  his  poetry,  like  his 
life,  is  still  not  so  much  an  edifice  as  a  quarry. 
Werner  had  cast  a  look  into  perhaps  the  very 
deepest  region  of  the  Wonderful;  but  he  had 
not  learned  to  live  there:  he  was  yet  no  deni- 
zen of  that  mysterious  land :  and,  in  his  visions, 
its  splendour  is  strangely  mingled  and  over- 
clouded with  the  flame  or  smoke  of  mere 
earthly  fire.  Of  his  dramas  we  have  already 
spoken  ;  and  with  much  to  praise,  found  always 
more  to  censure.  In  his  rhymed  pieces,  his 
shorter,  more  didactic  poems,  we  are  better 
satisfied:  here,  in  the  rude,  jolting  vehicle  of  a 
certain  Sternhold-and-Hopkins  metre,  we  often 
find  a  strain  of  true  pathos,  and  a  deep,  though 
quaint  significance.  His  prose,  again,  is  among 
the  worst  known  to  us  :  degraded  with  silliness ; 
diffuse,  nay,  tautological,  yet  obscure  and 
vague;  contorted  into  endless  involutions;  a 
misshapen,  lumbering,  complected  coil,  well 
nigh  inexplicable  in  its  entanglements,  and 
seldom  worth  the  trouble  of  unravelling.  He 
does  not  move  through  his  subject,  and  arrange 
it,  and  rule  over  it;  for  the  most  part,  he  but 
welters  in  it,  and  laboriously  tumbles  it,  and  at 
last  sinks  under  it. 

As  a  man,  the  ill-fated  Werner  can  still  less 
content  us.  His  feverish,  inconstant,  and 
wasted  life  we  have  already  looked  at.  Hitzig, 
his  determined  well-wisher,  admits  that  in. 
practice  he  was  selfish,  wearying  out  his  best 
friends  by  the  most  barefaced  importunities  ;  a 
man  of  no  dignity ;  avaricious,  greedy,  sensual, 
at  times  obscene ;  in  discourse,  with  all  his 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  WERNER. 


humour  and  heartiness,  apt  to  be  intolerably- 
long- winded;  and  of  a  maladroitness,  a  blank 
ineptitude,  which  exposed  him  to  incessant 
ridicule  and  manifold  mystifications  from  peo- 
ple of  the  world.  Nevertheless,  under  all  this 
rubbish,  contends  the  friendly  Biographer, 
there  dwelt,  for  those  who  could  look  more 
narrowly,  a  spirit,  marred  indeed  in  its  beauty, 
and  languishing  in  painful  conscious  oppres- 
sion, yet  never  wholly  forgetful  of  its  original 
nobleness.  Werner's  soul  was  made  for  affec- 
tion; and  often  as,  under  his  too  rude  colli- 
sions with  external  things,  it  was  struck  into 
harshness  and  dissonance,  there  was  a  tone 
which  spoke  of  melody,  even  in  its  jarrings. 
A  kind,  a  sad,  and  heartfelt  remembrance  of 
his  friends  seems  never  to  have  quitted  him : 
to  the  last  he  ceased  not  from  warm  love  to 
men  at  large ;  nay,  to  awaken  in  them,  with 
such  knowledge  as  he  had,  a  sense  for  what 
was  best  and  highest,  may  be  said  to  have 
formed  the  earnest,  though  weak  and  unstable 
aim  of  his  whole  existence.  The  truth  is,  his 
defects  as  a  writer  were  also  his  defects  as  a 
man  :  he  was  feeble,  and  without  volition ;  in 
life,  as  in  poetry,  his  endowments  fell  into  con- 
fusion ;  his  character  relaxed  itself  on  all  sides 
into  incoherent  expansion;  his  activity  became 
gigantic  endeavour,  followed  by  most  dwarfish 
performance. 

The  grand  incident  of  his  life,  his  adoption 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  is  one  on 
which  we  need  not  heap  further  censure;  for 
already,  as  appears  to  us,  it  is  rather  liable  to 
be  too  harshly  than  too  leniently  dealt  with. 
There  is  a  feeling  in  the  popular  mind,  which, 
in  well-meant  hatred  of  inconsistency,  perhaps 
in  general  too  sweepingly  condemns  such 
changes.  Werner,  it  should  be  recollected, 
had  at  all  periods  of  his  life  a  religion  ;  nay,  he 
hungered  and  thirsted  after  truth  in  this  matter, 
as  after  the  highest  good  of  man  ;  a  fact  which 
of  itself  must,  in  this  respect,  set  him  far  above 
the  most  consistent  of  mere  unbelievers, — in 
whose  barren  and  callous  soul  consistency, 
perhaps,  is  no  such  brilliant  virtue.  We  par- 
don genial  weather  for  its  changes ;  but  the 
steadiest  of  all  climates  is  that  of  Greenland. 
Further,  we  must  say  that,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  in  Werner's  whole  conduct,  both  before 
and  after  his  conversion,  there  is  not  visible 
the  slightest  trace  of  insincerity.  On  the  whole, 
there  are  fewer  genuine  renegades  than  men 
are  apt  to  imagine.  Surely,  indeed,  that  must 
be  a  nature  of  extreme  baseness,  who  feels 
that,  in  worldly  good,  he  can  gain  by  such  a 
step.  Is  the  contempt,  the  execration  of  all 
that  have  known  and  loved  us,  and  of  millions 
that  have  never  known  us,  to  be  weighed 
against  a  mess  of  pottage,  or  apiece  of  money] 
We  hope  there  are  not  many,  even  in  the  rank 
of  sharpers,  that  would  think  so.  But  for  Wer- 
ner there  was  no  gain  in  any  way;  nay,  rather 
certainty  of  loss.  He  enjoyed  or  sought  no 
patronage ;  with  his  own  resources  he  was 
already  independent  though  poor,  and  on  a 
footing  of  good  esteem  with  all  that  was  most 
estimable  in  his  country.  His  little  pension, 
conferred  on  him,  at  a  prior  date,  by  a  Catholic 
Prince,  was  not  continued  after  his  conversion, 
except  by  the  Duke  of  Weimar,  a  Protestant. 


He  became  a  mark  for  calumny ;  the  defence- 
less butt  at  which  every  callow  witling  made 
his  proof-shot;  his  character  was  more  de- 
formed and  mangled  than  that  of  any  other 
man.  What  had  he  to  gain !  Insult  and  per- 
secution ;  and  with  these,  as  candour  bids  us 
believe,  the  approving  voice  of  his  own  con- 
science. To  judge  from  his  writings,  he  was 
far  from  repenting  of  the  change  he  had  made ; 
his  Catholic  faith  evidently  stands  in  his  own 
mind  as  the  first  blessing  of  his  life;  and  he 
clings  to  it  as  to  the  anchor  of  his  soul.  Scarce- 
ly more  than  once  (in  the  Preface  to  his  Mutte- 
der  Makkabder)  does  he  allude  to  the  legions  of 
falsehoods  that  were  in  circulation  against 
him ;  and  it  is  in  a  spirit  which,  without  en- 
tirely concealing  the  querulousness  of  nature, 
nowise  fails  in  the  meekness  and  endurance 
which  became  him  as  a  Christian.  Here  is  a 
fragment  of  another  Paper,  published  since 
his  death,  as  it  was  meant  to  be ;  which  ex- 
hibits him  in  a  still  clearer  light.  The  reader 
may  condemn,  or  what  will  be  better,  pity  and 
sympathize  with  him  ;  but  the  structure  of  this 
strange  piece  surely  bespeaks  any  thing  but  in- 
sincerity. We  translate  it  with  all  its  breaks 
and  fantastic  crotchets,  as  it  stands  before  us  : 

"Testamentary  iNscniPTiox,  from  Fried- 
rich  Ludwig  Zacharias  Werner,  a  son,"  &c. — 
(here  follows  a  statement  of  his  parentage  and 
birth,  with  vacant  spaces  for  the  date  of  his 
death,) — "of  the  following  lines,  submitted  to 
all  such  as  have  more  or  less  felt  any  friendly 
interest  in  his  unworthy  person,  with  the  re- 
quest to  take  warning  by  his  example,  and 
charitably  to  remember  the  poor  soul  of  the 
writer  before  God,  in  prayer  and  good  deeds. 

"Begun  at  Florence,  on  the  24th  of  Septem- 
ber, about  eight  in  the  evening,  amid  the  still 
distant  sound  of  approaching  thunder.  Con- 
cluded, when  and  where  God  will ! 

"  Motto,  Device,  and  Watchword  in  Death : 
Remitluntur  ei  peccata  multa,  quoniam  dilexit  mul- 
tum  !  !  ! — Lucas,  Caput  vii.  v.  47. 

"N.  B.  Most  humbly  and  earnestly,  and  in 
the  name  of  God,  does  the  Author  of  this  Writ- 
ing beg,  of  such  honest  persons  as  may  find  it, 
to  submit  the  same  in  any  suitable  way  to 
public  examination. 

"  Fecisti  nos,  Domine,  ad  Te,  et  iiTequietum  est 
cor  tiostrum,  donee  requiescat  in  Te. — S.  Augitstintis. 

"Per  multa  dispergltur,  et  hie  illucque  qtuBrit 
(cor)  ubi  reqxdcscerc  possit,  et  nihil  invenit  quod  ei 
sufficiat,  donee  ad  ipsum  (sc.  Deu7n)  redeat. — S. 
Bernardus. 

"In  the  name  of  God  the  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost,  Amen'! 

"  The  thunder  came  hither,  and  is  still  roll- 
ing, though  now  at  a  distance. — The  name  of 
the  Lord  be  praised  !     Hallelujah  ! — I  begin  : 

"This  Paper  must  needs  be  brief;  because 
the  appointed  term  for  my  life  itself  may  al- 
ready be  near  at  hand.  There  are  not  wanting 
examples  of  important  and  unimportant  men, 
£  2 


54 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


who  have  left  behind  them  in  writing  the  de- 
fence, or  even  sometimes  the  accusation,  of 
their  earthly  life.  Without  estimating  such 
procedure,  I  am  not  minded  to  imitate  it.  With 
trembling  I  reflect  that  I  myself  shall  first  learn 
in  its  whole  terrific  compass  what  properly  I 
was,  when  these  lines  shall  be  read  by  men ; 
that  is  to  say,  in  a  point  of  Time  which  for  me 
will  be  no  Time;  in  a  condition  wherein  all 
experience  will  for  me  be  too  late  ! 

Rex  tremendtB  majestatis. 
Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis, 
Salva  me,  fans  pietatis  III 

But  if  I  do,  till  that  day  when  All  shall  be  laid 
open,  draw  a  veil  over  my  past  life,  it  is  not 
merely  out  of  false  shame  that  I  so  order  it; 
for  though  not  free  from  this  vice  also,  I  would 
willingly  make  known  my  guilt  to  all  and 
every  one  whom  my  voice  might  reach,  could 
I  hope,  by  such  confession,  to  alone  for  what  I 
have  done ;  or  thereby  to  save  a  single  soul 
from  perdition.  There  are  two  motives,  how- 
ever, which  forbid  me  to  make  such  an  open 
personal  revelation  after  death :  the  one,  because 
the  unclosing  of  a  pestilential  grave  may  be 
dangerous  to  the  health  of  the  uninfected  looker- 
on  ;  the  other,  because  in  my  writings,  (which 
may  God  forgive  me !)  amid  a  wilderness  of 
poisonous  weeds  and  garbage,  there  may  also 
be  here  and  there  a  medicinal  herb  lying  scat- 
tered, from  which  poor  patients,  to  whom  it 
might  be  useful,  would  start  back  with  shud- 
dering, did  they  know  the  pestiferous  soil  on 
which  it  grew. 

"  So  much,  however,  in  regard  to  those  good 
creatures  as  they  call  themselves,  namely,  to 
those  feeble  weaklings  who  brag  of  what  they 
designate  their  good  hearts, — so  much  must  I 
say  before  God,  that  such  a  heart  alone,  when 
it  is  not  checked  and  regulated  by  forethought 
and  steadfastness,  is  not  only  incapable  of 
saving  its  possessor  from  destruction,  but  it  is 
rather  certain  to  hurry  him,  full  speed,  into 
that  abyss,  where  I  have  been,  whence  I — per- 
haps 1  ! ! ! — by  God's  grace  am  snatched,  and 
from  which  may  God  mercifully  preserve  every 
reader  of  these  lines." — We9-ner*s  Letzte  Leben- 
stagen,  (quoted  by  Hitzig,  p.  80.) 

*'  All  this  is  melancholy  enough ;  but  it  is  not 
like  the  writing  of  a  hypocrite  or  repentant 
apostate.  To  Protestantism,  above  all  things, 
Werner  shows  no  thought  of  returning.  In  al- 
lusion to  a  rumour,  which  had  spread,  of  his 
having  given  up  Catholicism,  he  says  (in  the 
Preface  already  quoted)  : 

"  A  stupid  falsehood  I  must  reckon  it;  since, 
according  to  my  deepest  conviction,  it  is  as 
impossible  that  a  soul  in  Bliss  should  return 
back  into  the  Grave,  as  that  a  man,  who,  like 
me,  after  a  life  of  error  and  search  has  found 
the  priceless  jewel  of  Truth,  should,  I  will  not 
say,  give  up  the  same,  but  hesitate  to  sacrifice 
for  it  blood  and  life,  nay,  niany  things  perhaps 
far  dearer,  with  joyful  heart,  when  the  one  good 
cause  is  concerned." 

And  elsewhere  in  a  private  letter : 

**  I  not  only  assure  thee,  but  I  beg  of  thee  to 
assure  all  men,  if  God  should  ever  so  withdraw 
the  light  of  his  grace  from  me,  that  I  ceased  to 
be  a  Catholic,  I  would  a  thousand  times  sooner 


join  myself  to  .Judaism,  or  to  the  Bramins  oh 
the  Ganges :  but  to  that  shallowest,  driest, 
most  contradictory,  inanest  Inanity  of  Protest- 
antism, never,  never,  never .'" 

Here,  perhaps,  there  is  a  touch  of  priestly, 
of  almost  feminine  vehemence ;  for  it  is  to  a 
Protestant  and  an  old  friend  that  he  writes : 
but  the  conclusion  of  his  Preface  shows  him  in 
a  better  light.  Speaking  of  Second  Parts,  and 
regretting  that  so  many  of  his  works  were  un- 
finished, he  adds : 

"  But  what  specially  comforts  me  is  the  pros- 
pect of — our  general  Second  Part ;  where,  even, 
in  the  first  Scene,  this  consolation,  that  there 
all  our  works  will  be  known,  may  not  indeed 
prove  solacing/or  us  all:  but  where,  through 
the  strength  of  Him  that  alone  completes  all 
works,  it  will  be  granted  to  those  whom  He 
has  saved,  not  only  to  know  each  other,  but 
even  to  know  Him,  as  by  Him  they  are  known  ! 
— With  my  trust  in  Christ,  whom  I  have 
not  yet  won,  I  regard,  with  the  Teacher  of 
the  Gentiles,  all  things  but  dross  that  I 
may  win  Him;  and  to  him,  cordially  and 
lovingly  do  I,  in  life  or  at  death,  commit  you 
all,  my  beloved  Friends  and  my  beloved  Ene- 
mies !" 

On  the  whole,  we  cannot  think  it  doubtful 
that  Werner's  belief  was  real  and  heartfelt. 
But  how  then,  our  wondering  readers  may  in- 
quire, if  his  belief  was  real  and  not  pretended, 
how  then  did  he  believe  ]  He,  who  scoffs  in 
infidel  style  at  the  truths  of  Protestantism,  by 
what  alchemy  did  he  succeed  in  tempering 
into  credibility  the  harder  and  bulkier  dogmas 
of  Popery  1  Of  Popery,  too,  the  frauds  and 
gross  corruptions  of  which  he  has  so  fiercely 
exposed  in  his  Martin  Luther !  and  this,  more- 
over, without  cancelling,  or  even  softening  his 
vituperations,  long  after  his  conversion,  in  the 
very  last  edition  of  that  drama]  To  this 
question,  we  are  far  from  pretending  to  have 
any  answer  that  altogether  satisfies  ourselves; 
much  less  that  shall  altogether  satisfy  others. 
Meanwhile,  there  are  two  considerations  which 
throw  light  on  the  difficulty  for  us :  these,  as 
some  step,  or  at  least,  attempt  towards  a  solu- 
tion of  it,  we  shall  not  withhold.  The^rsUies 
in  Werner's  individual  character  and  mode  of 
life.  Not  only  was  he  born  a  mystic,  not  only 
had  he  lived  from  of  old  amid  freemasonry,  and 
all  manner  of  cabalistic  and  other  traditionary 
chimeras ;  he  was  also,  and  had  long  been, 
what  is  emphatically  called  dissolute;  a  word, 
which  has  now  lost  somewhat  of  its  original 
force ;  but  which,  as  applied  here,  is  still  more 
just  and  significant  in  its  etymological,  than 
in  its  common  acception.  He  was  a  man  dis- 
solute;  that  is,  by  a  long  course  of  vicious  in- 
dulgences, enervated  and  loosened  asunder. 
Everywhere  in  Werner's  life  and  actions,  we 
discern  a  mind  relaxed  from  its  proper  ten- 
sion ;  no  longer  capable  of  effort  and  toilsome 
resolute  vigilance;  but  floating  almost  pas- 
sively with  the  current  of  its  impulses,  in  lan- 
guid, imaginative,  Asiatic  reverie.  That  such 
a  man  should  discriminate,  with  sharp,  fear- 
less logic,  between  beloved  errors  and  unwel- 
come truths,  was  not  to  be  expected.  His  belief 
is  likely  to  have  been  persuasion  rather  than  con- 
viction, both  as  it  related  to  ReligioUj.  and  to 


LIFE    AND    WRITINGS  OF   WERNER. 


53 


other  subjects.  What,  or  how  much  a  man  in 
this  way  may  bring  himself  to  believe,  with  such 
force  and  distinctness  as  he  honestly  and 
usually  calls  belief,  there  is  no  predicting. 

But  another  consideration,  which  we  think 
should  nowise  be  omitted,  is  the  general  state  of 
religious  opinion  in  Germany,  especially  among 
such  minds  as  Werner  was  most  apt  to  take 
for  his  examplars.  To  this  complex  and  high- 
ly interesting  subject,  we  can  for  the  present 
do  nothing  more  than  allude.  So  much,  how- 
ever, we  may  say:  It  is  a  common  theory 
among  the  Germans,  that  every  Creed,  every 
Form  of  worship,  is  a,  form  merely  ;  the  mortal 
and  everchanging  body,  in  which  the  immortal 
and  unchanging  spirit  of  Religion  is,  with  more 
or  less  completeness,  expressed  to  the  mate- 
rial eye,  and  made  manifest  and  influen- 
tial among  the  doings  of  men.  It  is  thus,  for 
instance,  that  Johannes  Muller,  in  his  Univer- 
sal History,  professes  to  consider  the  Mosaic 
Law,  the  creed  of  Mahomet,  nay,  Luther's  Re- 
formation ;  and,  in  short,  all  other  systems  of 
Faith ;  which  he  scruples  not  to  designate, 
without  special  praise  or  censure,  simply  as 
Vorstellungsarten,  "  modes  of  Representation." 
We  could  report  equally  singular  things  of 
Schelling  and  others,  belonging  to  the  philoso- 
phic class ;  nay  of  Herder,  a  Protestant  clergy- 
man, and  even  bearing  high  authority  in  the 
Church.  Now,  it  is  clear,  in  a  country  where 
such  opinions  are  openly  and  generally  pro- 
fessed, a  change  of  religious  creed  must  be 
comparatively  a  slight  matter.  Conversions 
to  Catholicism  are  accordingly  by  no  means 
unknown  among  the  Germans :  Friedrich 
Schlegel,  and  the  younger  Count  von  Stolberg, 
men,  as  we  should  think,  of  vigorous  intellect, 
and  of  character  above  suspicion,  were  col- 
leagues, or  rather  precursors,  of  Werner  in 
this  adventure;  and,  indeed,  formed  part  of 
his  acquaintance  at  Vienna.  It  is  but,  they 
would  pay  perhaps,  as  if  a  melodist,  inspired 
with  harmony  of  inward  music,  should  choose 
this  instrument  in  preference  to  that,  for  giving 
voice  to  it:  the  inward  inspiration  is  the  grand 
concern ;  and  to  express  it,  the  "  deep  majestic 
solemn  organ"  of  the  Unchangeable  Church 
may  be  better  fitted  than  the  "scrannel  pipe" 
of  a  withered,  trivial,  Arian  Protestantism. 
That  Werner,  still  more  that  Schlegel  and  Stol- 
berg, could,  on  the  strength  of  such  hypotheses, 
put  off  or  put  on  their  religious  creed,  like  a 
new  suit  of  apparel,  we  are  far  from  asserting; 


they  are  men  of  earnest  hearts,  and  seem  to 
have  a  deep  feeling  of  devotion  :  but  it  should 
be  remembered,  that  what  forms  the  ground- 
work of  their  religion,  is  professedly  not  De- 
monstration but  Faith;  and  so  pliant  a  theory 
could  not  but  help  to  soften  the  transition  from 
the  former  lo  the  latter.  That  some  such  prin- 
ciple, in  one  shape  or  another,  lurked  in 
Werner's  mind,  we  think  we  can  perceive 
from  several  indications  ;  among  others,  from 
the  Prologue  to  his  last  tragedy,  where,  mys- 
teriously enough,  under  the  emblem  of  a  Phoe- 
nix, he  seems  to  be  shadowing  forth  the  histo- 
ry of  his  own  Faith ;  and  represents  himself 
even  then  as  merely  "  climbing  the  tree,  where 
the  pinions  of  his  Phoenix  last  vanished  f^  but 
not  hoping  to  regain  that  blissful  vision,  till  his 
eyes  shall  have  been  opened  by  death. 

On  the  whole,  we  must  not  pretend  to  under- 
stand Werner,  or  expound  him  with  scientific 
rigour:  acting  many  times  with  only  half  con- 
sciousness, he  M^as  always,  in  some  degree,  an 
enigma  to  himself,  and  may  well  be  obscure  to 
us.  Above  all,  there  are  mysteries  and  un- 
sounded abysses  in  every  human  heart ;  and 
that  is  but  a  questionable  philosophy  which 
undertakes  so  readily  to  explain  them.  Reli- 
gious belief  especially,  at  least  when  it  seems 
heartfelt  and  well-intentioned,  is  no  subject 
for  harsh  or  even  irreverent  investigation. 
He  is  a  wise  man  that,  having  such  a  belief, 
knows  and  sees  clearly  the  grounds  of  it  in 
himself:  and  those,  we  imagine,  who  have 
explored  with  strictest  scrutiny  the  secret  of 
their  own  bosoms,  will  be  least  apt  to  rush 
with  intolerant  violence  into  that  of  other 
men's. 

"The  good  Werner,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "fell, 
like  our  more  vigorous  Hoffmann,  into  the  po- 
etical fermenting  vat  (Gdhrhottich)  of  our  time, 
where  all  Literatures,  Freedoms,  Tastes,  and 
Untastes  are  foaming  through  each  other:  and 
where  all  is  to  be  found,  excepting  truth,  dili- 
gence, and  the  polish  of  the  file.  Both  would 
have  come  forth  clearer  had  they  studied  in 
Lessing's  day."  *  We  cannot  justify  Werner : 
yet  let  him  be  condemned  with  pity!  Aud 
well  were  it  could  each  of  us  apply  to  him- 
self those  words,  which  Hitzig,  in  his  friendly 
indignation,  would  "thunder  in  the  ears  "of 
many  a  German  gainsayer:  Take  thou  the  beam 
out  of  thine  own  eye ;  then  shalt  thou  see  clearly  to 
take  the  mote  out  of  thy  brother^ s. 


*  Letter  to  Ilitzig,  in  Jean  Paul's  Leben,  by  Doering. 


56 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


GOETHE'S    HELENA.* 


[Foreign  Review,  1828.] 


NovAiis  has  rather  tauntingly  asserted  of 
Goethe,  that  the  grand  law  of  his  being  is  to 
conclude  whatsoever  he  undertakes  ;  that,  let, 
him  engage  in  any  task,  no  matter  what  its 
difficulties  or  how  small  its  worth,  he  cannot 
quit  it  till  he  has  mastered  its  whole  secret, 
finished  it,  and  made  the  result  of  it  his  own. 
This,  surely,  whatever  Novalis  might  think,  is 
a  quality  of  which  it  is  far  safer  to  have  too 
much  than  too  little ;  and  if,  in  a  friendlier 
spirit,  we  admit  that  it  does  strikingly  belong 
to  Goethe,  these  his  present  occupations  will 
not  seem  out  of  harmony  with  the  rest  of  his 
life  ;  but  rather  it  may  be  regarded  as  a  sin- 
gular constancy  of  fortune,  which  now  allows 
him,  after  completing  so  many  single  enter- 
prizes,  to  adjust  deliberately  the  details  and 
combination  of  the  whole ;  and  thus,  in  per- 
fecting his  individual  works,  to  put  the  last 
hand  to  the  highest  of  all  his  works,  his  own 
literary  character,  and  leave  the  impress  of  it 
to  posterity  in  that  form  and  accompaniment 
which  he  himself  reckons  fittest.  For  the  last 
two  years,  as  nanny  of  our  readers  may  know, 
the  venerable  Poet  has  been  employed  in  a  pa- 
tient and  thorough  revisal  of  all  his  Writings; 
an  edition  of  which,  designated  as  the  "  complete 
and  final"  one,  was  commenced  in  1827,  under 
external  encouragements  of  the  most  flattering 
sort,  and  with  arrangements  for  private  co-ope- 
ration, which,  as  we  learn,  have  secured  the 
constant  progress  of  the  work  "  against  every 
accident."  The  first  Licfenmg,  of  five  vo- 
lumes, is  now  in  our  hands;  a  second  of  like 
extent,  we  understand  to  be  already  on  its  way 
hither;  and  thus  by  regular  "Deliveries," 
from  half-year  to  half-year,  the  whole  Forty 
Volumes  are  to  be  completed  in  1831. 

To  the  lover  of  German  literature,  or  of 
literature  in  general,  this  undertaking  will  not 
be  indifferent:  considering,  as  he  must  do,  the 
works  of  Goethe  to  be  among  the  most  import- 
ant which  Germany  for  some  centuries  has 
sent  forth,  he  will  value  their  correctness  and 
completeness  for  its  own  sake  ;  and  not  the 
less,  as  forming  the  conclusion  of  a  long  pro- 
cess to  which  the  last  step  was  still  wanting; 
whereby  he  may  not  only  enjoy  the  result,  but 
instruct  himself  by  following  so  great  a  mas- 
ter through  the  changes  which  led  to  it.  We 
•can  now  add,  that,  to  the  mere  book-collector 
.also,  the  business  promises  to  be  satisfactory. 
This  Edition,  avoiding  any  attempt  at  splen- 
dour or  unnecessary  decoration,  ranks,  never- 
theless, in  regard  to  accuracy,  convenience, 
and  true,  simple  elegance,  among  the  best  spe- 
cimens of  German  typography.     The  cost,  too, 

*  Ooethe^s  Simmtliche  IVerke.  VoUstnv/iige  ^xis^abe 
letzter  Hand.  (Goethe's  Collective  Works.  Complete 
Edition,  with  his  final  Corrections.)  First  Portion,  vols. 
i  — V.  16mo  and  8vo.  Cotta:  Stuttgard  &c  Tiibingcn. 
1827. 


seems  moderate ;  so  that,  on  every  account, 
we  doubt  not  but  that  these  tasteful  volumes 
will  spread  far  and  wide  in  their  own  country, 
and  by  and  by,  we  may  hope,  be  met  with  here 
in  many  a  British  library. 

Hitherto,  in  the  First  Portion,  we  have  found 
little  or  no  alteration  of  what  was  already 
known ;  but,  in  return,  some  changes  of  ar- 
rangement ;  and,  what  is  more  important, 
some  additions  of  heretofore  unpublished 
poems  ;  in  particular,  a  piece  entitled  "  Helena, 
a  dassico-romantic  Phantasmagoria,"  which  oc- 
cupies some  eighty  pages  of  Volume  Fourth. 
It  is  to  this  piece  that  we  now  propose  direct- 
ing the  attention  of  our  readers.  Such  of 
these,  as  have  studied  Helena  for  themselves, 
must  have  felt  how  little  calculated  it  is,  either 
intrinsically  or  by  its  extrinsic  relations  and 
allusions,  to  be  rendered  very  interesting  or 
even  very  intelligible  to  the  English  public, 
and  may  incline  to  augur  ill  of  our  enterprise. 
Indeed,  to  our  own  eyes  it  already  looks  dubi- 
ous enough.  But  the  dainty  little  "  Phantas- 
magoria," it  would  appear,  has  become  a 
subject  of  diligent  and  truly  wonderful  specu- 
lation to  our  German  neighbours ;  of  which, 
also,  some  vague  rumours  seem  now  to  have 
reached  this  country,  and  these  likely  enough 
to  awaken  on  all  hands  a  curiosity,*  which, 
whether  intelligent  or  idle,  it  were  a  kind  of 
good  deed  to  allay.  In  a  Journal  of  this  sort, 
what  little  light  on  such  a  matter  is  at  our 
disposal  may  naturally  be  looked  for. 

Helena,  like  many  of  Goethe's  works,  by  no 
means  carries  its  significance  written  on  its 
forehead,  so  that  he  who  runs  may  read;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  it  is  enveloped  in  a  certain 
mystery,  under  coy  disguises,  which,  to  hasty 
readers,  may  not  be  only  offensively  obscure, 
but  altogether  provoking  and  impenetrable. 
Neither  is  this  any  new  thing  with  Goethe. 
Often  has  he  produced  compositions,  both  in 
prose  and  verse,  which  bring  critic  and  com- 
mentator into  straits,  or  even  to  a  total  non- 
plus. Some  we  have,  wholly  parabolic ;  some 
half-literal,  half-parabolic;  these  latter  are  oc- 
casionally studied,  by  dull  heads,  in  the  literal 
sense  alone ;  and  not  only  studied,  but  con- 
demned ;  for,  in  truth,  the  outward  meaning 
seems  unsatisfactory  enough,  were  it  not  that 
ever  and  anon  we  are  reminded  of  a  cunning, 
manifold  meaning  which  lies  hidden  under 
it;  and  incited  by  capricious  beckonings  to 
evolve  this,  more  and  more  completely,  from 
its  quaint  concealment. 

Did  we  believe  that  Goethe  adopted  this 
mode  of  writing  as  a  vulgar  lure,  to  confer  on 
his  poems  the  interest  which  might  belong  to 

*  See,  for  instance,  the  "  Athenipnm,"  No.  vii.,  where 
an  article  stands  headed  with  these  words  :  Faust, 
Helen  of  Tkoy,  and  Lord  Byron. 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


67 


so  many  charades,  we  should  hold  it  a  very 
poor  proceeding.  Of  this  most  readers  of 
Goethe  will  know  that  he  is  incapable.  Such 
juggleries,  and  uncertain  anglings  for  distinc- 
tion, are  a  class  of  accomplishments  to  which 
he  has  never  made  any  pretension.  The  truth 
is,  this  style  has,  in  many  cases,  its  own  ap- 
propriateness. Certainly,  in  all  matters  of 
Business  and  Science,  in  all  expositions  of 
fact  or  argument,  clearness  and  ready  compre- 
hensibility  are  a  great,  often  an  indispensable, 
object.  Nor  is  there  any  man  better  aware  of 
this  principle  than  Goethe,  or  who  more  rigo- 
rously adheres  to  it,  or  more  happily  exempli- 
fies it,  wherever  it  seems  applicable.  But  in 
this,  as  in  many  other  respects,  Science  and 
Poetry,  having  separate  purposes,  may  have 
each  its  several  law.  If  an  artist  has  con- 
ceived his  subject  in  the  secret  shrine  of  his 
own  mind,  and  knows,  with  a  knowledge  be- 
yond all  poM'er  of  cavil,  that  it  is  true  and  pure, 
he  may  choose  his  own  manner  of  exhibiting 
it,  and  will  generally  be  the  fittest  to  choose  it 
well.  One  degree  of  light,  he  may  find,  will 
beseem  one  delineation ;  quite  a  different  de- 
gree of  light  another.  The  Face  of  Agamem- 
non was  not  painted  but  hidden  in  the  old  Pic- 
ture :  the  Veiled  Figure  at  Sais  was  the  most 
expressive  in  the  Temple.  In  fact,  the  grand 
point  is  to  have  a  meaning,  a  genuine,  deep, 
and  noble  one ;  the  proper  form  for  embodying 
this,  the  form  best  suited  to  the  subject  and  to 
the  author,  will  gather  round  it  almost  of  its 
own  accord.  We  profess  ourselves  unfriendly 
to  no  mode  of  communicating  Truth ;  which 
we  rejoice  to  meet  with  in  all  shapes,  from  that 
of  the  child's  Catechism  to  the  deepest  poetical 
Allegory.  Nay,  the  Allegory  itself  may  some- 
times be  the  truest  part  of  the  matter.  John 
Bunyan,  we  hope,  is  nowise  our  best  theolo- 
gian ;  neither,  unhappily,  is  theology  our  most 
attractive  science ;  yet,  which  of  our  compends 
and  tKeatises,  nay,  which  of  our  romances  and 
poems,  lives  in  such  mild  sunshine  as  the  good 
old  Pilgrim's  Progress,  in  the  memory  of  so  many 
men] 

Under  Goethe's  management,  this  style  of 
composition  has  often  a  singular  charm.  The 
reader  is  kept  on  the  alert,  ever  conscious  of 
his  own  active  co-operation ;  light  breaks  on 
him,  and  clearer  and  clearer  vision,  by  degrees ; 
till  at  last  the  whole  lovely  Shape  comes  forth, 
definite,  it  may  be,  and  bright  with  heavenly 
radiance,  or  fading,  on  this  side  and  that,  into 
vague  expressive  mystery;  but  true  in  both 
cases,  and  beautiful  with  nameless  enchant- 
ments, as  the  poet's  own  eye  may  have  beheld 
it.  We  love  it  the  more  for  the  labour  it  has 
givep  us ;  we  almost  feel  as  if  we  ourselves 
had  assisted  in  its  creation^  And  herein  lies 
the  highest  merit  of  a  piece,  and  the  proper  art 
of  reading  it.  We  have  not  read  an  author  till 
we  have  seen  his  object,  whatever  it  may  be, 
as  he  saw  it.  It  is  a  matter  of  reasoning,  and 
has  he  reasoned  stupidly  and  falsely  1  We 
should  understand  the  circumstances  which  to 
his  mind  made  it  seem  true,  or  persuaded  him 
to  write  it,  knowing  that  it  was  not  so.  In  any 
other  way  we  do  him  injustice  if  we  judge  him. 
Is  it  of  poetry]  His  words  are  so  many  sym- 
bols, to  which  we  ourselves  must  furoish  the 
8 


interpretation ;  or  they  remain,  as  in  all  prosaic 
minds   the  words  of  poetry  ever  do,  a  dead 
letter:  indications  they  are,  barren  in  them- 
selves, but  by  following  which,  we  also  may 
reach,  or  approach,  that  Hill  of  Vision  where 
the  poet  stood,  beholding  the  glorious  scene 
which  it  is  the  purport  of  his  poem  to  show 
others.  A  reposing  state,  in  which  the  Hill  were 
brought  under  us,  not  we  obliged  to  mount  it, 
might,  indeed,  for  the  present  be  more  conve- 
nient; but,  in  the  end,  it  could  not  be  equally 
satisfying.     Continuance  of  passive  pleasure, 
it  should  never  be  forgotten,  is  here,  as  under 
all  conditions  of  mortal  existence,  an  impossi- 
bility.    Everywhere  in  life,  the  true  question  is, 
not  what  we  guin,  but  what  we  do:  so  also  in 
intellectual  matters,  in  conversation,  in  read- 
ing, which  is  more  precise  and  careful  con- 
versation, it  is  not  what  we  receive,  but  what  we 
are  made  to  give,  that  chiefly  contents  and  profits 
us.    True,  the  mass  of  readers  will  object;  be- 
cause, like  the  mass  of  men,  they  are  too  indo- 
lent.    But  if  any  one  affect,  not  the  active  and 
watchful,  but  the  passive  and  somnolent  line 
of    study,   are    there    not  writers,   expressly 
fashioned  for  him,  enough  and  to  spare  ]    It  is 
but  the  smaller  number  of  books  that  become 
more   instructive   by  a   second  perusal:  the 
great  majority  are  as  perfectly  plain  as  perfect 
triteness  can  make  them.     Yet,  if  time  is  pre- 
cious, no  book  that  will  not  improve  by  re- 
peated  readings   deserves  to  be  read  at  all- 
And  were  there  an  artist  of  a  right  spirit ;  a 
man  of  wisdom,  conscious  of  his  high  voca- 
tion, of  whom  we  could  know  beforehand  that 
he  had  not  written  without  purpose  and  earnest 
meditation,  that  he  knew  what  he  had  written, 
and  had  imbodied  in  it,  more  or  less,  the  crea- 
tions of  a  deep  and  noble  soul, — should  we  not 
draw  near  to  him  reverently,  as  disciples  to  a 
master;  and  what  task  could  there  be  more 
profitable  than  to  read  him  as  we  have  de- 
scribed, to  study  him  even   to  his   minutest 
meanings  1     For,  were  not  this  to  think  as  he 
had  thought,  to  see  with  his  gifted  eyes,  to 
make  the  very  mood  and  feeling  of  his  great 
and  rich  mind  the  mood  also  of  our  poor  and 
little  one  ]     It  is  under  the  consciousness  of 
some  such  mutual  relation  that  Goethe  writes, 
and  his  countrymen  now  reckon  themselves 
bound  to  read  him ;   a  relation  singular,  we 
might  say  solitary,  in   the  present  time ;  but 
which  it  is  ever  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  in 
estimating  his  literary  procedure. 

To  justify  it  in  this  particular,  much  more 
might  be  said,  were  it  our  chief  business  at 
present.  But  what  mainly  concerns  us  here, 
is,  to  know  that  such,  justified  or  not,  is  the 
poet's  manner  of  writing;  which  also  must 
prescribe  for  us  a  correspondent  manner  of 
studying  him,  if  we  study  him  at  all.  For  the 
rest,  on  this  latter  point  he  nowhere  expresses 
any  undue  anxiety.  His  works  have  invaria- 
bly been  sent  forth  without  preface,  without 
note  or  comment  of  any  kind;  but  left,  some- 
times plain  and  direct,  sometimes  dim  and 
typical,  in  what  degree  of  clearness  or  obscu- 
rity he  himself  may  have  judged  best,  to  he 
scanned,  and  glossed,  and  censured,  and  dis- 
torted, as  might  please  the  innumerable  multi- 
tude of  critics ;  to  whose  verdict  he  has  bfeea. 


58 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


for  a  great  part  of  his  life,  accused  of  listening 
with  unwarrantable  composure.  Helena  is  no 
exception  to  that  practice,  but  rather  among 
the  strong  instances  of  it.  This  Interlude  to 
Faust  presents  itself  abruptly,  under  a  charac- 
ter not  a  little  enigmatic ;  so  that,  at  first  view, 
we  know  not  well  what  to  make  of  it ;  and  only 
after  repeated  perusals,  will  the  scattered 
glimmerings  of  significance  begin  to  coalesce 
into  continuous  light,  and  the  whole,  in  any 
measure,  rise  before  us  with  that  greater  or  less 
degree  of  coherence  which  it  may  have  had  in 
the  mind  of  the  poet.  Nay,  after  all,  no  perfect 
clearness  may  be  attained,  but  only  various 
approximations  to  it;  hints  and  half  glances 
of  a  meaning,  which  is  still  shrouded  in  vague- 
ness; nay,  to  the  just  picturing  of  which  this 
very  vagueness  was  essential.  For  the  whole 
piece  has  a  dream-like  character;  and,  in  these 
cases,  no  prudent  soothsayer  will  be  altogether 
confident.  To  our  readers  we  must  now  en- 
deavour, so  far  as  possible,  to  show  both  the 
dream  and  its  interpretation :  the  former  as  it 
stands  written  before  us ;  the  latter  from  our 
own  private  conjecture  alone;  for  of  those 
strange  German  comments  we  yet  know  no- 
thing, except  by  the  faintest  hearsay. 

Helena  forms  part  of  a  continuation  to  Faust  ; 
but,  happily  for  our  present  undertaking,  its 
connection  with  the  latter  work  is  much  looser 
than  might  have  been  expected.  We  say, 
happily;  because  Faust,  though  considerably 
talked  of  in  England,  appears  still  to  be  nowise 
known.  We  have  made  it  our  duty  to  inspect 
the  English  translation  of  Faust,  as  well  as  the 
Extracts  which  accompany  Retzsch's  Outlines ; 
and  various  disquisitions  nnd  j|j]jrQai|^ersions. 


vituperative  or  laudatory,  grounded  on  these 
two  works ;  but,  unfortunately,  have  found 
there  no  cause  to  alter  the  above  persuasion. 
Faust  is  emphatically  a  work  of  Art ;  a  work 
matured  in  the  mysterious  depths  of  a  vast  and 
wonderful  mind;  and  bodied  forth  with,  that 
truth  and  curious  felicity  of  composition,  in 
which  this  man  is  generally  admitted  to  have 
no  living  rival.  To  reconstruct  such  a  work 
in  another  language ;  to  show  it  in  its  hard  yet 
graceful  strength;  with  those  slight  witching 
traits  of  pathos  or  of  sarcasm,  those  glimpses 
of  solemnity  or  terror,  and  so  many  reflexes 
and  evanescent  echoes  of  meaning,  which  con- 
nect it  in  strange  union  with  the  whole  Infinite 
of  thought, — were  business  for  a  man  of  diflfer- 
ent  powers  than  has  yet  attempted  German 
translation  among  us.  In  fact,  Faust  is  to  be 
read  not  once  but  many  times,  if  we  would  un- 
derstand it:  every  line,  every  word  has  its  pur- 
port; and  only  in  such  minute  inspection  will 
the  essential  significance  of  the  poem  display 
itself.  Perhaps  it  is  even  chiefly  by  following 
these  fainter  traces  and  tokens,  that  the  true 
point  of  vision  for  the  whole  is  discovered  to 
us ;  and  we  stand  at  last  in  the  proper  scene 
of  Faust;  a  wild  and  wondrous  region,  where, 
in  pale  light,  the  primeval  Shapes  of  Chaos, 
— as  it  were,  the  Foundations  of  Being  itself, — 
seem  to  loom  forth,  dim  and  huge,  in  the  vague 
Immensity  around  us;  and  the  life  and  nature 
of  man,  with  its  brief  interests,  its  misery  and 


by  that  stupendous  All,  of  which  it  forms  an 
indissoluble  though  so  mean  a  fraction.  He 
who  would  study  all  this  must  for  a  long  time, 
we  are  afraid,  be  content  to  study  it  in  the 
original. 

But  our  English  criticisms  of  Faust  have 
been  of  a  still  more  unedifying  sort.  Let  any 
man  fancy  the  (Edipus  Tyramms  discovered  for 
the  first  time,  translated  from  an  unknown 
Greek  manuscript,  by  some  ready-writing 
manufacturer,  and  "brought  out"  at  Drury 
Lane,  with  new  music,  made  as  "apothecaries 
make  new  mixtures,  by  pouring  out  of  one 
vessel  into  another !"  Then  read  the  theatrical 
report  in  the*  morning  Papers,  and  the  Maga- 
zines of  next  month.  Was  not  the  whole  affair 
rather  "  heavy  1"  How  indifferent  did  the 
audience  sit;  how  little  use  was  made  of  the 
handkerchief,  except  by  such  as  took  snuff"! 
Did  not  CEdipus  somewhat  remind  us  of  a 
blubbering  schoolboy,  and  Jocasta  of  a  decayed 
milliner'?  Confess  that  the  plot  was  mon- 
strous;  nay,  considering  the  marriage-law  of 
England,  highly  immoral.  On  the  whole,  what 
a  singular  deficiency  of  taste  must  this  Sopho- 
cles have  laboured  under!  But  probably  he 
was  excluded  from  the  "  society  of  the  influ- 
ential classes :"  for,  after  all,  the  man  is  not 
without  indications  of  genius :  had  we  had  the 
training  of  him, — And  so  on,  through  all  the 
variations  of  the  critical  cornpipe. 

So  might  it  have  fared  with  the  ancient  Gre- 
cian; for  so  has  it  fared  with  the  only  modern 
that  writes  in  a  Grecian  spirit.  This  treat- 
ment of  Faust  may  deserve  to  be  mentioned, 
for  various  reasons;  not  to  be  lamented  over, 
because,  as  in  much  more  important  instances, 
it  is  inevitable,  and  lies  in  the  nature  of  the 
case.  Besides,  a  better  state  of  things  is  evi- 
dently enough  coming  round.  By  and  by,  the 
labours,  poetical  and  intellectual,  of  the  Ger- 
mans, as  of  other  nations,  will  appear  before 
us  in  their  true  shape;  and  Faust,  among  the 
rest,  will  have  justice  done  it.  For  ourselves, 
it  were  unwise  presumption,  at  any  time,  to 
pretend  opening  the  full  poetical  significance 
of  Faust ;  nor  is  this  the  place  for  making  such 
an  attempt.  Present  purposes  will  be  a*nswer- 
ed  if  we  can  point  out  some  general  features 
and  bearings  of  the  piece ;  such  as  to  exhibit 
its  relation  with  Helena:  by  what  contrivances 
this  latter  has  been  intercalated  into  it,  and 
how  far  the  strange  picture  and  the  strange 
framing  it  is  inclosed  in  correspond. 

The  story  of  Faust  forms  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  productions  of  the  Middle  Ages; 
or  rather,  it  is  the  most  striking  embodim'ent 
of  a  highly  remarkable  belief,  which  originated 
or  prevailed  in  those  ages.  Considered  strictly, 
it  may  take  the  rank  of  a  Christian  mythus,  in 
the  same  sense  as  the  stury  of  Prometheus,  of 
Titan,  and  the  like,  are  Pagan  ones;  and  to 
our  keener  inspection,  it  will  disclose  a  no  less 
impressive  or  characteristic  aspect  of  the  same 
human  nature, — here  bright,  joyful,  self-confi- 
dent, smiling  even  in  its  sternness;  there  deep, 
meditative,  awe-struck,  austere, — in  which  both 
they  and  it  took  their  rise.  To  us,  in  these 
days,  it  is  not  easy  to  estimate  how  this  story 
of  Faust,  invested  with  its  magic  and  infernal 


ism,  its  mad  passion  and  poor  frivolity,  struts 

and  frets  its  hour,  encompassed  and  overlooked  i  horrors,  must  have  harrowed  up  the  souls  of  a 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


rude  and  earnest  people,  in  an  age  when  its 
dialect  was  not  yet  obsolete,  and  such  contracts 
with  the  principle  of  Evil  were  thought  not 
only  credible  in  general,  but  possible  to  every 
individual  auditor  who  here  shuddered  at  the 
mention  of  them.  The  day  of  Magic  has  gone 
by;  Witchcraft  has  been  put  a  stop  to  by  act 
of  parliament.  But  the  mysterious  relations 
which  it  emblemed  still  continue  ;  the  Soul  of 
Man  still  fights  with  the  dark  influences  of 
Ignorance,  Misery,  and  Sin;  still  lacerates 
itself,  like  a  captive  bird,  against  the  iron 
limits  which  Necessity  has  drawn  round  it ; 
still  follows  False  Shows,  seeking  peace  and 
good  on  paths  where  no  peace  or  good  is  to  be 
found.  In  this  sense,  Faust  may  still  be  con- 
sidered as  true ;  nay,  as  a  truth  of  the  most 
impressive  sort,  and  one  which  will  always 
remain  true.  To  body  forth,  in  modern  sym- 
bols, a  feeling  so  old  and  deep-rooted  in  our 
whole  European  way  of  thought,  were  a  task 
not  unworthy  of  the  highest  poetical  genius. 
In  Germany,  accordingly,  it  has  several  times 
been  attempted,  and  with  very  various  success. 
Klinger  has  produced  a  Romance  of  Faust,  full 
of  rugged  sense,  and  here  and  there  not  with- 
out considerable  strength  of  delineation ;  yet, 
on  the  whole,  of  an  essentially  unpoetical  cha- 
racter; dead,  or  living  with  only  a  mechanical 
life ;  coarse,  almost  gross,  and,  to  our  minds, 
far  too  redolent  of  pitch  and  bitumen.  Maler 
Miiller's  Faust,  which  is  a  Drama,  must  be  re- 
garded as  a  much  more  genial  performance,  so 
far  as  it  goes ;  the  secondary  characters,  the 
Jews  and  rakish  Students,  often  remind  us  of 
our  own  Fords  and  Mario wes.  His  main  per- 
sons, however,  Faust  and  the  Devil,  are  but 
inadequately  conceived;  .Faust  is  little  more 
than  self-willed,  supercilious,  and,  alas,  insol- 
vent; the  Devils,  above  all,  are  savage,  long- 
winded,  and  insufferably  noisy.  Besides,  the 
piece  has  beep  left  in  a  fragmentary  state;  it 
can  nowise  pass  as  the  best  work  of  Miiller's.* 
Klingemann's  Faust,  which  also  is  (or  lately 
was)  a  Drama,  we  have  never  seen ;  and  have 
only  heard  of  it  as  of  a  tawdry  and  hollow 


♦  Frederic  Miiller  (more  commonly  called  Maler,  or 
Painter  Miiller)  is  here,  so  far  as  we  know,  named  for 
the  first  time  to  English  readers.  Nevertheless,  in  any 
Bolid  study  of  German  literature,  this  author  must  take 
precedence  of  many  hundreds  whose  reputation  has  tra- 
velled faster.  But  Miiller  has  been  unfortunate  in  his 
own  country,  as  well  as  here.  At  an  early  age,  meeting 
with  no  success  as  a  poet,  he.  quitted  that  art  for  paint- 
ing; and  retired,  perhaps  in  disgust,  into  Italy  ;  where 
also  but  little  preferment  seems  to  have  awaited  him. 
His  writings,  after  almost  half  a  century  of  neglect,  were 
at  length  brought  into  sight  and  general  estimation  bv 
Ludwig  Tieck  ;  at  a  time  when  the  author  might  indeed 
say,  that  he  was  "old  and  could  not  enjoy  it,  solitary 
and  could  not  impart  it,"  but  not,  unhappilv,  that  he  was 
"known  and  did  not  want  it,"  for  his  fine  genius  had 
yet  made  for  itself  no  free  way  amid  so  many  obstruc- 
tions, and  still  continued  unrewarded  and  unrecognised. 
His  paintings,  chiefly  of  still-life  and  animals,  are  said 
to  possess  a  true  though  no  very  extraordinary  merit : 
but  of  his  poetry  we  will  venture  to  assert  that  it  be- 
speaks a  genuine  feeling  and  talent,  nay,  rises  at  times 
even  into  the  higher  regions  of  Art.  His  Jldam's  ^icak- 
eningr,  his  Satyr  Mopsus,h\3  J\russkerven  (Nutshelling), 
informed  as  they  are  with  simple  kindly  strength,  with 
clear  vision,  and  love  of  nature,  are  incomparably  the 
best  German  or,  indeed,  modern  Idyls;  his  "Genoveva" 
will  still  stand  reading,  even  with  "that  of  Tieck.  These 
things  are  now  acknowledged  among  the  Germans  ;  but 
to  Miiller  the  acknowledgment  is  of  no  avail.  He  died 
some  two  years  ago  at  Rome,  where  he  seems  to  have 
BUbsiflted  latterly  as  a  sort  of  picture-cicerono. 


article,  suited  for  immediate  use,  and  immedi- 
ate oblivion. 

Goethe,  we  believe,  was  the  first  who  tried 
this  subject ;  and  is,  on  all  hands,  considered 
as  by  far  the  most  successful.  His  manner  of 
treating  it  appears  to  us,  so  far  as  we  can  un- 
derstand it,  peculiarly  just  and  happy.  He 
retains  the, supernatural  vesture  of  the  story, 
but  retains  it  with  the  consciousness,  on  his 
and  our  part,  that  it  is  a  chimera.  His  art- 
magic  comes  forth  in  doubtful  twilight;  vague 
in  its  outline ;  interwoven  everywhere  with 
light  sarcasm  ;  nowise  as  a  real  Object,  but  as 
a  real  Shadow  of  an  Object,  which  is  also 
real,  yet  lies  beyond  our  horizon,  and,  except 
in  its  shadows,  cannot  itself  be  seen.  Nothing 
were  simpler  than  to  look  into  this  poem  for  a 
new  "Satan's  Invisible  World  displayed,"  or 
any  effort  to  excite  the  skeptical  minds  of  these 
days  by  goblins,  wizards,  and  other  infernal 
ware.  Such  enterprises  belong  to  artists  of  a 
different  species :  Goethe's  Devil  is  a  culti- 
vated personage,  and  acquainted  with  the 
modern  sciences ;  sneers  at  witchcraft  and 
the  black-art,  even  while  employing  them,  as 
heartily  as  any  member  of  the  French  Insti- 
tute; for  he  is  a  plnlosophe,  and  doubts  most 
things,  na)i  half  disbelieves  even  his  own  ex- 
istence. It  is  not  without  a  cunning  effort  that 
all  this  is  managed  ;  but  managed,  in  a  consi- 
derable degree,  it  is  ;  for  a  world  of  magic  is 
opened  to  us  which,  we  might  almost  say,  we 
feel  to  be  at  once  true  and  not  true. 

In  fact,  Mephistopheles  comes  before  us, 
not  arrayed  in  the  terrors  of  Cocytus  and  Phle- 
^ethon,  but  in  the  natural  indelible  deformity 
of  Wickedness ;  he  is  the  Devil,  not  of  Super- 
stition, but  of  Knowledge.  Here  is  no  cloven 
foot,  or  horns  and  teil :  he  himself  ihforms  us 
that,  during  the  late  march  of  intellect,  the 
very  Devil  has  participated  in  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  and  laid  these  appendages  aside.  Doubt- 
less, Mephistopheles  "has  the  manners  of  a 
gentleman  ; "  he  "  knows  the  world  ; "  nothing 
can  exceed  the  easy  tact  with  which  he  ma- 
nages himself;  his  wit  and  sarcasm  are  unli- 
mited ;  the  cool  heartfelt  contempt  with  which 
he  despises  all  things,  human  and  divine, 
might  make  the  fortune  of  half  a  dozen  "  fel- 
lows about  town."  Yet,  withal,  he  is  a  devil 
in  very  deed ;  a  genuine  Son  of  Night.  He 
calls  himself  the  Denier,  and  this  truly  is  his 
name;  for,  as  Voltaire  did  with  historical 
doubt,  so  does  he  with  all  moral  appearances ; 
settles  them  with  a  N'en  croyez  rien.  The 
shrewd,  all-informed  intellect  he  has,  is  an  at- 
torney intellect;  it  can  contradict,  but  it  cannot 
affirm.  With  lynx  vision,  he  descries  at  a 
glance  the  ridiculous,  the  unsuitable,  the  bad; 
but  for  the  solemn,  the  noble,  the  worthy,  he  is 
blind  as  his  ancient  Mother.  Thus  does  he  go 
along,  qualifying,  confuting,  despising ;  on  all 
hands  detecting  the  false,  but  without  force  to 
bring  forth,  or  even  to  discern,  any  glimpse 
of  the  true.  Poor  "Devil!  what  truth  should 
there  be  for  him  1  To  see  Falsehood  is  his 
only  truth:  falsehood  and  evil  are  the  rule, 
truth  and  good  the  exception  which  confirms 
it.  He  can  believe  in  nothing,  but  in  his  own 
self-conceit,  and  in  the  indestructible  baseness, 
folly,  and  hypocrisy  of  men.    For  him,  virtuo 


60 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


is  some  bubble  of  the  blood :  "it  stands  written 
on  his  face  that  he  never  loved  a  living  soul." 
Nay,  he  cannot  even  hate:  at  Faust  himself 
he  has  no  grudge;  he  merely  tempts  him  by 
way  of  experiment,  to  pass  the  time  scientifi- 
cally. Such  a  combination  of  perfect  Under- 
standing with  perfect  Selfishness,  of  logical 
Life  with  moral  Death ;  so  universal  a  denier, 
both  in  heart  and  head, — is  undoubtedly  a 
child  of  Darkness,  an  emissary  of  the  pri- 
meval Nothing:  and  coming  forward,  as  he 
does,  like  a  person  of  breeding,  and  without 
any  flavour  of  Brimstone,  may  stand  here,  in 
his  merely  spiritual  deformity,  at  once  potent, 
dangerous,  and  contemptible,  as  the  best  and 
only  genuine  Devil  of  these  latter  times. 

In  strong  contrast  with  this  impersonation 
of  modern  AYorldly-mindedness,  stands  Faust 
himself,  by  nature  the  antagonist  of  it,  but  des- 
tined also  to  be  its  victim.  If  Mephistopheles 
represent  the  spirit  of  Denial,  Faust  may  re- 
present that  of  Inquiry  and  Endeavour:  the 
two  are,  by  necessity,  in  conflict ;  the  light 
and  the  darkness  of  man's  life  and  mind.  In- 
trinsically, Faust  is  a  noble  being,  though  no 
wise  one.  His  desires  are  towards  the  high 
and  true;  nay,  with  a  whirlwind  impetuosity 
he  rushes  forth  over  the  Universe  to  grasp  all 
excellence;  his  heart  yearns  towards  the  infi- 
nite and  the  invisible  :  only  that  he  knows  not 
the  conditions  under  which  alone  this  is  to  be 
attained.  Confiding  in  his  feeling  of  himself, 
he  has  started  with  the  tacit  persuasions,  so 
natural  to  all  men,  that  he  at  least,  however  it 
may  fare  with  others,  shall  and  must  be  happy: 
a  deep-seated,  though  only  half-conscious  con- 
viction lurks  in  him,  that  wherever  he  is  not 
successful,  fortune  has  dealt  with  him  unjuetly. 
His  purposes  are  fair,  nay,  generous :  why 
should  he  not  prosper  in  them?  For  in  all 
his  lofty  aspirings,  his  strivings  after  truth 
and  more  than  human  greatness  of  mind,  it 
has  never  struck  him  to  inquire  how  he,  the 
striver,  was  warranted  for  such  enterprises ; 
with  what  faculty  Nature  had  equipped  him  ; 
within  what  limits  she  had  hemmed  him  in ; 
by  what  right  he  pretended  to  be  happy,  or 
could,  some  short  space  ago,  have  pretended 
to  be  at  all.  Experience,  indeed,  will  teach 
him,  for  "  Experience  is  the  best  of  school- 
masters ;  only  the  school-fees  are  heavy."  As 
yet,  too,  disappointment,  which  fronts  him  on 
every  hand,  rather  maddens  than  instructs. 
Faust  has  spent  his  youth  and  manhood,  not 
as  others  do  in  the  sunny  crowded  paths  of 
profit,  or  among  the  rosy  bowers  of  pleasure, 
but  darkly  and  alone  in  the  search  of  Truth  : 
is  it  fit  that  Truth  should  now  hide  herself, 
and  his  sleepless  pilgrimage  towards  Know- 
ledge and  Vision  end  in  the  pale  shadow  of 
Doubt  1  To  his  dream  of  a  glorious  higher 
happiness,  all  earthly  happiness  has  been  sa- 
crificed; friendship,  love,  the  social  rewards 
of  ambition  were  cheerfully  cast  aside,  for  his 
eye  and  his  heart  were  bent  on  a  region  of 
clear  and  supreme  good ;  and  now,  in  its  stead, 
he  finds  isolation,  silence,  and  despair.  What 
solace  remains  1  Virtue  once  promised  to  be 
her  own  reward;  but  because  she  does  not 
pay  him  in  the  current  coin  of  worldly  enjoy- 
ment,  be  reckons  her  loo  a  delusion ;  and,  like 


Brutus,  reproaches  as  a  shadow,  what  he  once 
worshipped  as  a  substance.  Whither  shall 
he  now  tend  1  For  his  loadstars  have  gone 
out  one  by  one;  and  as  the  darkness  fell,  the 
strong  and  steady  wind  has  changed  into  a 
fierce  and  aimless  tornado.  Faust  calls  him- 
self a  monster,  "without  object,  yet  without 
rest."  The  vehement,  keen,  and  stormful  na- 
ture of  the  man  is  stung  into  fury,  as  he  thinks 
of  all  he  has  endured  and  lost ;  he  broods  in 
gloomy  meditation,  and,  like  Bellerophon, 
wanders  apart,  "eating  his  own  heart;"  or 
bursting  into  fiery  paroxysms,  curses  man's 
whole  existence  as  a  mockery  ;  curses  hope, 
and  faith,  and  joy,  and  care,  and  what  is  worst, 
"curses  patience  more  than  all  the  rest."  Had 
his  weak  arm  the  power,  he  could  smite  the 
Universe  asunder,  as  at  the  crack  of  Doom, 
and  hurl  his  own  vexed  being  along  with  it 
into  the  silence  of  Annihilation. 

Thus  Faust  is  a  man  who  has  quitted  the 
ways  of  vulgar  men,  without  light  to  guide  him 
on  a  better  way.  No  longer  restricted  by  the 
sympathies,  the  common  interests  and  common 
persuasions  by  which  the  mass  of  mortals,  each 
individually  ignorant,  nay,  it  may  be,  stolid, 
and  altogether  blind  as  to  the  proper  aim  of 
life,  are  yet  held  together,  and  like  stones  in 
the  channel  of  a  torrent,  by  their  very  multi- 
tude and  mutal  collision,  are  made  to  move  with 
some  regularity, — he  is  still  but  a  slave;  the 
slave  of  impulses,  which  are  stronger,  not  truer 
or  better,  and  the  more  unsafe  that  they  are  soli- 
tary. He  sees  the  vulgar  of  mankind  happy; 
but  happy  only  in  their  baseness.  Himself  he 
feels  to  be  peculiar ;  the  victim  of  a  strange, 
an  unexampled  destiny;  not  as  other  men,  he 
is  "  with  them,  not  of  them."  There  is  misery 
here  ;  nay,  as  Goethe  has  elsewhere  wisely 
remarked,  the  beginning  of  madness  itself.  It 
is  only  in  the  sentiment  of  companionship  that 
men  feel  safe  and  assured :  to  all  doubts  and 
mysterious  "  questionings  of  destiny,"  their  sole 
satisfying  answer  is,  Others  do  and  suffer  the  like. 
Were  it  not  for  this,  the  dullest  day-drudge  of 
Mammon  might  think  himself  into  unspeak- 
able abysses  of  despair;  for  he,  too,  is  "  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  made  ;"  Infinitude  and 
Incomprehensibility  surround  him  on  this  hand 
and  that;  and  the  vague  spectre  Death,  silent 
and  sure  as  Time,  is  advancing  at  all  moments 
to  sweep  him  away  for  ever.  But  he  answers, 
Others  do  and  suffer  the  like ;  and  plods  along 
without  misgivings.  Were  there  but  One  Man 
in  the  world,  he  would  be  a  terror  to  himself; 
and  the  highest  man  not  less  so  than  the  low- 
est. Now  it  is  as  this  One  Man  that  Faust  re- 
gards himself;  he  is  divided  from  his  fellows; 
cannot  answer  with  them.  Others  do  the  like;  and 
yet,  why  or  how  he  specially  is  to  do  or  suffer 
will  nowhere  reveal  itself.  For  he  is  still  "in 
the  gall  of  bitterness  ;"  Pride  and  an  entire 
uncompromising,  though  secret  love  of  Self, 
are  still  the  mainsprings  of  his  conduct. 
Knowledge  with  him  is  precious  only  be- 
cause it  is  power;  even  virtue  he  would  love 
chiefly  as  a  finer  sort  of  sensuality,  and  be- 
cause it  was  his  virtue.  A  ravenous  hunger 
for  enjoyment  haunts  him  everywhere ;  the 
stinted  allotments  of  earthly  life  are  as  a 
mockery  to  him :  to  the  iron  law  of  Force  he 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


61 


will  not  yield,  for  his  heart,  though  torn,  is  yet 
unweakened,  and  till  Humility  shall  open  his 
eyes,  the  soft  law  of  Wisdom  will  be  hidden 
from  him. 

To  invest  a  man  of  this  character  with  su- 
pernatural powers  is  but  enabling  him  to  re- 
peat his  error  on  a  larger  scale,  to  play  the 
same  false  game  with  a  deeper  and  more 
ruinous  stake.  Go  where  he  may,  he  will  "  find 
himself  again  in  a  conditional  world ;"  widen 
his  sphere  as  he  pleases,  he  will  find  it  again 
encircled  by  the  empire  of  Necessity;  the  gay 
island  of  Existence  is  again  but  a  fraction  of 
the  ancient  realm  of  Night.  Were  he  all-wise 
and  all-powerful,  perhaps  he  might  be  content- 
ed and  virtuous ;  scarcely  otherwise.  The 
poorest  human  soul  is  infinite  in  wishes,  and 
the  infinite  Universe  was  not  made  for  one, 
but  for  all.  Vain  were  it  for  Faust,  by  heap- 
ing height  on  height,  to  struggle  towards  infi- 
nitude ;  while  to  that  law  of  Self-denial,  by 
which  alone  man's  narrow  destiny  may  become 
an  infinitude  within  itself,  he  is  still  a  stran- 
ger. Such,  however,  is  his  attempt :  not  in- 
deed incited  by  hope,  but  goaded  on  by  des- 
pair, he  unites  himself  with  the  Fiend,  as 
with  a  stronger  though  a  wicked  agency ;  reck- 
less of  all  issues,  if  so  were  that  by  these  means 
the  craving  of  his  heart  might  be  stayed,  and 
the  dark  secret  of  Destiny  unravelled  or  for- 
gotten. 

It  is   this   conflicting  union  of  the  higher 
nature  of  the  soul  with  the  lower  elements  of 
human  life;  of  Faust,  the  son  of  Light  and 
Free-will,  with  the  influences  of  Doubt,  Denial, 
and  Obstruction,  or  Mephistopheles,  who  is 
the  symbol  and  spokesman  of  these,  that  the 
poet  has  here  proposed  to  delineate.     A  high 
problem;  and  of  which  the  solution  is  yet  far 
from  completed ;  nay,  perhaps,  in  a  poetical 
sense,  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  capable  of  com- 
pletion.   For  it  is  to  be  remarked  that,  in  this 
contract  with  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  little  or 
no  mention,  or  allusion  is  made  to  a  Future 
Life ;  whereby  it  might  seem  as  if  the  action 
was   not  intended,  in  the  manner  of  the  old 
Legend,  to  terminate  in  Faust's  perdition  ;  but 
rather  as  if  an  altogether  different  end  must 
be  provided  for  him.     Faust,  indeed,  wild  and 
wilful  as  he  is,  cannot  be  regarded  as  a  wicked, 
much  less  as  an  utterly  reprobate  man  :  we  do 
not  reckon  him  ill-intentioned,  but  misguided 
and  miserable;  he   falls  into  crime,  not  by 
purpose,  but  by  accident  and  blindness.    To 
send  him  to  the  Pit  of  Wo,  to  render  such  a 
character  the  eternal  slave  of  Mephistopheles, 
would  look  like  making  darkness  triumphant 
over  light,  blind  force  over  erring  reason  ;  or, 
at  best,  were   cutting  the  Gordian   knot,  not 
loosing  it.     If  we  mistake  not,  Goethe's  Faust 
will  have  a  finer  moral  than  the  old  nursery- 
tale,  or  the  other  plays  and  tales  that  have  been 
founded  on  it.    Our  seared  and  blighted,  yet 
still  noble  Faust,  will  not  end  in  the  madness 
of  horror,  but  in  Peace  grounded   on   better 
Knowledge.     Whence   that  Knowledge  is  to 
come,  what  higher  and  freer  world  of  Art  or 
Religion  may  be  hovering  in  the  mind  of  the 
poet,  we  will  not  try  to  surmise :  perhaps  in 
bright  aerial  emblematic  glimpses,  he  may  yet 
show  it  us,  transient  and  afar  off,  yet  clear 


with  orient  beauty,  as  a  Land  of  Wonders,  and 
new  Poetic  Heaven. 

With  regard  to  that  part  of  the  work  already 
finished,  we  must  here  say  little  more.  Faust, 
as  it  yet  stands,  is,  indeed,  only  a  stating  of 
the  difficulty ;  but  a  stating  of  it  wisely,  truly, 
and  with  deepest  poetic  emphasis.  For  how 
many  living  hearts,  even  now  imprisoned  in 
the  perplexities  of  Doubt,  do  these  wild  pierc- 
ing tones  of  Faust,  his  withering  agonies  and 
fiery  desperation,  "  speak  the  word 'they  have 
long  been  waiting  to  hear !"  A  nameless  pain 
had  long  brooded  over  the  soul:  here, by  some 
light  touch,  it  starts  into  form  and  voice;  we 
see  it  and  know  it,  and  see  that  another  also 
knew  it.  This  Faust  is  as  a  mystic  Oracl«»for 
the  mind;  a  Dodona  grove,  where  the  oaks 
and  fountains  prophesy  to  us  of  our  destiny, 
and  murmur  unearthly  secrets. 

How  all  this  is  managed,  and  the  poem  so 
curiously  fashioned;  how  the  clearest  insight 
is  combined  with  the  keenest  feeling,  and  the 
noblest  and  wildest  imagination ;  by  what  soft 
and  skilful  finishing  these  so  heterogeneous 
elements  are  blended  in  fine  harmony,  and  the 
dark  world  of  spirits,  with  its  merely  meta- 
physical entities,  plays  like  a  chequering  of 
strange  mysterious  shadows  among  the  palpa- 
ble objects  of  material  life ;  and  the  whole,  firm 
in  its  details,  and  sharp  and  solid  as  reality, 
yet  hangs  before  us  meUing  on  all  sides  into 
air,  and  free,  and  light,  as  the  baseless  fabric 
of  a  vision  ;  all  this  the  reader  can  learn  fully 
nowhere  but,  by  long  study,  in  the  work  itself. 
The  general  scope  and  spirit  of  it  we  have 
now  endeavoured  to  sketch:  the  few  incidents 
on  which,  with  the  aid  of  much  dialogue  and 
exposition,  these  have  been  brought  out,  are 
perhaps  already  known  to  most  readers,  and, 
at  all  events,  need  not  be  minutely  recapitu- 
lated here.  Mephistopheles  has  promised  to 
himself  that  he  will  lead  Faust  "  through  the 
bustling  inanity  of  life,"  but  that  its  pleasures 
shall  tempt  and  not  satisfy  him;  "food  shall 
hover  before  his  eager  lips,  but  he  shall  beg 
for  nourishment  in  vain."  Hitherto  they  have 
travelled  but  a  short  way  together;  yet,  so  ftir, 
the  Denier  has  kept  his  engagement  well. 
Faust,  endowed  with  all  earthly,  and  many 
more  than  earthly  advantages,  is  still  no  nearer 
contentment;  nay,  after  a  brief  season  of 
marred  and  uncertain  joy,  he  finds  himself  sunk 
into  deeper  wretchedness  than  ever.  Marga- 
ret, an  innocent  girl  whom  he  loves,  but  has 
betrayed,  is  doomed  to  die,  and  already  crazed 
in  brain,  less  for  her  own  errors  than  for  his : 
in  a  scene  of  true  pathos,  he  would  fain  per- 
suade her  to  escape  with  him,  by  the  aid  of 
Mephistopheles,  from  prison;  but  in  the  in- 
stinct of  her  heart  she  finds  an  invincible 
aversion  to  the  Fiend ;  she  chooses  death  and 
ignominy,  rather  than  life  and  love,  if  of  his 
giving.  At  her  final  refusal,  Mephistopheles 
proclaims  that  "  she  is  judged,"  a  "  voice  from 
Above"  that  "  she  is  saved  ;"  the  action  termi- 
nates; Faust  and  Mephistopheles  vanish  from 
our  sight,  as  into  boundless  Space. 


And  now,  after  so  long  a  preface,  we  arrive 
at  Helena,  the  "  Classico-romantic  Phantasma- 
goria,"  where  these  Adventurers,  strangely 
F 


62 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


altered  by  travel,  and  in  altogether  different 
costume,  have  again  risen  into  sight.  Our  long 
preface  was  not  needless,  for  Faust  and  Helena, 
though  separated  by  some  wide  and  marvel- 
lous interval,  are  nowise  disconnected.  The 
characters  may  have  changed  by  absence; 
Faust  is  no  longer  the  same  bitter  and  tem- 
pestuous man,  but  appears  in  chivalrous  com- 
,  posure,  with  a  silent  energy,  a  grave,  and,  as 
it  were,  commanding  ardour.  Mephistopheles 
alone  may  retain  somewhat  of  his  old  spiteful 
shrewdness;  but  still  the  past -state  of  these 
personages  must  illustrate  the  present;  and 
only  by  what  we  remember  of  ihem,  can  we 
try  to  interpret  what  we  see.  In  fact,  the  style 
of  Helena  is  altogether  new  :  quiet,  simple,  joy- 
ful ;  passing  by  a  short  gradation  from  Classic 
dignity  into  'Romantic  pomp ;  it  has  every- 
where a  full  and  sunny  tone  of  colouring;  re- 
sembles not  a  tragedy,  but  a  gay  gorgeous 
mask.  Neither  is  Faust's.,  former  history  al- 
luded to,  or  any  explanation  given  us  of  oc- 
currences that  may  have  intervened.  It  is  a 
light  scene,  divided  by  chasms  and  unknown 
distance  from  that  other  country  of  gloom. 
Nevertheless,  the  latter  still  frowns  in  the 
back-ground;  nay, rises  aloft,  shutting  otit  fur- 
ther view,  and  our  gay  vision  attains  a  new 
significance  as  it  is  painted  on  that  ca;ivas  of 
storm. 

We  question  whether  it  ever  occurred  to  any 
.English  reader  of  Faust,  that  the  work  needed 
a  continuation,  or  even  admitted  one.  To  the 
Germans,  however,  in  their  deeper  study  of  a 
favourite  poem,  which  also  they  have  full 
means  of  studying,  this  has  long  been  no  se- 
cret; and  such  as  have  seen  with  what  zeal 
most  German  readers  cherish  Favst,  and  how 
the  younger  of  them  will  recite  whole  scenes 
of  it,  with  a  vehemence  resembling  that  of 
Gil  Bias  and  his  Figures  Hiber noises,  in  the 
streets  of  Oviedo,  may  estimate  the  interest 
excited  in  that  country  by  the  following  Notice 
from  the  Author,  published  last  year  in  his 
Kunst  und  Allerthunu 

"  Helena.     Interlude  in  Faust. 

"Faust's  character,  in  the  elevation  to 
which  latter  refinement,  working  on  the  old 
rude  Tradition,  has  raised  it,  represents  a  man 
who,  feeling  impatient  and  imprisoned  within 
the  limits  of  mere  earthly  existence,  regards 
the  possession  of  the  highest  knowledge,  the 
enjoyment  of  the  fairest  blessings,  as  insuffi- 
cient even  in  the  slightest  degree  to  satisfy  his 
longing:  a  spirit,  accordingl}'-,  which,  strug- 
gling out  on  all  sides,  ever  returns  the  more 
unhappy. 

"This  form  of  mind  is  so  accordant  with 
our  modern  disposition,  that  various  persons 
of  ability  have  been  induced  to  undertake  the 
treatment  of  such  a  subject.  My  manner  of 
attempting  it  .obtained  approval:  distinguished 
men  considered  the  matter,  and  commented 
on  my  performance;  all  which  I  thankfully 
observed.  At  the  same  time  I  could  not  but 
wonder  that  none  of  those  who  undertook  a 
continuation  and  completion  of  my  Fragment, 
had  lighted  on  the  thought,  which  seemed  so 
ehvioiis,  that  the  composition  of  a  Second  Part 


must  necessarily  elevate  itself  altogether  away 
from  the  hampered  sphere  of  the  First,  and 
conduct  a  man  of  such  a  nature  into  higher 
regions,  under  worthier  circumstances. 

*'  How  I,  for  my  part,  had  determined  to  essay 
this,  lay  silently  before  my  own  mind,  from 
time  to  time  exciting  me  to  some  progress ; 
while,  from  all  and  each,  I  carefully  guarded 
my  secret,  still  in  hope  of  bringing  the  work 
to  the  wished-for  issue.  Now,  however,  I  must 
no  longer  keep  back;  or,  in  publishing  my 
collective  Endeavours,  conceal  any  further  se- 
cret from  the  world;  to  which,  on  the  con- 
trary, I  feel  myself  bound  to  submit  my  whole 
labours,  even  though  in  a  fragmentary  state. 

"  Accordingly  I  have  resolved  that  the  above- 
named  Piece,e  smaller  drama,  complete  within 
itself,  but  pertaining  to  the  Second  Part  of 
Faust,  shall  be  forthwith  presented  in  the  First 
Portion  of  my  Works. 

"  The  wide  chasm  between  that  well-known 
dolorous  conclusion  of  the  first  part,  and  the 
entrance  of  an  antique  Grecian  Heroine,  is  not 
yet  overarched;  meanwhile,  as  a  preamble,  my 
readers  will  accept  what  follows : 

"  The  old  Legend  tells  us,  and  the  Puppet- 
play  fails  not  to  introduce  the  scene,  that  Faust, 
in  his  imperious  pride  of  heart,  required  from 
Mephistopheles  the  love  of  the  fair  Helena  of 
Greece ;  in  which  demand  the  other,  after  some 
reluctance,  gratified  him.  Not  to  overlook  so 
important  a  concern  in  our  work,  was  a  duty 
for  us ;  and  how  we  have  endeavoured  to  dis- 
charge it,  will  be  seen  in  this  Interlude.  But 
what  may  have  furnished  the  proximate  occa- 
sion of  such  an  occurrence,  gnd  how,  after 
manifold  hindrances,  our  old  magical  Crafts- 
man can  have  found  means  to  bring  back  the 
individual  Helena,  in  person,  out  of  Orcus  into 
Life,  must,  in  this  stage  of  the  business,  remain 
undiscovered.  For  the  present,  it  is  enough  if 
our  reader  will  admit  that  the  real  Helena  may 
step  forth,  on  antique  tragedy-cothurnus,  before 
her  primitive  abode  in  Sparta.  We  then  re- 
quest him  to  observe  in  what  way  and  manner 
Faust  will  presume  to  court  favour  from  this 
royal  all-famous  Beauty  of  the  world." 

To  manage  so  unexampled  a  courtship  will 
be  admitted  to  be  no  easy  task ;  for  the  mad 
hero's  prayer  must  here  be  fulfilled  to  its 
largest  extent,  before  the  business  can  proceed 
a  step ;  and  the  gods,  it  is  certain,  are  not  in 
the  habit  of  annihilating  time  and  space,  even 
to  "make  two  lovers  happy."  Our  Marlowe 
was  not  ignorant  of  this  mysterious  liaison- of 
Faust's:  however,  he  slurs  it  over  briefly,  and 
without  fronting  the  difficulty;  Helena  merely 
flits  across  the  scene  as  an  airy  pageant,  with- 
out speech  or  personality,  and  makes  the  love- 
sick philosopher  '"  immoftal  by  a  kiss."  Pro- 
bably there  are  not  many  that  would  grudge 
Faust  such  immortality ;  we  at  least  nowise 
envy  him :  for  who  does  not  see  that  this,  in 
all  human  probability,  is  no  real  Helena,  but 
only  some  hollow  phantasm  attired  ii^  her 
shape,  while  the  true  Daughter  of  Leda  still 
dwells  afar  off  in  the  inane  kingdoms  of  Dis, 
and  heeds  not  and  hears  not  the  most  potent 
in vocationsibf  black-art  1  Another  matter  it  is 
to  call  forth  the  frail  fair  one  in  very  deed  ;  not  in 
form  only,  but  in  soul  and  life,  the  same  Helena 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


63 


whom  the  Son  of  Atreus  wedded,  and  for  whose 
sake  Ilion  ceased  lo  be.  For  Faust  must  be- 
hold this  Wonder,  not  as  she  seemed,  but  as 
she  was;  and  at  his  unearthly  desire,  the  Past 
shall  become  Present;  and  the  antique  Time 
must  be  new-created,  and  give  back  its  per- 
sons and  circumstances,  though  so  long  since 
rein^ulphed  in  the  silence  of  the  blank  by-gone 
Eternity !  However,  Mephistopheles  is  a  cun- 
ning genius;. and  will  not  start  at  common 
obstacles.  Perhaps,  indeed,  he  is  Metaphysi- 
cian enough  to  know  that  Time  and  Space  are 
but  quiddities,  not  entities  ;/orws  of  the  human 
soul,  Laws  of  Thought,  which  to  us  appear  in- 
dependent existences,  but,  out  of  our  brains, 
have  no  existence  whatever ;  in  which  case  the 
whole  nodus  may  be  more  of  a  logical  cobweb, 
than  any  actual  material  perplexity.  Let  us 
see  how  he  unravels  it,  or  cuts  it. 

The  scene  is  Greece;  not  our  poor  oppressed 
Ottoman  Morea,  but  the  old  heroic  Hellas;  for 
the  sun  again  shines  on  Sparta,  and  "  Tynda- 
rus'  high  House"  stands  here  bright,  massive, 
and  entire,  among  its  mountains,  as  when 
Menelaus  revisited  it,  wearied  with  his  ten 
years  of  warfare,  and  eight  of  sea-roving.  He- 
ena  appears  in  front  of  the  Palace,  with  a 
Chorus  of  captive  Trojan  maidens.  These  are 
but  Shades,  we  know,  summoned  from  the  deep 
realms  of  Hades,  and  imbodied  for  the  nonce : 
but  the  Conjurer  has  so  managed  it,  that  they 
themselves  have  no  consciousness  of  this  their 
true  and  highly  precarious  state  of  existence  : 
the  intermediate  three  tiiousand  years  have 
been  obliterated,  or  compressed  into  a  point; 
and  these  fair  figures,  on  revisiting  the  upper 
air,  entertain  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that 
they  had  ever  left  it,  or,  indeed,  that  any  thing 
special  had  happened;  save  only  that  they  had 
just  disembarked  from  the  Spartan  ships,  and 
been  sent  forward  by  Menelaus  to  provide  for 
his  reception,  which  is  shortly  to  follow.  All 
these  indispensable  preliminaries,  it  would  ap,- 
pear,  Mephistopheles  has  arranged  with  con- 
siderable success.  *  Of  the  poor  Shades,  and 
their  entire  ignorance,  he  Is  so  sure  that  he 
would  not  scrujfle  to  cross-questiori  them  on* 
this  very  point,  so  ticklish  for  his  whole  enter- 
prise; nay,  cannot  forbear,  now  and  then, 
throwing  out  malicious  hints  to  mystify  Hele- 
na herself,  and  raise  the  strangest  doubts  as  to 
her  personal  identity.  Thus  on  one  occasion, 
as  we  shall  see,  he  reminds  her  of  a  scandal 
which  had  gone  abroad  of  her  being  a  double 
.personage,  of  her  living  with  King  Proteus  in 
Egypt  at  the  very  time  when  she  lived  with 
Beau  Paris  in  Troy;  and,  what  is  more  extra- 
ordinary still,  of  her  having  been  dead,  and 
married  to  Achilles  afterwards  in  the  Island  of 
Leuce!  Helena  admits  that  it  is  the  most  in- 
explicable thing  on  earth;  can  only  conjecture 
that  "  she  a  Vision  was  joined  to  him  a  vision ;" 
and  then  sinks  into  a  reverie,  or  swoon,  in  the 
arms  of  the  Chorus.  In  this  way,  can  the 
nether-world  Scapin  sport  with  the  perplexed 
Beauty;  and  by  sly  practice  make  her  show  us 
the  secret,  which  is  unknown  to  herself! 

For  the  present,  however,  there  is  no  thought 
of  such  scruples.  Helena  and  her  maidens, 
far  from  doubting  that  they  are  real  authentic 
denizens  of  this  world,  feel  themselves  in  a 


deep  embarrassment  about  its  concerns.  From 
the  dialogue,  in  long  Alexandrines,  or  choral 
Recitative,  we  soon  gather  that  matters  wear  a 
threatening  aspect.  Helena  salutes  her  pater- 
ngil  and  nuptial  mansion  in  such  style  as  may 
beseem  an  erring  wife,  returned  from  so  event- 
ful an  elopement;  alludes  with  charitable  le- 
nience to  her  frailty ;  which,  indeed,  it  would 
seem,  was  nothing  but  the  merest  accident,  for 
she  had  simply  gone  to  pay  her  vows,  "  accord- 
ing to  sacred  wont,"  in  the  temple  of  Cytherea, 
when  the  "Phrygian  robber"  seized  her;  and 
further  informs  us  that  the  Immortals  still 
foreshow  to  her  a  dubious  future  : 

For  seldom,  in  our  swift  ship,  did  my  husband  deign 
To  loolc  on  nie  ;  and  word  of  comfort  spake  he  none. 
As  if  a-brooding  mischief,  there  he  silent  sat ; 
Until,  when  steered  into  Eurotas'  bending  bay, 
The  first  ships  with  their  prows  but  kissed  the  land, 
He  rose,  and  said,  ^s  by  the  voice  of  gods  inspired : 
Here  will  I  that  my  warriors,  troop  by  troop,  disbajk; 
I  muster  them,  in  battle-order,  on  the  ocean  strand. 
But  thou,  go  forward,  up  Eurotas'  sacred  bank. 
Guiding  the  steeds  along  the  flower-besprinkled  space, 
Till  thou  arrive  on  the  fair  plain  where  Lacedsemon, 
Erewhile  a  broad  fruit-bearing  field,  has  piled  its  roofs 
Amid  the  mountains,  and  sends  up  the  smoke  of  hearthS. 
Then  enter  thou  the  high-towered  Palace  ;  call  the  Maids 
I  left  at  parting,  and  the  wise  old  Stewardess  : 
With  her  inspect  the  Treasures  which  thy  father  left, 
And  I,  in  war  or  peace  still  adding,  have  heaped  up. 
Thou  findest  all  in  order  standing  ;  for  it  is 
The  prince's  privilege  to  see,  at  his  return, 
Each  household  item  as  it  was,  and  where  it  was ; 
For  of  himself  the  slave  hath  power  to  ETlter  nought. 

It  appears,  moreover,  that  Manelaus  has 
given  her  directions  to  prepare  for  a  solemn 
Sacrifice :  the  ewers,  the  pateras,  the  altar,  the 
axe,  dry  wood,  are  all  to  be  in  readiness,  only 
of  the  victim  there  was  no  mention  ;  a  circum- 
stance from  which  Helena  fails  not  to  draw 
some  rather  alarming  surmises.  However,  re- 
flecting that  all  issues  rest  with  the  higher 
Powers,  and  that,  in^ny  case,  irresolution  and 
procrastination  will  avail  her  nothing,  she  at 
length  determines  on  this  grand  enterprise  of 
entering  the  palace,  to  make  a  general  review, 
and  enters  accordingly.  But  long  before  any 
such  business  could  have  been  finished,  she 
hastily  returns  with  a  frustrated,  nay,  terrified 
aspect;  much  to  the  astonishment  of  her  Cho- 
rus, who  pressingly  inquire  the  cause. 

HELKlfA  (who  has  left  the  door-leaves  open,  agitated.) 

Beseems  not  that  Jove's  daughter*  shrink  with  common 

fright, 
Nor  by  the  brief  cold  touch  of  Fear  be  chill'd  and  stunned. 
Yet  the  Horror,  which  ascending,  in  the  womb  of  Night, 
From  deeps  of  Chaos,  rolls  itself  together  many-shaped. 
Like  glowing  Clouds  from  out  the  mountain's  fire-throat, 
In   threatening   ghastliness,  may  shake  even  heroes' 

hearts. 
So  have  the  Stygian  here  to-day  appointed  me 
A  welcome  to  my  native  Mansion,  such  that  fain 
From  the  oft-trod,  long-wished-for  threshold,  like  a  guest 
That  has  took  leave,  I  would  withdraw  my  steps,  for  ay. 
But  no!  Retreated  have  I  to  the  light,  nor  shall 
Ye  farther  force  me,  angry  Powers,  be  who  ye  may. 
New  expiations  will  I  use  ;  then  purified. 
The  blaze  of  .the  Hearth  may  greet  the  Mistress  as  the 

Lord. 

PAKTHALIS  the  CHORAGE.* 

Discover,  noble  queen,  to  us  thy  handmaidens, 
That  wait  by  thee  in  love,  what  misery  has  befallen. 


*  Leader  of  the  Chorus. 


64 


CAPLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


HELElfA. 

What  I  have  seen,  ye  too  with  your  own  eyes  shall  see, 
If*  Night  have  not  already  sucked  her  Phantoms  back 
To  the  abysses  of  her  wonder-bearing  breast. 
Yet,  would  ye  know  this  thing,  Itell  it  you  in  words. 
When  bent  on  present  duty,  yet  with  an«ious  thought, 
I  solemnly  set  foot  in  these  high  royal  Halls, 
The  silent,  vacant  passages  astounded  me ; 
For  tread  of  hasty  footsteps  nowhere  met  the  ear, 
*Nor  bustle  as  of  busy  menial-work  the  eye. 
No  maid  comes  forth  to  me,  no  Stewardess,  such  as 
Still  wont  with  friendly  welcome  to  salute  all  guests. 
But  as,  alone  advancing,  I  approach  the  Hearth, 
There,  by  the  ashy  remnant  of  dim  outburnt  coals, 
Sits,  crouching  on  the  ground,  up-muflled,  some  huge 

Crone ; 
Not  as  in  sleep  she  sat,  but  as  in  drowsy  muse. 
With  ordering  voice  I  bid  her  rise ;  nought  doubting 't  was 
The  Stewardess  the  King,  at  parting  hence,  had  left. 
But,  heedless,  shrunk  together,  sits  she  motionless ; 
And  as  I  chid,  at  last  outstretched  her  lean  right  arm, 
As  if  she  beckoned  me  from  hall  an(^,  hearth  away. 
I  turn  indignant  from  her,  and  hasten  out  forthwith 
Towards  the  steps  whereon  aloft  the  Thalamos 
Adorned  rises  ;  and  near  by  it  the  Treasure-room ; 
WJien  lo !  the  Wonder  starts  abruptly  from  the  floor ; 
Imperious,  barring  my  advance,  displays  herself 
In  haggard  stature,  hollow  bloodshot  eyes  ;  a  shape 
Of  hideous  strangeness,  to  perplex  all  sight  and  thought. 
But  I  discourse  to  the  air :  for  words  in  vain  attempt 
To  body  forth  to  sight  the  form  that  dwells  in  us. 
There  see  herself!  She  ventures  forward  to^the  light! 
Here  we  are  masters  till  our  Lord  and  King  shall  come. 
The  ghastly  births  of  Night,  Apollo,  beauty's  friend, 
Disperses  back- to  their  abysses,  or  subdues. 
(PHORCXAS  enters  on  the  threshold,  between  the  door- 
posts.) 
CHORUS. 

Much  have  I  seen,  and  strange,  though  the  ringlets 
Youthful  and  thick  still  wave  round  my  temples : 
Terrors  a  many,  war  and  its  horrors 
Witnessed  I  once  in  Ilion's  night,  • 
When  it  fell 

Thorough  the  clanging,  cloud-covered  din  of 
Onrushing  warriors,  heard  I  th'  Immortals 
Shouting  in  anger,  heard  I  Bellona's 
Iron-toned  voice  resound  from  without 
City-wards. 

Ah !  the  city  yet  stood ;  with  its 
Bulwarks  ;  Illion  safely  yet 
Towered ;  but  spreading  from  house  over 
House,  the  flame  did  begirdle  us  ; 
Sea-like,  red,  loud,  and  billowy  ; 
Hither,  thither,  as  tempest-floods, 
Over  the  death-circled  city. 

Flying,  saw  I,  through  heat  and  through 
Gloom  and  glare  of  that  fire-ocean, 
Shapes  of  Gods  in  their  wrathfulness. 
Stalking  grim,  fierce,  and  terrible, 
Giant-high,  through  the  luridly  ^ 

Flame-dyed  dusk  of  that  vapour. 

Did  I  see  it,  or  was  it  but 
Terror  of  heart  that  fashioned 
Forms  so  aflfrighting  ?    Know  can  I 
Never  :  but  here  that  I  view  this 
Horrible  Thing  with  my  own  eyes. 
This  of  a  surety  believe  I : 
Yea,  I  could  clutch  't  in  my  fingers 
Did  not,  from  Shape  so  dangerous. 
Fear  at  a  distance  keep  me. 

Which  of  old  Phorcys' 

Daughters  then  art  thou  t 

For  I  compare  thee  to 

That  generation. 

Art  thou  belike,  of  the  Graiae, 

Gray-born,  one  eye,  and  one  tooth 

Using  alternate. 

Child  or  descendant  ? 


Darest  thou,  Haggard, 
Close  by  such  beauly, 
'Fore  the  divine  glance  of 
Phoebus,  display  thee  1 
But  display  as  it  pleases  thee ; 
For  the  ugly  he  heedeth  not, 
As  his  bright  eye  yet  never  did 
Look  on  a  shadow. 

But  ds  mortals,  alas  for  it ! 
Law  of  destiny  burdens  us 
With  the  unspeakable  eye-sorrow 
Which  such  a  sight,  unblessed,  detestable, 
.  Doth  in  lovers  of  beauty  awaken. 

Nay  then,  hear,  since  thou  shamelessly 
Com'st  forth  fronting  us,  hear  only 
Curses,  hear  all  mannei"  of  threatenings, 
Out  of  the  scornful  lips  of  the  happier 
That  were  made  by  the  Deities. 

PH0RCTA9. 

Old  is  the  saw;  but  high  and  true  remains  its  sense. 
That  Shame  and  Beauty  ne'er,  together  hand  in  hand, 
Were  seen  pursue  their  journey  over  the  earth's  green 

path. 
Deep  rooted  dwells  an  ancient  hatred  in  these  two ; 
So  that  wherever,  on  their  way,  one  haps  to  nleet 
The  other,  each  on  its  adversary  turns  his  back  : 
Then  hastens  forth  the  faster  on  its  separate  road; 
Shame  all  in  sorrow.  Beauty  pert  and  light  of  mood  ; 
Till  the  hollow  night  of  Orcus  catches  it.at  length. 
If  age  and  wrinkles  have  not  tamed  it  long  before. 
So  you,  ye  wantons,  wafted  hither  from  strange  lands,  ■ 
I  find  in  tumult,  like  the  cranes'  hoarse  jingling  flight, 
That  over  our  heads,  in  long-drawn  cloud,  sends  down 
Its  creaking  gabble,  and  tempts  the  silent  wanderer  that 

he  look 
Aloft  at  them  a  moment :  but  they  go  their  way, 
And  he  goes  his ;  so  also  will  it  be  with  us. 

Who  then  are  ye  1  that  here  in  Bacchanalian-wise, 
Like  drunk  ones  ye, dare  uproar  at  this  Palace-gate  ? 
Who  then  are  ye  that  at  the  Stewardess  of  the  King's 

House 
Ye  howl,  as  at  the  moon  the  crabbed  brood  of  dogs? 
Think  ye  'tis  hid  from  me  what  manner  of  thing  ye  are  ? 
Ye  war-begotten,  fight-bred,  feather-headed  crew ! 
Lascivious  (yew,  seducing  as  seduced,  that  waste, 
In  rioting,  alike  the  soldier's  and  the  burgher's  strength ! 
Here  seeing  you  gathered,  seems  as  a  cicada-swarm 
Had  lighted,  covering  the  herbage  of  the  fields. 
Consumers  ye  of  other's  thrift,  ye  greedy-mouthed 
Quick  squanderers  of  fruits  men  gain  by  tedious  toil; 
Cracked  market-ware,  stol'n,  bought,  and  bartered  troop 

of  slaves ! 

We  have  thought  it  right  to  give  so  much 
of  these  singular  expositions  and  altercations, 
in  the  words,  as  far  as  might  be,  of  the  parties 
themselves  ;  happy,  could  we,  in  any  measure, 
have  transfused  the  broad,  yet  rich  and  chaste 
simplicity  of  these  long  iambics ;  or  imitated 
the  tone  as  we  have  done  the  metre,  of  that 
choral  song ;  its  rude  earnestness,  and  tortuous, 
awkward-looking,  artless  strength,  as  we  have 
done  its  dactyls  and  anapassts.  The  task  was 
no  easy  one;  an-d  we  remain,  as  might  have 
been  e:5tpected,  little  contented  with  our  eiForts; 
having,  indeed,  nothing  to  boast  of,  except  a 
sincere  fidelity  to  the  original.  If  the  reader, 
through  such  distortion,  can  obtain  any  glimpse 
of  Helena  itself,  he  will  not  only  pardon  us, 
but  thank  us.  To  our  own  minds,  at  least, 
there  is  everywhere  a  strange,  piquant,  quite 
peculiar,  charm  in  these  imitations  of  the  old 
Grecian  style  ;  a  dash  of  the  ridiculous,  if  we 
might  say  so,  is  blended  with  the  sublime,  yet 
blended  with  it  softly,  and  only  to  temper  its 
austerity :  for  often,  so  graphic  is  the  delinea- 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


69^^ 


tion,  we  could  almost  feel  as  if  a  vista  were 
opened  through  the  long  gloomy  distance  of 
ages,  and  we  with  our  modern  eyes  and  modern 
levity,  beheld  afar  oflf,  in  clear  light,  the  very 
figures  of  that  old  grave  time ;  saw  them  again 
living,  in  their  old  antiquarian  costume  and 
environment,  and  heard  them  audibly  dis- 
c6urse  in  a  dialect  which  had  long  been  dead. 
Of  all  this  no  man  is  more  master  than  Goethe ; 
as  a  modern-antique,  his  Iphigenie  must  be  con- 
sidered unrivalled  in  poetry.  A  similar,  tho- 
roughly classical  spirit  will  be  found  in  this 
First  Part  of  Helena ;  yet  the  manner  of  the 
two  pieces  is  essentially  different.  Here,  we 
should  say,  we  are  more  reminded  of  Sophocles, 
perhaps  of -^schylus,  than  of  Euripides:  it  is 
more  rugged,  copious,  energetic,  inartificial ; 
a  still  more  ancient  style.  How  very  primi- 
tive, for  instance,  are  Helena  and  Phorcyas  in 
their  whole  deportment  here !  How  frank  and 
downright  in  speech;  above  all,  how  minute 
and  specific;  no  glimpse  of  "philosophical 
culture;"  no  such  thing  as  a  "general  idea;" 
thus,  every  different  object  seems  a  new  un- 
known one,  and  requires  to  be'  separately 
stated.  In  like  manner,  what  can  be  more 
honest  and,  eclifying  than  the  chai>f  of  the 
Chorus  ]  With  what  inimitable  naivete  they 
recur  to  the  i^ack  of  Troy,  and  endeavour  to 
convince  themselves  that  they  do  actually  see 
this  "  horrible  Thing ;"  then  lament  the  law  of 
Destiny  which  dooms  them  to  such  *•  unspeaka- 
ble eye-sorrow;"  and,  finally,  break  forth  into 
sheer  cursing  ;  to  all  which,  Phorcyas  answers 
in  the  like  free  and  plain-spoken  fashion. 

But  to  our  story.  This  hard-tempered  and 
so  dreadfully  ugly  old  lady,  the  reader  cannot 
help  suspecting,  at  first  sight,  to  be  some 
cousin-german  of  Mephistopheles,  or,  indeed, 
that  great  Actor  of  all  Work  himself;  which 
latter  suspicion  the  devilish  nature  of  the  bel- 
dame, by  degrees,  confirms  into  a  moral  cer- 
tainty. There  is  a  sarcastic  malice  in  the 
"  wise  old  Stewardess"  which  cannot  be  mis- 
taken. Meanwhile  the  Chorus  and  the  beldame 
indulge  still  further  in  mutual  abuse ;  she  up- 
braiding them  with  their  giddiness  and  wanton 
disposition;  they  chanting  unabatedly her  ex- 
treme deficiency  in  personal  charms.  Helena, 
however,  interposes  ;  and  the  old  Gorgon,  pre- 
tending that  she  has  not  till  now  recognised 
the  stranger  to  be  her  mistress,  smooths  her- 
self into  gentleness,  affects  the  greatest  hu- 
manity, and  even  appeals  to  her  for  protection 
against  the  insolence  of  these  young  ones. 
But  wicked  Phorcyas  is  only  waiting  her  op- 
portunity; still  neither  unwilling  to  wound, 
nor  afraid  to  strike.  Helena,  to  expel  some 
unpleasant  vapours  of  doubt,  is  reviewing  her 
past  history,  in  concert  with  Phorcyas  ;  and 
observes  that  the  latter  had  been  appointed 
Stewardess  by  Menelaus,  on  hjs  return  from 
his  Cretan  expedition  to  Sparta.  No  sooner  is 
Sparta  mentioned,  than  the  crone,  with  an  offi- 
cious air  of  helping  out  the  stojy,  adds  : 

Which  thou  forsookest,  Ilion's  tower-encircled  town 
Preferring,  and  the  unexhausted  joys  of  Love. 


Remind  me  not  of  joys  ;  an  all  too  heavy  wo's 
Infinitude  soon  followed,  crushing  breaM  ^d  b^art. 


FHORCTAS. 
But  I  have  heard  thou  livest  on  earth  a  double  life ; 
In  Ilion  seen,  and  seen  the  while  in  Egypt  too. 

HEXEITA. 

Confound  not  bo  the  weakness  of  my  weary  sense ; 
Here  even,  who  or  what  I  am,  I  know  it  not. 

/  PH0KCTA9. 

Then  I  have  heard  how,  from  the  hollow  Realm  of 

Shades, 
Achilles,  too,  did  fervently  unite  himself  to  thee; 
Thy  earlier  love  reclaiming,  spite  of  all  Fate's  laws. 

HELETTA. 

To  him  the  Vision,  I  a  Vision  joined  myself: 

It  was  a  dream,  the  very  words  may  teach  us  this. 

But  I  am  faint ;  and  to  myself  a  Vision  grow. 

{Sinks  into  the  arms  of  one  division  of  the  Chorus.) 

CHOHtrS.     • 
Silence!  silence! 
Evil-eyed,  evii-tongued,  thou !   * 
Thro'  so  shrivelled-up,  one-tooth'd  a 
Mouth,  what  good  can  come  from  that 
Throat  of  horrors  detestable — 

— In  which  style  they  continue  musically  rating 
her,  till  "Helena  has  recovered,  and  agdin 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  Chorus ;"  when 
Phorcyas,  with  the  most  wheedling  air,  hastens 
to  greet  her,  in  a  new  sort  of  verse,  as  if  no- 
thing whatever  had  happened; 

PHORCYAS. 
Issues  forth  from  passing  cloud  the  sun  of  this  bright  day  ;; 
If  when  veil'd  she  so  could  charm  us,  now  her  beams  in 

splendour  blind. 
As  the  world  doth  look  before  thee,  in  such  gentle  wise- 

thou  look'st. 
Let  them  call  me  so  unlovely,  what  is  lovely  know  I  well. 

HELEIfA. 

Come  so  wavering  from  the  Void  which  in  that  faintness- 

circled  me, 
Glad  I  were  to  rest  again,  a  space :  so  weary  are  my 

limbs. 
Yet  it  well  bccometh  queens,  all  mortals  it  becometh  well. 
To  possess  their  hearts  in  patience,  and  await  what  can 

betide. 

PHOHCTAS. 

Whilst  thou  standest  in  thy  greatness,  in  thy  beauty  here^ 
Says  thy  look  that  thou  commandest :  what  command's^ 
thou  1  Speak  it  out. 


To  conclnde  your  quarrel's  idle  loitering  be  prepared : 
Haste,  arrange  the  Sacrifice,  the  King  conunanded  me.. 

PHORCYAS. 

All  is  ready  in  the  Palace,  bowl  and  tripod,  sharp-grouncf 

axe; 
For  besprinkling,  for  befuming :  now  the  Victim  let  us  see. 

HELENA. 

This  the  King  appointed  not. 

PH0BCTA8. 

Spoke  not  of  this  1    O  word  of  wo  t 

HELEXA. 

What  strange  sorrow  overpowers  thee  t 

PHOHCTAS. 

Queen,  'tis  thou  he  meant, 

HELENA. 


And  tbete* 


PHOBCTAS. 

1% 


66 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


O  wo !  O  wo : 


CHOBtTS. 
PHOHCl'^AS 

Thou  fallest  by  the  axe's  stroke. 


HELEKA. 

Horrible,  yet  look'd  for :  hapless 


Inevitable  seems  it  me. 

CHORUS. 

Ah,  and  us  I    What  will  become  of  us  1 

PHORCTAS. 

She  dies  a  noble  death  : 
Ye,  on  the  high  Beam  within  that  bears  the  rafters  and 

the  roof, 
As  in  birding-time  so  many  woodlarks,  in  a  row,  shall 

sprawl, 
(HELENA  and  CHORUS  Stand  astounded  and  terror-struck ; 
in  expressive,  well-concerted  grouping.) 

PHORCTAS. 

Poor  spectres !— All  like  frozen  statues  there  ye  stand, 
In  fright  to  leave  the  Day  which  not  belongs  to  you. 
No  man  or  spectre,  more  than  you,  is  fond  to  quit 
The  Upper  Light ;  yet  rescue,  respite  finds  not  one  : 
All  know  it,  all  believe  it,  few  delight  in  it. 
Enough,  't  is  over  with  you !    And  so  let's  to  work. 

How  the  cursed  old  beldame  enjoys  the 
agony  of  these  poor  Shades :  nay,  we  suspect, 
she  is  laughing  in  her  sleeve  at  the  very  clas- 
sicism of  this  drama,  which  she  herself  has 
contrived,  and  is  even  now  helping  to  enact ! 
Observe,  she  has  quitted  her  octameter  tro- 
cTiaics  again,  and  taken  to  plain  blank  verse ; 
a  sign,  perhaps,  that  she  is  getting  weary  of 
the  whole  classical  concern !  But  however 
this  may  be,  she  now  claps  her  hands ;  where- 
Tspon  certain  distorted  dwarf  figures  appear  at 
the  door,  and  with  great  speed  and  agility,  at 
her  order,  bring  forth  the  sacrificial  apparatus  ; 
on  which  she  fails  not  to  descant  demonstra- 
tively, explaining  the  purpose  of  the  several 
articles  as  they  are  successively  fitted  up  before 
her.  Here  is  the  "gold-horned"  altar,  the 
"  axe  glittering  over  its  silver  edge :"  then  there 
must  be  "  water-urns  to  wash  the  black  blood's 
defilement,"  and  a  "  precious  mat,"  to  kneel  on, 
for  the  victim  is  to  be  beheaded  queenlike.  On 
all  hands,  mortal  horror !  But  Phorcyas  hints 
darkly  that  there  is  still  a  way  of  escape  left ; 
this,  of  course,  every  one  is  in  deepest  eager- 
ness to  learn.  Here,  one  would  think,  she 
might  for  once  come  to  the  point  without  di- 
gression ;  but  Phorcyas  has  her  own  way  of 
stating  a  fact.    She  thus  commences  : 

PHORCYAS. 

Whoso,  collecting  store  of  wealth,  at  home  abides 
To  parget  in  due  season  his  high  dwelling's  walls, 
And  prudent  guard  his  roof  from  inroad  of  the  rain, 
With  him,  through  long  still  years  of  life,  it  shall  be  well. 
But  he  who  lightly,  in  his  folly,  bent  to  rove, 
O'ersteps  with  wand'ring  foot  his  threshold's  sacred  line, 
Will  find,  at  his  return,  the  ancient  place,  indeed 
Still  there,  but  else  all  alter'd,  if  not  overthrown. 

HELENA. 

Why  these  trite  saws  ?    Thou  wert  to  teach  us,  not  re- 
prove. 

PHORCTAS. 

Historical  it  is,  is  nowise  a  reproof. 

-Sea-roving,  steer'd  King  Menelaus,  brisk  from  bay  to  bay ; 


Descended  on  all  ports  and  isles,  a  plundering  foe, 
And  still  came  back  with  booty,  which  yet  moulders  here 
Then  by  the  walls  of  Ilion  spent  he  ten  long  years ; 
How  many  in  his  homeward  voyage  were  hard  to  know. 
But  all  this  while  how  stands  it  here  with  Tyndarus' 
High    house  7    How  stands  it  with  his   own  domains 
around  ? 


Is  love  of  railing,  then,  so  interwoven  with  thee, 

That  thus,  except  to  chide,  thou  canst  not  move  thy  lips  1 

PHORCTAS. 

So  many  years  forsaken  stood  the  mountain  glen ; 
Which,  north  from  Sparta,  towards  the  higher  land  as- 
cends 
Behind  Taygetus;  where,  as  yet  a  merry  brook, 
Eurotas  gurgles  on,  and  then,  along  our  Vale, 
In  sep'rate  streams  abroad  outflowing  feeds  your  Swans. 
There,  backwards  in  the  rocky  hills,  a  daring  race 
Have  fix'd  themselves,  forth  issuing  from  Cimmerian 

Night ; 
An  inexpugnable  stronghold  have  piled  aloft. 
From  which  they  harry  land  and  people  as  they  please. 


How  could  they ' 


HELEKA. 

All  impossible  it  seems  to  me. 


PHORCTAS. 

Enough  of  time  they  had !  'tis  haply  twenty  years. 

HELENA. 

Is  One  the  Master?  Are  there  Robbers  many?  leagued  1 

PHORCTAS. 
Not  Robbers  these  :  yet  many,  and  the  Master  One. 
Of  him  I  say  no  ill,  though  hither  too  he  came. 
What  mjght  not  he  have  took?  yet  did  content  himself 
With  some  small  Present,  so  he  called  it.  Tribute,  not. 


How  looks  he  ? 


PHORCTAS. 


Nowise  ill !    To  me  he  pleasant  look'd. 
A  jocund,  gallant,  hardy,  handsome  man  it  is. 
And  rational  in  speech,  as  of  the  Greeks  are  few. 
We  call  the  folk  Barbarian ;  yet  I  question  much 
If  one  there  be  so  cruel,  as  at  Ilion 
Full  many  of  our  best  heroes  man-devouring  were. 
I  do  respect  his  greatness,  and  confide  in  him. 
And  for  his  Tower!  This  with  your  own  eyes  ye  should 

see: 
Another  thing  it  is  than  clumsy  boulder-work. 
Such  as  our  Fathers,  nothing  scrupling,  huddled  up, 
Cyclopean,  and  like  Cyclops-builders,  one  rude  crag 
On  other  rude  crags  tumbling  :  in  that  Tow'r  of  theirs 
'Tis  plumb  and  level  all,  and  done  by  square  and  rule. 
Look  on  it  from  without !    Heav'nward  it  soars  on  high, 
So  strait,  so  tight  of  joint,  and  mirror-smooth  as  steel : 
To  clamber  there— Nay,  even  your  very  Thought  slides 

down, 
And  then,  within,  such  courts,  broad  spaces,  all  around, 
With  masonry  encompass'd  of  every  sort  and  use 
There  have  ye  arches,  archlets,  pillars,  pillarlets, 
Balconies,  galleries,  for  looking  out  and  in, 
And  coats  of  arms. 

CHORUS. 

Of  arms  ?    What  mean'st  thou  ? 

PHORCTAS. 

Ajax  bore 
A  twisted  Snake  on  his  shield,  as  ye  yourselves  have 

seen. 
The  Seven  also  before  Thebes  bore  carved  work 
Each  on  his  Shield ;  devices  rich  and  full  of  Sense  : 
There  saw  ye  moon  and  stars  of  the  nightly  heaven's 

vault. 
And  goddesses,  and  heroes,  ladders,  torches,  swords. 
And  dangerous  tools,  such  as  in  storm  o'erfall  good 

towns. 
Escutcheons  of  like  sort  our  heroes  also  bear : 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


«7 


There  see  ye  lions,  eagles,  claws  besides  and  bills, 
The  buffalo-horns,  and  wings,  and  roses,  peacock's  tails ; 
And  bandelets,  gold  and  black  and  silver,  blue  and  red. 
Such  like  are  there  uphung  in  Hails,  row  after  row ; 
In  halls,  so  large,  so  lofty,  boundless  as  the  World; 
There  might  ye  dance ! 

CHORUS. 

Ha !    Tell  us,  are  there  dancers  there  1 


PHOIICXAS. 

A  golden-haired, 


fresh,  younker 


The  best  on  earth 

band. 
They  breathe  of  youth ;  Paris  alone  bo  breathed  when  to 
Our  Queen  he  came  too  near. 

HSLENA. 

Thou  quite  dost  lose 
The  tenor  of  thy  story  :  say  me  thy  last  word. 

PHORCTAS. 

Thyself  wilt  say  it:  say  in  earnest  audibly,  Yes  I 
Next  moment,  I  surround  thee  with  that  Tow'r. 

The  step  is  questionable:  for  is  not  this 
Phorcyas  a  person  of  the  most  suspicious  cha- 
racter; or  rather,  is  it  not  certain  that  she  is  a 
Turk  in  grain,  and  will  almost,  of  a  surety, 
go  how  it  may,  turn  good  into  badi  And  yet, 
what  is  to  be  donel  A  trumpet,  said  to  be 
that  of  Menelaus,  sounds  in  the  distance ;  at 
which  the  Chorus  shrink  together  in  increased 
terror.  Phorcyas  coldly  reminds  them  of  Dei- 
phobus,  with  his  slit  nose,  as  a  small  token  of 
Menelaus'  turn  of  thinking  on  these  matters  ; 
supposes,  however,  that  there  is  now  nothing 
for  it  but  to  wait  the  issue,  and  die  with  pro- 
priety. Helena  has  no  wish  to  die  either  with 
propriety  or  impropriety ;  she  pronounces, 
though  with  a  faltering  resolve,  the  definitive 
Yes.  A  burst  of  joy  breaks  from  the  Chorus ; 
thick  fog  rises  all  round;  in  the  midst  of 
v/hich,  as  we  learn  from  their  wild  tremulous 
chant,  they  feel  themselves  hurried  through 
the  air:  Eurotas  is  swept  from  sight,  and  the 
cry  of  its  Swans  fades  ominously  away  in  the 
distance ;  for  now,  as  we  suppose,  "  Tyndarus' 
high  House,"  with  all  its  appendages,  is  rush- 
ing back  into  the  depths  of  the  Past ;  old  Lace- 
dccmon  has  again  become  new  Misetra ;  only 
Taygetus,  with  another  name,  remains  un- 
changed ;  and  the  King  of  Rivers  feeds  among 
his  sedges  quite  a  different  race  of  Swans  than 
those  of  Leda !  The  mist  is  passing  away,  but 
yet,  to  the  horror  of  the  Chorus,  no  clear  day- 
light returns.  Dim  masses  rise  round  them : 
Phorcyas  has  vanished.  Is  it  a  castle  1  Is  it 
a  cavern  1  They  find  themselves  in  the  "  In- 
terior Court  of  the  Tower,  surrounded  with 
rich  fantastic  buildings  of  the  middle  ages  !" 

If,  hitherto,  we  have  moved  along,  with  con- 
siderable convenience,  over  ground  singular 
enough,  indeed,  yet,  the  nature  of  it  once  un- 
derstood, aflTording  firm  footing  and  no  unplea- 
sant scenery,  we  come  now  to  a  strange  mixed 
element,  in  which  it  seems  as  if  neither  walk- 
ing, swimming,  nor  even  flying,  could  rightly 
avail  us.  We  have  cheerfully  admitted,  and 
honestly  believed,  that  Helena  and  her  Chorus 
were  Shades ;  but  now  they  appear  to  be 
changing  into  mere  Ideas,  mere  Metaphors,  or 
poetic  Thoughts  !  Faust,  too,  for  he,  as  every 
one  sees,  must  be  lord  of  this  Fortress,  is  a 


much  altered  man  since  we  last  met  him. 
Nay,  sometimes  we  could  fancy  he  were  only 
acting  a  part  on  this  occasion ;  were  a  mere 
mummer,  representing  not  so  much  his  own 
natural  personality,  as  some  shadow  and  im- 
personation of  his  history;  not  so  much  his 
own  Faustship,  as  the  tradition  of  Faust's  ad- 
ventures, and  the  Genius  of  the  People  among 
whom  this  took  its  rise.  For,  indeed,  he  has 
strange  gifts  of  flying  through  the  air,  and 
living,  in  apparent  friendship  and  content- 
ment, with  mere  Eidolons ;  and,  being  exces- 
sively reserved  withal,  he  becomes  not  a  little 
enigmatic.  In  fact,  our  whole  "Interlude" 
changes  its  character  at  this  point :  the  Greek 
style  passes  abruptly  into  the  Spanish ;  at  one 
bound  we  have  left  the  Seven  before  Thebes,  and 
got  into  the  Vida  es  Sueno.  The  action,  too,  be- 
comes more  and  more  typical ;  or  rather,  we 
should  say,  half-typical ;  for  it  will  neither  hold 
rightly  together  as  allegory  nor  as  matter  of 
fact. 

Thus  do  we  see  ourselves  hesitating  on  the 
verge  of  a  wondrous  region,  "  neither  sea  nor 
good  dry  land;"  full  of  shapes  and  musical 
tones,  but  all  dim,  fluctuati.ng,  unsubstantial, 
chaotic.  Danger  there  is  that  the  critic  may 
require  "both  oar  and  sail;"  nay,  it  will  be 
well  if,  like  that  other  great  Traveller,  he  meet 
not  some  vast  vacuity,  where,  all  unawares, 

Fluttering  his  pennons  vain,  plumb  down  he  drop 
Ten  thousand  fathom  deep    .... 


and  so  keep  falling  till 

The  strong  rebuff  of  some  tumultuous  cloud, 
Instinct  with  fire  and  nitre,  hurry  him 
As  many  miles  aloft    .... 

— Meaning,  probably,  that  he  is  to  be  "  blown 
up"  by  nonplused  and  justly  exasperated  Re- 
view-reviewers ! — Nevertheless,  unappalled  by 
these  possibilities,  we  venture  forward  into 
this  impalpable  Limbo;  and  must  endeavour 
to  render  such  account  of  the  "  sensible  spe- 
cies," and  "  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,"  we  may 
meet  there,  as  shall  be  moderately  satisfactory 
to  the  reader. 

In  the  little  notice  from  the  Author,  quoted 
above,  we  were  bid  specially  to  observe  in 
what  way  and  manner  Faust  would  presume 
to  court  this  World's-beauty.  We  must  say, 
his  style  of  gallantry  seems  to  us  of  the  mqst 
chivalrous  and  high-flown  description,  if, 
indeed,  it  is  not  a  little  euphuistic.  In  their 
own  eyes,  Helena  and  her  Chorus,  encircled 
in  this  Gothic  Court,  appear,  for  some  minutes, 
no  better  than  captives;  but,  suddenly  is- 
suing from  galleries  and  portals,  and  descend- 
ing the  stairs  in  stately  procession,  are  seen  a 
numerous  suite  of  Pages,  whose  gay  habili- 
ments and  red  downy  cheeks  are  greatly  ad- 
mired by  the  Chorus  :  these  bear  with  them  a 
throne  and  canopy,  with  footstools  and  cush- 
ions, and  every  other  necessary  apparatus  of 
royalty;  the  portable  machine,  as  we  gather 
from  the  Chorus,  is  soon  put  together;  and 
Helena,  being  reverently  beckoned  into  the 
same,  is  thus  forthwith  constituted  Sovereign 
of  the  whole  Establishment.  To  herself  such 
royalty  still  seems  a  little  dubious;  but  no 
sooner  have  the  Pages,  in  long  train,  fairly 


68 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


descended,  than  "  Faust  appears  above,  on  the 
stairs,  in  knightly  court-dress  of  the  middle 
ages,  and  with  deliberate  dignity  comes  down," 
astonishing  the  poor  "  feather-headed"  Chorus 
with  the  gracefulness  of  his  deportment  and 
his  more  than  human  beauty.  He  leads  with 
him  a  culprit  in  fetters  ;  and,  by  way  of  intro- 
duction, explains  to  Helena  that  this  man, 
Lynceus,  has  deserved  death  by  his  miscon- 
duct; but  that  to  her,  as  Queen  of  the  Castle, 
must  appertain  the  right  of  dooming  or  of  par- 
doning him.  The  crime  of  Lynceus  is,  in- 
deed, of  an  extraordinary  nature :  he  was 
Warder  of  the  Tower ;  but  now,  though  gifted, 
as  his  name  imports,  with  the  keenest  vision,  he 
has  failed  in  warning  Faust  that  so  august  a 
visitor  was  approaching,  and  thus  occasioned 
the  most  dreadful  breach  of  politeness.  Lyn- 
ceus pleads  guilty:  quick-sighted  as  a  lynx, 
in  usual  cases,  he  has  been  blinded  with  ex- 
cess of  light,  in  this  instance.  While  looking 
towards  the  orient  at  the  "  course  of  morning," 
he  noticed  "a  sun  rise  wonderfully  in  the 
south,"  and,  all  his  senses  taken  captive  by 
such  surpassing  beauty,  he  no  longer  knew 
his  right  hand  from  his  left,  or  could  move  a 
limb,  or  utter  a  word,  to  announce  her  arrival. 
Under  these  peculiar  circumstances,  Helena 
sees  room  for  extending  the  royal  prerogative  ; 
and,  after  expressing  unfeigned  regret  at  this 
so  fatal  influence  of  her  charms  over  the 
whole  male  sex,  dismisses  the  Warder  with  a 
reprieve.  We  must  beg  our  readers  to  keep 
an  eye  on  this  Innamorato ;  for  there  may  be 
meaning  in  him.  Here  is  the  pleading,  which 
produced  so  fine  an  effect  given  in  his  own 
words : 

Let  me  kneel  and  let  me  view  her, 

Let  me  live,  or  let  me  die, 

Slave  to  this  high  woman,  truer 

Than  a  bondsman  born,  am  I. 

Watching  o'er  the  course  of  morning, 
Eastward,  as  I  mark  it  run, 
Rose  there,  all  the  sky  adorning, 
Strangely  in  the  South  a  sun. 

Draws  my  look  towards  those  places. 
Not  the  valley,  not  the  height, 
Not  the  earth's  or  heaven's  spaces ; 
She  alone  the  queen  of  light. 

Eyesight  truly  hath  been  lent  me, 
Like  the  lynx  on  highest  tree ; 
Boots  not ;  for  amaze  hath  shent  me  : 
Do  I  dream,  or  do  I  see  ? 

Knew  I  aught"?  or  could  I  ever 
Think  of  tow'r  or  bolted  gate "? 
Vapours  waver,  vapours  sever. 
Such  a  goddess  comes  in  state ! 

Eye  and  heart  I  must  surrender 
Drown'd  as  in  a  radiant  sea ; 
That  high  creature  with  her  splendour 
Blinding  all  hath  blinded  me. 

I  forgot  the  warder's  duty ; 
Trumpet,  challenge,  word  of  call: 
Chain  me,  threaten  :  sure  this  beauty 
Stills  thy  anger,  saves  her  thrall. 

Save  him  accordingly  she  did ;  but  no  soon- 
er is  he  dismissed,  and  Faust  has  made  a  re- 
mark on  the  multitude  of  "  arrows"  which  she 
is  darting  forth  on  all  sides,  than  Lynceus  re- 
turns in  a  still  madder  humour.    "Re-enter 


Lynceus  with  a  chest,  and  men  carrying  other 
chests  behind  him." 

LTKCEUS. 

Thou  see'st  me,  Queen,  again  advance, 
The  wealthy  begs  of  thee  one  glance ; 
He  look'd  at  thee,  and  feels  e'er  since 
As  beggar  poor,  and  rich  as  prince. 

What  was  I  erst "»    What  am  I  grown  1 
What  have  I  meant,  or  done,  or  known  t 
What  boots  the  sharpest  force  of  eyes  1 
Back  from  thy  throne  it  baffled  flies. 

From  Eastward  marching  came  we  on. 
And  soon  the  West  was  lost  and  won; 
A  long  broad  army  forth  we  pass'd, 
The  foremost  knew  not  of  the  last. 

The  first  did  fall,  the  second  stood, 
The  third  hew'd  in  with  falchion  good ; 
And  still  the  next  had  prowess  more. 
Forgot  the  thousands  slain  before. 

We  stormed  along,  we  rushed  apace, 
The  masters  we  from  place  to  place. 
And  where  I  lordly  ruled  to-day. 
To-morrow  another  did  rob  and  slay. 

We  look ;  our  choice  was  quickly  made ; 
This  snatch'd  with  him  the  fairest  Maid, 
That  seized  the  Steer  for  burden  bent, 
The  horses  all  and  sundry  went. 

But  I  did  love  apart  to  spy 
The  rarest  things  could  meet  the  eye  : 
Whate'er  in  others'  hands  1  saw. 
That  was  for  me  but  chaff  and  straw. 

For  treasures  did  I  keep  a  look, 
My  keen  eyes  pierced  to  every  nook  ; 
Into  all  pockets  I  could  see, 
Transparent  each  strong-box  to  me. 

And  heaps  of  gold  I  gained  this  way. 
And  precious  Stones  of  clearest  ray: 
Now  Where's  the  Diamond  meet  to  shine? 
'Tis  meet  alone  for  breast  like  thine. 

So  let  the  Pearl  from  depths  of  sea. 
In  curious  stringlets  wave  on  thee  : 
The  Ruby  for  some  covert  seeks, 
'Tis  paled  by  redness  of  thy  cheeks. 

And  so  the  richest  treasure's  brought 
Before  thy  throne,  as  best  it  ought ; 
Beneath  thy  feet  here  let  me  lay 
The  fruit  of  many  a  bloody  fray. 

So  many  chests  we  now  do  bear; 
More  chests  1  have,  and  finer  ware  : 
Think  me  but  to  be  near  thee  worth 
Whole  treasure-vaults  I  empty  forth. 

For  scarcely  art  thou  hither  sent, 
All  hearts  and  wills  to  thee  are  bent ; 
Our  riches,  reason,  strength,  we  must 
Before  the  loveliest  lay  as  dust. 

All  this  I  reckon'd  great,  and  mine, 
Now  small  I  reckon  it,  and  thine. 
I  thought  it  worthy,  high,  and  good  ; 
'Tis  naught,  poor,  and  misunderstood. 

So  dwindles  what  my  glory  was, 
A  heap  of  mown  and  wilher'd  grass : 
What  worth  it  had,  and  now  does  lack, 
O,  with  one  kind  look,  give  it  back ! 

FAtlST. 

Away !  away :  take  back  the  bold-earn'd  load, 
Not  blamed  indeed,  but  also  not  rewarded. 
Her's  is  already  whatsoe'er  our  Tower 
Of  costliness  conceals.    Go  heap  me  treasures 
On  treasures,  yet  with  Order ;  let  the  blaze 
Of  Pomp  unspeakable  appear ;  the  ceilings 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


€9 


Gem-fretted,  shine  like  skies ;  a  Paradise 
Of  lifeless  life  create.    Before  her  feet 
,  Unfolding  quick,  let  flow'ry  carpet  roll 

Itself  from  flow'ry  carpet,  that  her  step 
May  light  on  softness,  and  her  eye  meet  nought 
But  splendour  blinding  only  not  the  Gods. 

JLTircEUS. 

Small  is  what  our  Lord  doth  say ; 
Servants  do  it ;  'tis  but  play : 
For  o'er  all  we  do  or  dream 
Will  this  Beauty  reign  supreme. 
Is  not  all  our  host  grown  tame  1 
Every  sword  is  blunt  and  lame. 
To  a  form  of  such  a  mould 
Sun  himself  is  dull  and  cold : 
To  the  richness  of  that  face, 
What  is  beauty,  what  is  grace, 
Loveliness  we  saw  or  thought? 
All  is  empty,  all  is  nought. 

And  herewith  exit  Lynceus,  and  we  see  no  more 
of  him !  We  have  said  that  we  thought  there 
might  be  method  in  this  madness.  In  fact,  the 
allegorical,  or  at  least  fantastical  and  figura- 
tive, character  of  the  whole  action  is  growing 
more  and  more  decided  every  moment.  He- 
lena, we  must  conjecture,  is,  in  the  course  of 
this  her  real  historical  intrigue  with  Faust,  to 
present,  at  the  same  time,  some  dim  adumbra- 
tion of  Grecian  Art,  and  its  flight  to  the  North- 
ern Nations,  when  driven  by  stress  of  War 
from  its  own  country.  Faust's  Tower  will,  in 
this  case,  afford  not  only  a  convenient  station 
for  lifting  black-mail  over  the  neighbouring  dis- 
trict, but  a  cunning,  though  vague  and  fluctu- 
ating, emblem  of  the  Product  of  Teutonic  Mind ; 
the  Science,  Art,  Institutions  of  the  Northmen, 
of  whose  Spirit  and  Genius  he  himself  may  in 
some  degree  become  the  representative.  In  this 
way,  the  extravagant  homage  and  admiration 
paid  to  Helena  are  not  without  their  meaning. 
The  manner  ofherarrival,enveloped  as  she  was 
in  thick  clouds,  and  frightened  onwards  by  hos- 
tile trumpets,  may  also  have  more  or  less  pro- 
priety. And  who  is  Lynceus,  the  mad  Watch- 
man 1  We  cannot  but  suspect  him  of  being  a 
Schoolman  Philosopher,  or  School  Philosophy 
itself,  in  disguise;  and  that  this  wonderful 
"  march"  of  his  has  a  covert  allusion  to  the 
great  "march  of  intellect,"  which  did  march 
in  those  old  ages,  though  only  at  "  ordinary 
time."  We  observe,  the  military,  one  after  the 
other,  all  fell ;  for  discoverers,  like  other  men, 
must  die ;  but  "  still  the  next  had  prowess 
more,"  and  forgot  the  thousands  that  had  sunk 
in  clearing  the  way  for  him.  However,  Lyn- 
ceus, in  his  love  of  plunder,  did  not  take  "  the 
fairest  maid,"  nor  "  the  steer"  fit  for  burden, 
but  rather  jewels  and  other  rare  articles  of 
value ;  in  which  qjiest  his  high  power  of  eye- 
sight proved  of  great  service  to  him.  Better 
had  it  been,  perhaps,  to  have  done  as  others 
did,  and  seized  "  the  fairest  maid,"  or  even  the 
"steer"  fit  for  burden,  or  one  of  the  "horses" 
which  were  in  such  request:  for,  when  he 
quitted  practical  Science  and  the  philosophy 
of  Life,  and  addicted  himself  to  curious  subtil- 
ties  and  Metaphysical  crotchets,  what  did  it 
avail  him  ?  At  the  first  glance  of  the  Grecian 
beauty,  he  found  that  it  was  "  naught,  poor,  and 
misunderstood."  His  extraordinary  obscura- 
tion of  vision  on  Helena's  approach ;  his  nar- 
row escape  from  death,  on  that  account,  at  the 


hands  of  Faust;  his  pardon  by  the  fair  Greek; 
his  subsequent  magnanimous  offer  to  her,  and 
discourse  with  his  master  on  the  subject, — 
might  give  rise  to  various  considerations.  But 
we  must  not  loiter,  questioning  the  strange 
Shadows  of  that  strange  country,  who,  besides, 
are  apt  to  mystify  one.  Our  nearest  business 
is  to  get  across  it :  we  again  proceed. 

Whoever  or  whatever  Faust  and  Helena 
may  be,  they  are  evidently  fast  rising  into 
high  favour  with  each  other;  as,  indeed,  from 
so  generous  a  gallant,  and  so  fair  a  dame,  was 
to  be  anticipated.  She  invites  him  to  sit  with 
her  on  the  throne,  so  instantaneously  acquired 
by  force  of  her  charms;  to  which  graceful 
proposal  he,  after  kissing  her  hand  in  knightly 
wise,  fails  not  to  accede.  The  courtship  now 
advances  apace.  Helena  admires  the  dialect 
of  Lynceus,  and  how  "  one  word  seemed  to  kiss 
the  other,"  for  the  Warder,  as  we  saw,  speaks 
in  doggerel ;  and  she  cannot  but  wish  that  she 
also  had  some  such  talent.  Faust  assures  her 
that  nothing  is  more  easy  than  this  same  prac- 
tice of  rhyme:  it  is  but  speaking  right  from 
the  heart,  and  the  rest  follows  of  course. 
Withal,  he  proposes  that  they  should  make  a 
trial  of  it  themselves.  The  experiment  suc- 
ceeds to  mutual  satisfaction :  for  not  only  can 
they  two  build  the  lofty  rhyme,  in  concert,  with 
all  convenience,  but,  in  the  course  of  a  page 
or  two  of  such  crambo,  many  love-tokens  feome 
to  light;  nay,  we  find  by  the  Chorus,  that  the 
wooing  has  well  nigh  reached  a  happy  end : 
at  least,  the  two  are  "  sitting  near  and  nearer 
each  other, — shoulder  on  shoulder,  knee  by 
knee,  hand  in  hand,  they  are  swaying  over 
the  throne's  upcushioned  lordliness;"  which, 
surely,  are  promising  symptoms. 

Such  ill-timed  dalliance  is  abruptly  disturb- 
ed by  the  entrance  of  Phorcyas,  now,  as  ever, 
a  messenger  of  evil,  with  malignant  tidings 
that  Menelaus  is  at  hand,  with  his  whole  force, 
to  Storm  the  Castle,  and  ferociously  avenge 
his  new  injuries.  An  immense  "  explosion 
of  signals  from  the  towers,  of  trumpets,  cla- 
rions, military  music,  and  the  march  of  nume- 
rous armies,"  confirms  the  news.  Faust  how- 
ever, treats  the  matter  coolly;  chides  the 
unceremonious  trepidation  of  Phorcyas,  and 
summons  his  men  of  war;  who  accordingly 
enter,  steel-clad,  in  military  pomp,  and  quitting 
their  battalions,  gather  round  him  to  take  his 
orders.  In  a  wild  Pindaric  ode,  delivered  with 
due  emphasis,  he  directs  them  not  so  much 
how  they  are  to  conquer  Menelaus,  whom 
doubtless  he  knows  to  be  a  sort  of  dream,  as 
how  they  are  respectively  to  manage  and  par- 
tition the  Country,  they  shall  hereby  acquire. 
Germanus  is  to  have  "  the  bays  of  Corinth  ;" 
while  "  Achaia,  with  its  hundred  dells,"  is  re- 
commended to  the  care  of  Goth  ;  the  host  of 
the  Franks  must  go  towards  Elis ;  Messene  is 
to  be  the  Saxon's  share ;  and  Normann  is  to 
clear  the  seas,  and  make  Argolis  great.  Sparta, 
however,  is  to  continue  the  territory  of  Helena, 
and  be  queen  and  patroness  of  these  inferior 
Dukedoms.  In  all  this,  are  we  to  trace  some 
faint  changeful  shadow  of  the  National  Cha- 
racter, and  respective  Intellectual  Performance 
of  the  several  European  tribes  1  Or,  perhaps, 
of  the  real  History  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  the 


70 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


irruption  of  the  northern  swarms,  issuing,  like 
Faust  and  his  air-warriors,  "from  Cimmerian 
Night,"  and  spreading  over  so  many  fair 
regions  1  Perhaps  of  both,  and  of  more ;  per- 
haps properly  of  neither :  for  the  whole  has  a 
chameleon  character,  changing  hue  as  we  look 
on  it.  However,  be  this  as  it  may,  the  Chorus 
cannot  sufficiently  admire  Faust's  strategic 
faculty ;  and  the  troops  march  off,  without 
speech  indeed,  but  evidently  in  the  highest 
spirits.  He  himself  concludes  with  another 
rapid  dithyrambic,  describing  the  Peninsula 
of  Greece,  or  rather,  perhaps,  typically  the 
Region  of  true  Poesy,  "kissed  by  the  sea- 
waters,"  and  "knit  to  the  last  mountain- 
branch"  of  the  firm  land.  There  is  a  wild 
glowing  fire  in  these  two  odes ;  a  musical  in- 
distinctness, yet  enveloping  a  rugged,  keen 
sense,  which,  were  the  gift  of  rhyme  so  com- 
mon as  Faust  thinks  it,  we  should  have  plea- 
sure in  presenting  to  our  readers.  Again  and 
again,  we  think  of  Calderon  and  his  Life  a 
Dream. 

Faust,  as  he  resumes  his  seat  by  Helena, 
observes  that  "  she  is  sprung  from  the  highest 
gods,  and  belongs  to  the  first  world  alone.  It 
is  not  meet  that  bolted  lowers  should  encircle 
her;  and  near  by  Sparta,  over  the  hills,  "Ar- 
cadia blooms  in  eternal  strength  of  youth,  a 
blissful  abode  for  them  two."  "  Let  thrones 
pass  into  groves ;  Arcadianly  free  be  such 
felicity!"  No  sooner  said,  than  done.  Our 
Fortress,  we  suppose,  rushes  asunder  like  a 
Palace  of  Air,  for,  "  the  scene  altogether  changes. 
A  series  of  Grottoes  now  are  shut  in  by  close  Bowers. 
Shady  Grove,  to  the  foot  of  the  Rocks  which  encircle 
the  place.  Faust  and  Helena  are  not  seen.  The 
Chorus,  scattered  around,  lie  sleeping.'^ 

In  Arcadia,  the  business  grows  wilder  than 
ever.  Phorcyas,  who  has  now  become  won- 
derfully civil,  and,  notwithstanding  her  ug- 
liness, stands  on  the  best  footing  with  the 
poor  light-headed  Cicada-Swarm  of  a  Chorus, 
awakes  them  to  hear  and  see  the  wonders 
that  have  happened  so  shortly.  It  appears, 
too,  that  there  are  certain  "  Bearded  Ones"  (we 
suspect.  Devils)  waiting  with  anxiety,  "  sitting 
watchful  there  below,"  to  see  the  issue  of  this 
extraordinary  transaction ;  but  of  these  Phor- 
cyas gives  her  silly  woman  no  hint  what- 
ever. She  tells  them,  in  glib  phrase,  what 
great  things  are  in  the  wind.  Faust  and 
Helena  have  been  happier  than  mortals  in 
these  grottoes.  Phorcyas,  who  was  in  waiting, 
gradually  glided  away,  seeking  "  roots,  moss, 
and  rinds,"  on  household  duty  bent,  and  so 
"  they  two  remained  alone." 

CHORUS. 

Talk'st  as  if  within  those  grottoes  lay  whole  tracts  of 

country. 
Wood  and  meadow,  rivers,  lakes :  what  tales  thou  palm'st 

onus! 

PHORCYAS. 

Sure  enough,  ye  foolish  creatures!  These  are  unexplor- 
ed recesses ; 

Hall  runs  out  on  hall,  spaces  there  on  spaces :  these  I 
musing  traced. 

But  at  once  re-echoes  from  within  a  peal  of  laughter : 

Peeping  in,  what  is  it  1  Leaps  a  boy  from  mother's  breast 
lo  Father's, 

From  the  Father  to  the  Mother :  such  a  fondling,  such  a 
dandling, 


Foolish  Love's  caressing,  teasing;  cry  of  jest,  and  shriek 
of  pleasure, 

In  their  turn  do  stun  me  quite. 

Naked,  without  wings  a  Genius,  Faun  in  humour  with- 
out coarseness. 

Springs  he  sportful  on  the  ground  ;  but  the  ground  rever- 
berating, 

Darts  him  up  to  airy  heights ;  and  at  the  third,  the  second 
gambol, 

Touches  he  the  vaulted  Roof. 

Frightened  cries  the  Mother :  Bound  away,  away,  and  as 

thou  pleasest, 
But,  my  Son,  beware  of  Flying;  wings  nor  power  of 

flight  are  thine. 
And  the  Father  thus  advises :  in  the  Earth  resides  the 

virtue 
Which  so  fast  doth  send  thee  upwards ;  touch  but  with 

thy  toe  the  surface, 
Like  the  earth-born  old  Antseus,  straightway  thou  art 

strong  again. 
And  so  skips  he,  hither,  thither,  on  these  jagged  rocks; 

from  summit 
Still  to  summit,  all  about,  like  stricken  ball  rebounding, 

springs. 

But  at  once  in  cleft  of  some  rude  cavern  sinking  as  he 

vanished, 
And  so  seems  it  we  have  lost  him.    Mother  mourning, 

Father  cheers  her, 
Shrug  my  shoulders  I,  and  look  about  me.    But  again, 

behold,  what  vision ! 
Are  there  treasures  lying  here  concealed?    There  he  is 

again,  and  garments 
Glittering,  flower-bestriped  has  on. 

Tassels  waver  from  his  arms,  about  his  bosom  flutter 

breastknots, 
In  his  hand  the  golden  Lyre ;  wholly  like  a  little  Phcebus, 
Steps  he  light  of  heart  upon  the  beetling  cliff's :  asto- 
nished stand  we, 
And  the  Parents,  in  their  rapture,  fly  into  each  other's 

arms. 
For  what  glittering  's  that  about  his  headi    Were  hard 

to  say  what  glitters, 
Whether  Jewels  and  gold,  or  Flame  of  all-subduing 

strength  of  soul. 
And  with  such  a  bearing  moves  he,  in  himself  this  boy 

announces 
Future  Master  of  all  Beauty,  whom  the  Melodies  Eternal 
Do  inform  through  every  fibre ;  and  forthwith  so  shall  ye 

hear  him. 
And  forthwith  so  shall  ye  see  him,  to  your  uttermost 

amazement. 

The  Chorus  suggest,  in  their  simplicity,  that 
this  elastic  little  urchin  may  have  some  rela- 
tionship to  the  "  Son  of  Maia,"  who,  in  old 
times,  whisked  himself  so  nimbly  out  of  his 
swaddling  clothes,  and  stole  the  "  Sea-ruler's 
trident"  and  "  Hephaestos'  tongs,"  and  various 
other  articles  before  he  was  well  span-long. 
But  Phorcyas  declares  all  this  to  be  superan- 
nuated fable,  unfit  for  modern  uses.  And  now, 
"  a  beautiful,  purely  melodious  music  of  stringed  in- 
struments  resounds  from  the  Cave.  All  listen,  and 
soon  appear  deeply  moved.  It  continues  playing  in 
full  tone;"  while  Euphorion,  in  person,  makes 
his  appearance,  "  in  the  costume  above  described ; " 
larger  of  stature,  but  no  less  frolicsome  and 
tuneful. 

Our  readers  are  aware  that  this  Euphorion, 
the  offspring  of  Northern  Character  wedded  to 
Grecian  Culture,  frisks  it  here  not  without  re- 
ference to  Modern  Poesy,  which  had  a  birth  so 
precisely  similar.  Sorry  are  we  that  we  can- 
not follow  him  through  these  fine  warblings 
and  trippings  on  the  light  fantastic  toe  :  to  our 
ears  there  is  a  quick,  pure,  small-toned  music 


GOETHE'S  HELENA. 


71 


in  them,  as  perhaps  of  elfin  bells  when  the 
Queen  of  Faery  rides  by  moonlight.  It  is,  in 
truth,  a  graceful  emblematic  dance,  this  little 
life  of  Euphorion ;  full  of  meanings  and  half- 
meanings.  The  history  of  Poetry,  traits  of  in- 
dividual Poets  ;  the  Troubadours,  the  Three 
Italians;  glimpses  of  all  things,  full  vision  of 
nothing  !  Euphorion  grows  rapidly,  and  passes 
from  one  pursuit  to  another.  Quitting  his 
boyish  gambols,  he  takes  to  dancing  and  romp- 
ing with  the  Chorus ;  and  this  in  a  style  of  tu- 
mult which  rather  dissatisfies  Faust.  The  wild- 
est and  coyest  of  these  damsels  he  seizes  with 
avowed  intent  of  snatching  a  kiss;  but,  alas, 
she  resists,  and  still  more  singular,  "flashes  up 
in  flame  into  the  air:"  inviting  him,  perhaps  in 
mockery,  to  follow  her,  and  "  catch  his  van- 
ished purpose."  Euphorion  shakes  off  the 
remnants  of  the  flame,  and  now,  in  a  wilder 
humour,  mounts  on  the  crags,  begins  to  talk 
of  courage  and  battle ;  higher  and  higher  he 
rises,  till  the  Chorus  see  him  on  the  topmost 
cliff,  shining  "in  harness  as  for  victory;"  and 
yet,  though  at  such  a  distance,  they  still  hear 
his  tones,  neither  is  his  figure  diminished  in 
their  eyes  ;  which  indeed,  as  they  observe,  al- 
ways is,  and  should  be,  the  case  with  "  sacred 
Poesy,"  though  it  mounts  heavenward,  farther 
and  farther,  till  it  "glitter  like  the  fairest  star." 
But  Euphorion's  life-dance  is  near  ending. 
From  his  high  peak,  he  catches  the  sound  of 
war,  and  fires  at  it,  and  longs  to  mix  in  it,  let 
Chorus,  and  Mother,  and  Father  say  what  they 
will. 

EUPHomojr. 

And  hear  ye  thunders  on  the  ocean, 

And  thunders  roll  from  tower  and  wall, 

And  host  with  host  in  fierce  commotion. 

See  mixing  at  the  trumpet's  call : 

And  to  die  in  strife 

Is  the  law  of  life, 

That  is  certain  once  for  all. 

HELEITA,  FAUST,  and  CHORUS. 
What  a  horror  !  spoken  madly  ! 
Wilt  thou  die  ?  then  what  must  1 1 

EUPHORIOJf. 

Shall  I  view  it,  safe  and  gladly  1 
No!  to  share  it  will  I  hie. 

HELEXA,  FAUST,  and  CHOHUS. 
Fatal  are  such  haughty  things, 
War  is  for  the  stout. 

EUPHORIOIf. 

Ha  '.—and  a  pair  of  wings 
Folds  itself  out '. 
Thither!  Innist!  I  must! 
'T  is  my  hest  to  fly '. 

(He  eafts  himself  into  the  air :  his  Garments  support 
him  for  a  moment ;  his  Head  radiates,  a  Train  of  Light 
follows  him.) 

CHORUS. 

Icarus !  earth  and  dust  I 

O,  wo !  thou  mount'st  too  high. 
{A  beautiful  Youth  rushes  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Pa- 
rents ;  you  fancy  you  recognise  in  the  dead  a  well-known 
Form  ;*  but  the  bodily  part  instantly  disappears  ;  the  gold 

*  It  is  perhaps  in  reference  to  this  phrase,  that  certain 
sagacious  critics  anions  the  Germans  have  hit  upon  the 
wonderful  discovery  of  Euphorion  being— Lord  Byron! 
A  fact,  if  it  is  one,  which  curiously  verifies  the  author's 
prediction  in  this  passage.  But  unhappily,  while  we 
fancy  that  we  recognise  in  the  dead  a  well-known  form, 
"the  bodily  part  instantly  disappears  ;  "  and  the  keen- 


Crownlet  mounts  like  a  comet  to  the  sky  ;   Coat^  Mantle, 
and  Lyre,  are  left  lying.)  ^ 

HELEIfA    and   FAUST. 

Joy  soon  changes  to  wo,  • 

And  mirth  to  heaviest  moan. 

EUPHORlOJt's  voice  {from  beneath.) 

Let  me  not  to  realms  below 
Descend,  O  mother,  alone  ! 

The  prayer  is  soon  granted.    The  Chorus 


HELEITA  {to  FAUST.) 

A  sad  old  saying  proves  itself  again  in  me, 
Good  hap  with  beauty  hath  no  long  abode. 
So  with  love's  Band  is  life's  asunder  rent : 
Lamenting  both,  I  clasp  thee  in  my  arms 
Once  more,  and  bid  thee  painfully  farewell. 
Persephoneia  take  my  boy,  and  with  him  me. 

{She  embraces  Faust ;  her  Body  melts  away  ;  Garment 
and  Veil  remain  in  his  arms.) 

PHORCTAS    {to  FAUST.) 

Hold  fast,  what  now  alone  remains  to  thee 

That  Garment  quit  not.    They  are  tugging  there, 

These  Demons  at  the  skirt  of  it ;  would  fain 

To  the  Nether  Kingdoms  take  it  down.    Hold  fast ! 

The  goddess  is  it  not,  whom  thou  hast  lost, 

Yet  godlike  is  it.    See  thou  use  aright 

The  priceless  high  bequest,  and  soar  aloft : 

'T  will  lift  thee  away  above  the  common  world, 

Far  up  to  ^ther,  so  thou  canst  endure. 

We  meet  again,  far,  very  far  from  hence. 

(HELENA'S  Garments  unfold  into  Clouds,  encircle  faust  ; 
raise  him  aloft  and  float  away  with  him.) 

(PHORCYAS  picks  up  euphorion's  Coat,  Mantle^  and 
Lyre  from  the  Ground,  comes  forward  into  the  Proscenium, 
holds  these  Remains  aloft,  and  says :) 

Well,  fairly  found  be  happily  won ! 

'T  is  true,  the  Flame  is  lost  and  gone  : 

But  well  for  us  we  have  still  this  stufi"! 

A  gala-dress  to  dub  our  poets  of  merit. 

And  make  guild-brethren  snarl  and  cuff; 

And  can't  they  borrow  the  Body  and  Spirit 

At  least,  I'll  lend  them  Clothes  enough. 

{Sits  down  in  the  Proscenium  at  the  foot  of  a  pillar.) 

The  rest  of  the  personages  are  now  speedily 
disposed  of.  Panthalis,  the  Leader  of  the 
Chorus,  and  the  only  one  of  them  who  has 
shown  any  glimmerings  of  Reason,  or  of  aught 
beyond  mere  sensitive  life,  mere  love  of  Plea- 
sure and  fear  of  Pain,  proposes  that,  being  now 
delivered  from  the  soul-confusing  spell  of  the 
"  Thessalian  Hag,"  they  should  forthwith  re- 
turn to  Hades,  to  bear  Helena  company.  But 
none  will  volunteer  with  her;  so  she  goes  her- 
self. The  Chorus  have  lost  their  taste  for 
Asphodel  Meadows,  and  playing  so  subordinate 
a  part  in  Orcus :  they  prefer  abiding  in  the 
Light  of  Day,  though,  indeed,  under  rather 
peculiar  circumstances  ;  being  no  longer  "  Per- 
sons," they  say,  but  a  kind  of  Occult  Qualities, 
as  we  conjecture,  and  Poetic  Inspirations,  re- 
siding in  various  natural  objects.  Thus,  one 
division  become  a  sort  of  invisible  Hama- 
dryads, and  have  their  being  in  Trees,  and 
their  joy  in  the  various  movements,  beauties, 


est  critic  finds  that  he  can  see  no  deeper  into  a  millstone 
than  another  man.  Some  allusion  to  our  English  Poet 
there  is,  or  may  be,  here  and  in  the  page  that  precedes, 
and  the  page  that  follows;  but  Euphorion  is  no  image 
of  any  person  ;  least  of  all,  one  Huuld  think,  of  George: 
Lord  Byron. 


72 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  products  of  trees.  A  second  change  into 
Echoes;  a  third,  into  the  Spirit  of  Brooks; 
and  a  fourth  take  up  their  abode  in  Vineyards, 
arjid  delight  in  the  manufacture  of  Wine.  No 
sooner  have  these  several  parties  made  up  their 
minds,  than  the  Curtain  falls ;  and  Phorcyas  "  in 
the  Proscenium  rises  in  gigantic  size;  but  steps  down 
from  her  cothurni,  lays  her  Mask  and  Veil  aside, 
and  shows  herself  as  Mephistopheles,  in  order,  so 
far  as  may  be  necessary,  to  comment  on  the  piece, 
by  way  of  Epilogue." 

Such  is  Helena  the  interlude  in  Faust.  We 
have  all  the  desire  in  the  world  to  hear 
Mephisto's  Epilogue :  but  far  be  it  from  us  to 
take  the  word  out  of  so  gifted  a  mouth !  In 
the  way  of  commentary  on  Helena,  we  ourselves 
have  little  more  to  add.  The  reader  sees,  in 
general,  that  Faust  is  to  save  himself  from  the 
straits  and  fetters  of  Worldly  Life  in  the  loftier 
regions  of  Art,  or  in  that  temper  of  mind  by 
which  alone  those  regions  can  be  reached, 
and  permanently  dwelt  in.  Further,  also,  that 
this  doctrine  is  to  be  stated  emblematically  and 
parabolically ;  so  that  it  might  seem  as  if,  in 
Goethe's  hands,  the  History  of  Faust,  com- 
mencing among  the  realities  of  every-day 
existence,  superadding  to  these  certain  spiritual 
agencies,  and  passing  into  a  more  aerial  charac- 
ter as  it  proceeds,  may  fade  away,  at  its  termi- 
nation, into  a  phantasmagoric  region,  where 
symbol  and  thing  signified  are  no  longer 
clearly  distinguished;  and  thus  the  final  result 
be  curiously  and  significantly  indicated,  rather 
than  directly  exhibited.  With  regard  to  the 
special  purport  of  Euphorion,  Lynceus,  and 
the  rest,  we  have  nothing  more  to  say  at  pre- 
sent; nay,  perhaps  we  may  have  already  said 
too  much.  For  it  must  not  be  forgotten  by  the 
commentator,  and  will  not,  of  a  surety,  be  for- 
gotten by  Mephistopheles,  whenever  he  may 
please  to  deliver  his  Epilogue,  that  Helena  is 
not  an  Allegory,  but  a  Phantasmagory ;  not  a 
type  of  one  thing,  but  a  vague,  fluctuating, 
fitful  adumbration  of  many.  This  is  no  Pic- 
ture painted  on  canvas,  with  mere  material 
colours,  and  steadfastly  abiding  our  scrutiny; 
but  rather  it  is  like  the  Smoke  of  a  Wizard's 
Cauldron,  in  which  as  we  gaze  on  its  flicker- 
ing tints  and  wild  splendours,  thousands  of 
strangest  shapes  unfold  themselves,  yet  no  one 
will  abide  with  us;  and  thus,  as  Goethe  says 
elsewhere,  "  we  are  reminded  of  Nothing  and 
of  All." 

Properly  speaking,  Helena  is  what  the  Ger- 
mans call  a  Miihrchen  (Fabulous  Tale),  a 
species  of  fiction  they  have  particularly  ex- 
celled in,  and  of  which  Goethe  has  already 
produced  more  than  one  distinguished  speci- 
men. Some  day  we  purpose  to  translate  for 
our  readers,  that  little  piece  of  his,  deserving 
to  be  named,  as  it  is,  "The  Miihrchen,"  and 
which  we  must  agree  with  a  great  critic  in 
reckoning  the  "Tale  of  all  Tales."  As  to  the 
composition  of  this  Helena,  we  cannot  but  per- 
ceive it  to  be  deeply-studied,  appropriate,  and 


successful.  It  is  wonderful  with  what  fidelity 
the  Classical  style  is  maintained  throughout 
the  earlier  part  of  the  poem ;  how  skilfully  it 
is  at  once  united  to  the  Romantic  style  of  the 
latter  part,  and  made  to  re-appear,  at  intervals, 
to  the  end.  And  then  the  small  half-secret 
touches  of  sarcasm,  the  curious  little  traits  by 
which  we  get  a  peep  behind  the  curtain ! 
Figure,  for  instance,  that  so  transient  allusion 
to  these  "  Bearded  Ones  sitting  watchful  there 
below,"  and  then  their  tugging  at  Helena's  Man- 
tle to  pull  it  down  with  them.  By  such  light 
hints  does  Mephistopheles  point  out  our 
Whereabout;  and  ever  and  anon  remind  us, 
that  not  on  the  firm  earth,  but  on  the  wide  and 
airy  Deep,  has  he  spread  his  strange  pavilion, 
where,  in  magic  light,  so  many  wonders  are 
displayed  to  us. 

Had  we  chanced  to  find  that  Goethe,  in  other 
instances,  had  ever  written  one  line  without 
meaning,  or  many  lines  without  a  deep  and 
true  meaning,  we  should  not  have  thought  this 
little  cloud-picture  worthy  of  such  minute  de- 
velopment, or  such  careful  study.  In  that 
case,  too,  we  should  never  have  seen  the  true 
Helena  of  Goethe,  but  some  false  one  of  our 
own  too  indolent  imagination  ;  for  this  Drama, 
as  it  grows  clearer,  grows  also  more  beautiful 
and  complete ;  and  the  third,  the  fourth  perusal 
of  it  pleases  far  better  than  the  first.  Few  living 
artists  would  deserve  such  faith  from  us;  but 
few  also  would  so  well  reward  it. 

On  the  general  relation  of  Helena  to  Faust, 
and  the  degree  of  fitness  of  the  one  for  the 
other,  it  were  premature  to  speak  more  ex- 
pressly at  present.  We  have  learned,  on 
authority  which  we  may  justly  reckon  the  best, 
that  Goethe  is  even  now  engaged  in  preparing 
the  entire  Second  Part  of  Faust,  into  which 
this  Helena  passes  as  a  component  part.  With 
the  third  Lieferung  of  his  Works,  we  under- 
stand, the  beginning  of  that  Second  Part  is  to 
be  published:  we  shall  then,  if  need  be,  feel 
more  qualified  to  speak. 

For  the  present,  therefore,  we  take  leave  of 
Helena  and  Faust,  and  of  their  Author :  but  with 
regard  to  the  latter,  our  task  is  nowise  ended; 
indeed,  as  yet,  hardly  begun,  for  it  is  not  in  the 
province  of  the  Mdhrchen,  that  Goethe  will  ever 
become  most  interesting  to  English  readers. 
But,  like  his  own  Euphorion,  though  he  rises 
aloft  into  ^ther,  he  derives,  Antseus-like,  his 
strength  from  the  earth.  The  dullest  plodder 
has  not  more  practical  understanding,  or  a 
sounder  or  more  quiet  character,  than  this 
most  aerial  and  imaginative  of  poets.  We 
hold  Goethe  to  be  the  Foreigner,  at  this  era, 
who,  of  all  others,  the  best,  and  the  best  by 
many  degrees,  deserves  our  study  and  appre- 
ciation. What  help  we  individually  can  give 
in  such  a  matter,  we  shall  consider  it  a  duty 
and  a  pleasure  to  have  in  readiness.  We 
purpose  to  return,  in  our  next  Number,  to  the 
consideration  of  his  Works  and  Character  in 
general. 


GOETHE. 


T8 


GOETHE/ 


[Foreign  Review,  1828.] 


It  is  not  on  this  "  Second  Portion"  of  Goethe's 
works,  which  at  any  rate  contains  nothing  new 
to  us,  that  we  mean  at  present  to  dwell.  In  our 
last  Number,  we  engaged  to  make  some  survey 
of  his  writings  and  character  in  general ;  and 
must  now  endeavour,  with  such  insight  as  we 
have,  to  fulfil  that  promise. 

We  have  already  said  that  we  reckoned  this 
no  unimportant  subject ;  and  few  of  Goethe's 
readers  can  need  to  be  reminded  that  it  is  no 
easy  one.  We  hope  also  that  our  pretensions 
in  regard  to  it  are  not  exorbitant ;  the  sum  of 
our  aims  being  nowise  to  solve  so  deep  and 
pregnant  an  inquiry,  but  only  to  show  that  an 
inquiry  of  such  a  sort  lies  ready  for  solution  ; 
courts  the  attention  of  thinking  men  among  us, 
nay,  merits  a  thorough  investigation,  and  must 
sooner  or  later  obtain  it.  Goethe's  literary 
history  appears  to  us  a  matter,  beyond  most 
others,  of  rich,  subtile,  and  manifold  signifi- 
cance ;  which  will  require  and  reward  the  best 
study  of  the  best  heads,  and  to  the  right  expo- 
sition of  which  not  one  but  many  judgments 
will  be  necessary. 

However,  we  need  not  linger,  preluding  on 
our  own  inability,  and  magnifying  the  difficul- 
ties we  have  so  courageously  volunteered  to 
front.  Considering  the  highly  complex  aspect 
which  such  a  mind  of  itself  presents  to  us ; 
and,  still  more,  taking  into  account  the  state 
of  English  opinion  in  respect  of  it,  there  cer- 
tainly seem  few  literary  questions  of  our  time 
so  perplexed,  dubious,  perhaps  hazardous,  as 
this  of  the  character  of  Goethe ;  but  few  also 
on  which  a  well-founded,  or  even  a  sincere, 
word  would  be  more  likely  to  profit.  For  our 
countrymen,  at  no  time  indisposed  to  foreign 
excellence,  but  at  all  times  cautious  of  foreign 
singularity,  have  heard  much  of  Goethe ;  but 
heard,  for  the  most  part,  what  excited  and  per- 
plexed rather  than  instructed  them.  Vague 
rumors  of  the  man  have,  for  more  than  half  a 
century,  been  humming  through  our  ears : 
from  time  to  time,  we  have  even  seen  some 
distorted,  mutilated  transcript  of  his  own 
thoughts,  which,  all  obscure  and  hieroglyphi- 
cal  as  it  might  often  seem,  failed  not  to  emit 
here  and  there  a  ray  of  keenest  and  purest 
sense ;  travellers  also  are  still  running  to  and 
fro,  importing  the  opinions  or,  at  worst,  the 
gossip  of  foreign  countries :  so  that,  by  one 
means  or  another,  many  of  us  have  come  to 
understand,  that  considerably  the  most  dis- 
tinguished poet  and  thinker  of  his  age  is  called 
Goethe,  and  lives  at  Weimar,  and  must,  to  all 
appearance,  be  an  extremely  surprising  char- 

*  Goethe's   S'dmmtliche    Werke.      VoUst&ndige  ^usgahe 
letzter  Hand.     (Goethe's   Collective  Works.     Complete 
Edition,  with  his  final  Corrections.)     Zireite  Lieferung, 
Bde.  vi.— X.    Cotta  :    Stuttgard  and  Tubingen.    1627. 
10 


racter:  but  here,  unhappily,  our  knowledge 
almost  terminates;  and  still  must  Curiosity, 
must  ingenuous  love  of  Information  and  mere 
passive  Wonder  alike  inquire :  What  manner 
of  man  is  thisl  How  shall  we  interpret,  how 
shall  we  even  see  him  ]  What  is  his  spiritual 
structure,  what  at  least  are  the  outward  form 
and  features  of  his  mind  ?  Has  he  any  real 
poetic  worth  ;  and  if  so,  how  much ;  how  much 
to  his  own  people,  how  much  to  us  ] 

Reviewers,  of  great  and  of  small  character, 
have  manfully  endeavoured  to  satisfy  the  Bri- 
tish world  on  these  points:  but  which  of  us 
could  believe  their  report  ]  Did  it  not  rather 
become  apparent,  as  we  reflected  on  the  mat- 
ter, that  this  Goethe  of  theirs  was  not  the  real 
man,  nay,  could  not  be  any  real  man  whatever  ? 
For  what,  after  all,  were  their  portraits  of  him 
but  copies,  with  some  retouchings  and  orna- 
mental appendages,  of  our  grand  English 
original  Picture  of  the  German  genericallyl — 
In  itself  such  a  piece  of  art,  as  national  por- 
traits, under  like  circumstances,  are  wont  to  be ; 
and  resembling  Goethe,  as  some  unusually  ex- 
pressive Sign  of  the  Saracen's  Head  may  re- 
semble the  present  Sultan  of  Constantinople ! 

Did  we  imagine  that  much  information,  or 
any  very  deep  sagacity  were  required  for 
avoiding  such  mistakes,  it  would  ill  become 
us  to  step  forward  on  this  occasion.  But 
surely  it  is  given  to  every  man,  if  he  will  but 
take  heed,  to  know  so  much  as  whether  or  not 
he  knows.  And  nothing  can  be  plainer  to  us 
than  that  if,  in  the  present  business,  we  can 
report  aught  from  our  own  personal  vision  and 
clear  hearty  belief,  it  will  be  a  useful  novelty 
in  the  discussion  of  it.  Let  the  reader  be 
patient  with  us  then  ;  and  according  as  he  finds 
that  we  speak  honestly  and  earnestly,  or  loosely 
and  dishonestly,  consider  our  statement,  or  dis- 
miss it  as  unworthy  yf  consideration. 

Viewed  in  his  merely  external  relations, 
Goethe  exhibits  an  appearance  such  as  seldom 
occurs  in  the  history  of  letters,  and  indeed, 
from  the  nature  of  the  case,  can  seldom  occur. 
A  man,  who,  in  early  life,  rising  almost  at  a 
single  bound  into  the  highest  reputation  over 
all  Europe ;  by  gradual  advances,  fixing  him- 
self more  and  more  firmly  in  the  reverence  of 
his  countrymen,  ascends  silently  through  many 
vicissitudes  to  the  supreme  intellectual  place 
among  them ;  and  now,  after  half  a  century, 
distinguished  by  convulsions,  political,  moral, 
and  poetical,  still  reigns,  full  of  years  and 
honours,  with  a  soft  undisputed  sway;  still 
labouring  in  his  vocation,  still  forwarding,  as 
with  knightly  benignity,  whatever  can  profit 
the  culture  of  his  nation:  such  a  man  might 
justly  attract  our  notice,  were  it  only  by  the 
singularity  of  his  fortune.  Supremacies  of 
G 


74 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


this  sort  are  rare  in  modern  times ;  so  univer- 
sal, and  of  such  continuance,  they  are  almost 
unexampled.  For  the  age  of  the  Prophets  and 
Theologic  Doctors  had  long  since  passed 
away;  and  now  it  is  by  much  slighter,  by 
transient  and  mere  earthly  ties,  that  bodies  of 
men  connect  themselves  with  a  man.  The 
wisest,  most  melodious  voice  cannot  in  these 
days  pass  for  a  divine  one ;  the  word  Inspira- 
tion still  lingers,  but  only  in  the  shape  of  a 
poetic  figure,  from  which  the  once  earnest, 
awful,  and  soul-subduing  sense  has  vanished 
without  return.  The  polity  of  Literature  is 
called  a  Republic;  oftener  it  is  an  Anarchy, 
where,  by  strength  or  fortune,  favourite  after 
favourite  rises  into  splendour  and  authority, 
but  like  Masaniello,  while  judging  the  people, 
is  on  the  third  day  deposed  and  shot.  Nay, 
few  such  adventurers  can  attain  even  this 
painful  pre-eminence  ;  for  at  most,  it  is  clear, 
any  given  age  can  have  but  one  first  man; 
many  ages  have  only  a  crowd  of  secondary 
men,  each  of  whom  is  first  in  his  own  eyes  : 
and  seldom,  at  best,  can  the  "Single  Person" 
long  keep  his  station  at  the  head  of  this  wild 
commonwealth ;  most  sovereigns  are  never 
universally  acknowledged,  least  of  all  in  their 
lifetimes  ;  few  of  the  acknowledged  can  reign 
peaceably  to  the  end. 

Of  such  a  perpetual  dictatorship  Voltaire 
among  the  French  gives  the  last  European 
instance ;  but  even  with  him  it  was  perhaps  a 
much  less  striking  affair.  Voltaire  reigned 
over  a  sect,  less  as  their  lawgiver  than  as  their 
general;  for  he  was  at  bitter  enmity  with  the 
great  numerical  majority  of  his  nation,  by 
whom  his  services,  far  from  being  acknow- 
ledged as  benefits,  were  execrated  as  abomina- 
tions. But  Goethe's  object  has,  at  all  times, 
been  rather  to  unite  than  to  divide ;  and  though 
he  has  not  scrupled,  as  occasion  served,  to 
speak  forth  his  convictions  distinctly  enough 
on  many  delicate  topics,  and  seems,  in  general^ 
to  have  paid  little  court  to  the  prejudices  or 
private  feelings  of  any  man  or  body  of  men, 
we  see  not  at  present  that  his  merits  are  any- 
where disputed,  his  intellectual  endeavours 
controverted,  or  his  person  regarded  otherwise 
than  with  affection  and  respect.  In  later  years, 
too,  the  advanced  age  of  the  poet  has  invested 
him  with  another  sort  of  dignity ;  and  the  ad- 
miration to  which  his  great  qualities  give  him 
claim,  is  tempered  into  a  milder,  grateful  feel- 
ing, almost  as  of  sons  and  grandsons  to  their 
common  father.  Dissentients,  no  doubt,  there 
are  and  must  be;  but,  apparently,  their  cause 
is  not  pleaded  in  words  r  no  man  of  the  small- 
est note  speaks  on  that  side  ;  or  at  most,  such 
men  may  question,  not  the  worth  of  Goethe, 
but  the  cant  and  idle  affectation  with  which,  in 
many  quarters,  this  must  be  promulgated  and 
bepraised.  Certainly  there  is  not,  probably 
there  never  was,  in  any  European  country,  a 
writer  who,  with  so  cunning  a  style,  and  so 
deep,  so  abstruse  a  sense,  ever  found  so  many 
readers.  For,  from  the  peasant  to  the  king, 
from  the  callow  dilettante  and  innamorato,  to 
the  grave  transcendental  philosopher,  men  of 
all  degrees  and  dispositions  are  familiar  with 
the  writings  of  Goethe:  each  studies  them 
with  affection,  with  a  faith  which,  "  where  it 


cannot  unriddle,  learns  to  trust;"  each  takes 
with  him  what  he  is  adequate  to  carry,  and  de- 
parts thankful  for  his  own  allotments.  Two 
of  Goethe's  intensest  admirers  are  Schelling 
of  Munich,  and  a  worthy  friend  of  ours  in 
Berlin;  one  of  these  among  the  deepest  men 
in  Europe,  the  other  among  the  shallowest. 

All  this  is, no  doubt,  singular  enough;  and  a 
proper  understanding  of  it  would  throw  light 
on  many  things.  Whatever  we  may  think  of 
Goethe's  ascendency,  the  existence  of  it  re- 
mains a  highly  curious  fact;  and  to  trace  its 
history,  to  discover  by  what  steps  such  in- 
fluence has  been  attained,  and  how  so  long 
preserved,  were  no  trivial  or  unprofitable  in- 
quiry. It  would  be  worth  while  to  see  so 
strange  a  man  for  his  own  sake  ;  and  here  we 
should  see,  not  only  the  man  himself,  and  his 
own  progress  and  spiritual  development,  but 
the  progress  also  of  his  nation  ;  and  this  at  no 
sluggish  or  even  quiet  era,  but  in  times  marked 
by  strange  revolutions  of  opinions,  by  angry 
controversies,  high  enthusiasm,  novelty  of  en- 
terprise, and  doubtless,  in  many  respects,  by 
rapid  advancement :  for  that  the  Germans  have 
been,  and  still  are,  restlessly  struggling  for- 
ward, with  honest  unwearied  effort,  sometimes 
with  enviable  success,  no  one,  who  knows 
them,  will  deny ;  and  as  little,  that  in  every 
province  of  Literature,  of  Art,  and  humane 
accomplishment,  the  influence,  often  the  direct 
guidance  of  Goethe  may  be  recognised.  The 
history  of  his  mind  is,  in  fact,  at  the  same  time, 
the  history  of  German  culture  in  his  day; 
for  whatever  excellence  this  individual  might 
realize  has  sooner  or  later  been  acknowledged 
and  appropriated  by  his  country;  and  the  title 
of  Musagetes,  which  his  admirers  give  him,  is 
perhaps,  in  sober  strictness,  not  unmerited. 
Be  it  for  good  or  for  evil,  there  is  certainly  no 
German,  since  the  days  of  Luther,  whose  life 
can  occupy  so  large  a  space  in  the  intellectual 
history  of  that  people. 

In  this  point  of  view,  were  it  in  no  other, 
Goethe's  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit,  so  soon  as  it 
is  completed,  may  deserve  to  be  reckoned  one 
of  his  most  interesting  works.  We  speak  not 
of  its  literary  merits,  though  in  that  respect, 
too,  we  must  say  that  few  Autobiographies 
have  come  in  our  way,  where  so  difficult  a 
matter  was  so  successfully  handled;  where 
perfect  knowledge  could  be  found  united  so 
kindly  with  perfect  tolerance;  and  a  personal 
narrative,  moving  along  in  soft  clearness, 
showed  us  a  man,  and  the  objects  that  en- 
vironed him,  under  an  aspect  so  verisimilar, 
yet  so  lovely,  with  an  air  dignified  and  earnest, 
yet  graceful, cheerful,  even  gay:  a  story  as  of 
a  Patriarch  to  his  children ;  such  indeed,  as 
few  men  can  be  called  upon  to  relate,  and  few, 
if  called  upon,  could  relate  so  well.  What 
would  we  give  for  such  an  Autobiography  of 
Shakspeare,  of  Milton,  even  of  Pope  or  Swift! 
Dichtung  und  Wahrheit  has  been  censured  con- 
siderably in  England  ;  but  not,  we  are  inclined 
to  believe,  with  any  insight  into  its  proper 
meaning.  The  misfortune  of  the  work  among 
us  was,  that  we  did  not  know  the  narrator  be- 
fore his  narrative;  and  could  not  judge  what 
sort  of  narrative  he  was  bound  to  give,  in  these 
circumstances,  or  whether  he  was  bound  to 


GOETHE. 


75 


give  any  at  all.  We  say  nothing  of  his  situa- 
tion ;  heard  only  the  sound  of  his  voice ;  and 
hearing  it,  never  doubted  that  he  must  be  per- 
orating in  official  garments  from  the  rostrum, 
instead  of  speaking  trustfully  by  the  fireside. 
For  the  chief  ground  of  offence  seemed  to  be, 
that  the  story  was  not  noble  enough ;  that  it 
entered  on  details  of  too  poor  and  private  a 
nature ;  verged  here  and  there  towards  garru- 
lity;  was  not,  in  one  word,  written  in  the  style 
of  what  we  call  a  gentleman.  Whether  it  might 
be  written  in  the  style  of  a  man,  and  how  far 
these  two  styles  might  be  compatible,  and 
what  might  be  their  relative  worth  and  prefer- 
ableness,  was  a  deeper  question,  to  which  ap- 
parently no  heed  had  been  given.  Yet  herein 
lay  the  very  cream  of  the  matter ;  for  Goethe 
was  not  writing  to  "  persons  of  quality"  in 
England,  but  to  persons  of  heart  and  head  in 
Europe:  a  somewhatdifferent  problem  perhaps, 
and  requiring  a  somewhat  different  solution. 
As  to  this  ignobleness  and  freedom  of  detail, 
especially,  we  may  say,  that,  to  a  German,  few 
accusations  could  appear  more  surprising  than 
this,  which,  with  us,  constitutes  the  head  and 
front  of  his  offending.  Goethe,  in  his  own 
country,  far  from  being  accused  of  undue 
familiarity  towards  his  readers,  had,  up  to  that 
date,  been  labouring  under  precisely  the  oppo- 
site charge.  It  was  his  stateliness,  his  reserve, 
his  indifference,  his  contempt  for  the  public, 
that  were  censured.  Strange,  almost  inexpli- 
cable, as  many  of  his  works  might  appear; 
loud,  sorrowful,  and  altogether  stolid  as  might 
be  the  criticisms  they  underwent,  no  word  of 
explanation  could  be  wrung  from  him ;  he  had 
never  even  deigned  to  write  a  preface.  And 
in  later  and  juster  days,  when  the  study  of 
Poetry  came  to  be  prosecuted  in  another  spirit, 
and  it  was  found  that  Goethe  was  standing,  not 
like  a  culprit  to  plead  for  himself  before  the 
li\.era.ry  plebeiayis,  but  like  a  higher  teacher  and 
preacher,  speaking  for  truth,  to  whom  both 
plebeians  and  patricians  were  bound  to  give  all 
ear,  the  outward  difficulty  of  interpreting  his 
works  began  indeed  to  vanish ;  but  enough  still 
remained,  nay,  increased  curiosity  had  given 
rise  to  new  difficulties,  and  deeper  inquiries. 
Not  only  what  M'ere  these  works,  but  hoiv  did 
they  originate,  became  questions  for  the  critic. 
Yet  several  of  Goethe's  chief  productions,  and, 
of  his  smaller  poems,  nearly  the  whole,  seemed 
so  intimately  interwoven  with  his  private  his- 
tory, that  without  some  knowledge  of  this,  no 
answer  to  such  questions  could  be  given.  Nay, 
commentaries  have  been  written  on  single 
pieces  of  his,  endeavouring,  by  way  of  guess, 
to  supply  this  deficiency.*  We  can  thus  judge 
whether,  to  the  Germans,  such  minuteness  of 
exposition  in  this  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit  may 
have  seemed  a  sin.  Few  readers  of  Goethe, 
we  believe,  but  would  wish  rather  to  see  it  ex- 
tended than  curtailed. 

It  is  our  duty  also  to  remark,  if  any  one  be 
still  unaware  of  it,  that  the  Memoirs  of  Goethe, 
published  some  years  ago  in  London,  can  have 
no  real  concern  with  this  autobiography.  The 
rage  of  hunger  is  an  excuse  for  much';  other- 


*  See,  in  particular,  Dr.Kannengiesser  Uiber  Ooethe's 
Bausrem  in  Winter,  1820. 


wise  that  German  translator,  whom  indignant 
Reviewers  have  proved  to  know  no  German, 
were  a  highly  reprehensible  man.  His  work, 
it  appears,  is  done  from  the  French,  and  shows 
subtractions,  and,  what  is  worse,  additions. 
But  the  unhappy  Dragoman  has  already  been 
chastised,  perhaps  too  sharply.  If  warring- 
with  the  reefs  and  breakers  and  cross  eddies 
of  Life,  he  still  hover  on  this  side  the  shadow 
of  Night,  and  any  word  of  ours  might  reach 
him,  we  would  ratl^r  say :  Courage,  Brother  I 
Grow  honest,  and  times  will  mend! 

It  would  appear,  then,  that  for  inquirers  inta 
Foreign  Literature,  for  all  men,  anxious  to  see 
and  understand  the  European  world  as  it  lies 
around  them,  a  great  problem  is  presented  in 
this  Goethe  ;  a  singular,  highly  significant  phe- 
nomenon, and  now,  also,  means  more  or  less 
complete  for  ascertaining  its  significance.  A 
man  of  wonderful,  nay  unexampled  reputation 
and  intellectual  influence  among  forty  millions 
of  reflective,  serious,  and  cultivated  men,  in- 
vites us  to  study  him ;  and  to  determine  for 
ourselves  whether  and  how  far  such  influence 
has  been  salutary,  such  reputation  merited. 
That  this  call  will  one  day  be  answered,  that 
Goethe  will  be  seen  and  judged  of  in  his  real 
character  among  us,  appears  certain  enough. 
His  name,  long  familiar  everywhere,  has  now 
awakened  the  attention  of  critics  in  all  Eu- 
ropean countries  to  his  works  :  he  is  studied 
wherever  true  study  exists;  eagerly  studied 
even  in  France  ;  nay,  some  considerable  know- 
ledge of  his  nature  and  spiritual  importance 
seems  already  to  prevail  there.* 

For  ourselves,  meanwhile,  in  giving  all  due 
weight  to  so  curious  an  exhibition  of  opinion, 
it  is  doubtless  our  part,  at  the  same  time,  to 
beware  that  we  do  not  give  it  too  much.  This 
universal  sentiment  of  admiration  is  wonder- 
ful, is  interesting  enough;  but  it  must  not 
lead  us  astray.  We  English  stand  as  yet 
without  the  sphere  of  it ;  neither  will  we  plunge 
blindly  in,  but  enter  considerately,  or,  if  we  see 
good,  keep  aloof  from  it  altogether.  Fame,  we 
may  understand,  is  no  sure  test  of  merit,  but 
only  a  probability  of  such ;  it  is  an  accident, 
not  a  property,  of  a  man ;  like  light,  it  can 
give  little  or  nothing,  but  at  most  may  show 
what  is  given  ;  often,  it  is  but  a  false  glare,  daz- 
zling the  eyes  of  the  vulgar,  lending  by  casual, 
extrinsic  splendour  the  brightness  and  mani- 
fold glance  of  the  diamond  to  the  pebbles  of  no 
value.  A  man  is  in  all  cases  simply  the  man, 
of  th«  same  intrinsic  worth  and  weakness, 
whether  his  worth  and  weakness  lie  hidden  in 
the  depths  of  his  bwn  consciousness,  or  be  be- 
trumpeted  and  beshouted  from  end  to  end  of 
the  habitable  globe.  These  are  plain  truths, 
which  no  one  should  lose  sight  of;  though, 
whether  in  love  or  in  anger,  for  praise  or  for 
condemnation,  most  of  us  are  too  apt  to  forget 
them.  But  least  of  all  can  it  become  the  critic 
to  "  follow  a  multitude  to  do  evil,"  even  when 
that  evil  is  excess  of  admiration;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  will  behove  him  to  lifl  up  his  voice, 
how  feeble  soever,  how  unheeded  soever, 
against  the  common  delusion;  from  which,  if 


♦  Witness  Le  Tasse,  Drame  par  Duval,  and  the  Criti- 
cisms on  it.  See  ftlso  the  Essays  in  tlie  Globe,  Nos.  55, 
64,  (1896.) 


76 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


he  can  save,  or  help  to  save,  any  mortal,  his 
endeavours  will  have  been  repaid. 

With  these  things  in  some  measure  before 
us,  we  must  remind  our  readers  of  another  in- 
tiuence  at  work  in  this  affair,  and  one  acting, 
as  we  think,  in  the  contrary  direction.  That 
pitiful  enough  desire  for  "  originality,"  which 
lurks  and  acts  in  all  minds,  will  rather,  we 
imagine,  lead  the  critic  of  Foreign  Literature 
to  adopt  the  negative  than  the  affirmative  with 
regard  to  Goethe.  If  a  writer,  indeed,  feel  that 
he  is  writing  for  England  alone,  invisibly  and 
inaudibly  to  the  rest  of  the  Earth,  the  tempta- 
tions may  be  pretty  equally  balanced;  if  he 
write  for  some  small  conclave,  which  he  mis- 
takenly thinks  the  representative  of  England, 
they  may  sway  this  way  or  that,  as  it  chances. 
But  writing  in  such  isolated  spirit  is  no  long- 
er possible.  Traffic,  with  its  swift  ships,  is 
uniting  all  nations  into  one;  Europe  at  large 
is  becoming  more  and  more  one  public :  and 
in  this  public,  the  voices  for  Goethe,  compared 
with  those  against  him,  are  in  the  proportion, 
as  we  reckon  them,  both  as  to  the  number  and 
value,  of  perhaps  a  hundred  to  one.  We  take 
in,  not  Germany  alone,  but  France  and  Italy ; 
not  the  Schlegels  and  Schellings,  but  the  Man- 
zonis  and  de  Staels.  The  bias  of  originality, 
therefore,  may  lie  to  the  side  of  the  censure : 
and  whoever  among  us  shall  step  forward, 
with  such  knowledge  as  our  common  critics 
have  of  Goethe,  to  enlighten  the  European 
public,  by  contradiction  in  this  matter,  displays 
a  heroism,  which,  in  estimating  his  other 
merits,  ought  nowise  to  be  forgotten. 

Our  own  view  of  the  case  coincides,  we  con- 
fess, in  some  degree  with  that  of  the  majority. 
We  reckon  that  Goethe's  fame  has,  to  a  conside- 
rable extent,  been  deserved;  that  his  influence 
has  been  of  high  benefit  to  his  own  country ; 
nay  more,  that  it  promises  to  be  of  benefit  to 
us,  and  to  all  other  nations.  The  essential 
grounds  of  this  opinion,  which  to  explain 
minutely  were  a  long,  indeed  boundless  task, 
we  may  state  without  many  words.  We  find, 
then,  in  Goethe,  an  Artist,  in  the  high  and  an- 
cient meaning  of  that  term;  in  the  meaning 
which  it  may  have  borne  long  ago  among  the 
masters  of  Italian  painting,  and  the  fathers  of 
Poetry  in  England ;  we  say  that  we  trace  in  the 
creations  of  this  man,  belonging  in  every  sense 
to  our  own  time,  some  touches  of  that  old, 
divine  spirit,  which  had  long  passed  away  from 
among  us,  nay,  which,  as  has  often  been  la- 
boriously demonstrated,  was  not  to  return  to 
this  world  any  more. 

Or  perhaps  we  come  nearer  our  meaning,  if 
we  say  that  in  Goethe  we  discover  by  far  the 
most  striking  instance,  in  our  time,  of  a  writer 
who  is,  in  strict  speech,  what  Philosophy  can 
call  a  Man.  He  is  neither  noble  nor  plebeian, 
neither  liberal  nor  servile,  nor  infidel,  nor  de- 
votee ;  but  the  best  excellence  of  all  these, 
joined  in  pure  union;  "a  clear  and  universal 
Man."  Goethe's  poetry  is  no  separate  faculty, 
no  mental  handicraft;  but  the  voice  of  the 
whole  harmonious  manhood :  nay  it  is  the  very 
harmony,  the  living  and  life-giving  harmony 
of  that  rich  manhood  which  forms  his  poetry. 
All  good  men  may  be  called  poets  in  act,  or  in 
■word;  all  good  poets  are  so  in  both.    But 


Goethe  besides  appears  to  us  a  person  of  that « 
deep  endowment,  and  gifted  vision,  of  that  ex- 
perience also  and  sympathy  in  the  ways  of  all 
men,  which  qualify  him  to  stand  forth,  not  only 
as  the  literary  ornament,  but  in  many  respects 
too  as  the  Teacher  and  exemplar  of  his  age. 
For,  to  say  nothing  of  his  natural  gifts,  he  has 
cultivated  himself  and  his  art,  he  has  studied 
how  to  live  and  write,  with  a  fidelity,  an  un- 
wearied earnestness,  of  which  there  is  no  other 
living  instance ;  of  which,  among  British 
poets  especially,  Wordsworth  alone  offers  any 
resemblance.  And  this  in  our  view  is  the  re- 
sult :  To  our  minds,  in  these  soft,  melodious 
imaginations  of  his,  there  is  embodied  the  Wis- 
dom which  is  proper  to  this  time ;  the  beauti- 
ful, the  religious  Wisdom,  which  may  still, 
with  something  of  its  old  impressiveness,  speak 
to  the  whole  soul ;  still,  in  these  hard,  unbe- 
lieving, utilitarian  days,  reveal  to  us  glimpses 
of  the  Unseen  but  not  unreal  World,  that  so 
the  Actual  and  the  Ideal  may  again  meet  to- 
gether, and  clear  Knowledge  be  again  wedded 
to  Religion,  in  the  life  and  business  of  men. 

Such  is  our  conviction  or  persuasion  with 
regard  to  the  poetry  of  Goethe.  Could  we  de- 
monstrate this  opinion  to  be  true,  could  we 
even  exhibit  it  with  that  degree  of  clearness 
and  consistency  which  it  has  attained  in  our 
own  thoughts,  Goethe  were,  on  our  part,  suffi- 
ciently recommended  to  the  best  attention  of 
all  thinking  men.  But,  unhappily,  it  is  not  a 
subject  susceptible  of  demonstration :  the  merits 
and  characteristics  of  a  Poet  are  not  to  be  set 
forth  by  logic ;  but  to  be  gathered  by  personal, 
and  as,  in  this  case,  it  must  be,  by  deep  and 
careful  inspection  of  his  works.  Nay,  Goethe's 
world  is  every  way  so  different  from  ours;  it  costs 
us  such  effort,  we  have  so  much  to  remember  and 
so  much  to  forget,  before  we  can  transfer  our- 
selves in  any  measure  into  his  peculiar  point  of 
vision,  that  a  right  study  of  him,  for  an  English- 
man, even  of  ingenuous,  open,  inquisitive  mind, 
becomes  unusually  difficult ;  for  a  fixed,  decided, 
contemptuous  Englishman,  next  to  impossible. 
To  a  reader  of  the  first  class,  helps  may  be 
given,  explanations  will  remove  many  a  diffi- 
culty; beauties  that  lay  hidden  may  be  made 
apparent;  and  directions,  adapted  to  his  actual 
position,  will  at  length  guide  him  into  the  proper 
track  for  such  an  inquiry.  All  this,  however, 
must  be  a  work  of  progression  and  detail.  To 
do  our  part  in  it,  from  time  to  time,  must  rank 
among  the  best  duties  of  an  English  Foreign 
Review.  Meanwhile,  our  present  endeavour 
limits  itself  within  far  narrower  bounds.  We 
cannot  aim  to  make  Goethe  known,  but  only  to 
prove  that  he  is  worthy  of  being  known ;  at 
most,  to  point  out,  as  it  were  afar  off,  the  path 
by  which  some  knowledge  of  him  may  be  ob- 
tained. A  slight  glance  at  his  general  literary 
character  and  procedure,  and  one  or  two  of 
his  chief  productions,  which  throw  light  on 
these,  must  for  the  present  suffice. 

A  French  diplomatic  personage,  contem- 
plating Goethe's  physiognomy,  is  said  to  have 
observed :  Voild  un  honirne  qui  a  eu  beaucoup  de 
chagrins.  A  truer  version  of  the  matter,  Goethe 
himself  seems  to  think,  would  have  been: 
Here  is  a  man  who  has  struggledtoughly ;  who 
has  es  sich  recht  sauer  werden  lassen.    Goethe's 


GOETHE. 


77 


life,  whether  as  a  writer  and  thinker,  or  as  a 
living,  active  man,  has  indeed  been  a  life  of 
effort,  of  earnest  toilsome  endeavour  after  all 
excellence.  Accordingly,  his  intellectual  pro- 
gress, his  spiritual  and  moral  history,  as  it  may 
be  gathered  from  his  successive  works,  fur- 
nishes, with  us,  no  small  portion  of  the  plea- 
sure and  profit  we  derive  from  perusing  them. 
Participating  deeply  in  all  the  influences  of 
his  age,  he  has  from  the  first,  at  every  new 
epoch,  stood  forth  to  elucidate  the  new  circum- 
stances of  the  time:  to  offer  the  instruction,  the 
solace,  which  that  time  required.  His  literary 
life  divides  itself  into  two  portions  widely  dif- 
ferent in  character :  the  products  of  the  first, 
once  so  new  and  original^  have  long,  either 
directly  or  through  the  thousand,  thousand 
imitations  of  them,  been  familiar  to  us;  with 
the  products  of  the  second,  equally  original, 
and,  in  our  day,  far  more  precious,  we  are  yet 
little  acquainted.  These  two  classes  of  works 
stand  curiously  related  with  each  other ;  at  first 
view,  in  strong  contradiction,  yet,  in  truth, 
connected  together  by  the  strictest  sequence. 
For  Goethe  has  not  only  suffered  and  mourned 
in  bitter  agony  under  the  spiritual  perplexities 
of  his  time  ;  but  he  has  also  mastered  these,  he 
is  above  them,  and  has  shown  others  how  to 
rise  above  them.  At  one  lime,  we  found  him 
in  darkness,  and  now,  he  is  in  light ;  he  was 
once  an  Unbeliever ;  and  now  he  is  a  Believer ; 
and  he  believes,  moreover,  not  by  denying  his 
unbelief,  but  by  following  it  out ;  not  by  stop- 
ping short,  still  less  turning  back,  in  his  inqui- 
ries, but  by  resolutely  prosecuting  them.  This, 
it  appears  to  us,  is  a  case  of  singular  interest, 
and  rarely  exemplified,  if  at  all,  elsewhere,  in 
these  our  days.  How  has  this  man,  to  whom 
the  world  once  offered  nothing  but  blackness, 
denial,  and  despair,  attained  to  that  better 
vision  which  now  shows  it  tojhim,  not  tolerable 
only,  but  full  of  solemnity  and  loveliness  1 
How  has  the  belief  of  a  Saint  been  united  in 
this  high  and  true  mind  with  the  clearness  of  a 
Skeptic ;  the  devout  spirit  of  a  Fenelon  made 
to  blend  in  soft  harmony  with  the  gayety,  the 
sarcasm,  the  shrewdness  of  a  Voltaire  1 

Goethe's  two  earliest  works  are  Goetz  von 
Berlichingen  and  The  Sorrows  of  Werter.  The 
boundless  influence  and  popularity  they  gained, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  is  well  known.  It 
was  they  that  established  almost  at  once  his 
literary  fame  in  his  own  country;  and  even 
determined  his  subsequent  private  history,  for 
they  brought  him  into  contact  with  the  Duke 
of  Weimar ;  in  connection  with  whom,  the  Poet, 
engaged  in  manifold  duties,  political  as  well  as 
literary,  has  lived  for  fifty-four  years,  and  still, 
in  honourable  retirement,  continues  to  live.* 
Their  effects  over  Europe  at  large  were  not  less 
striking  than  in  Germany. 

"  It  would  be  difficult,"  observes  a  writer  on 
this  subject,  "  to  name  two  books  which  have 
exercised  a  deeper  influence  on  the  subsequent 
literature  of  Europe  than  these  two  perform- 
ances of  a  young  author;  his  first-fruits,  the 


*  Since  the  above  was  written,  that  worthy  Prince, 
worthy,  we  have  understood,  in  all  respects,  exemplary 
in  whatever  concerned  Literature  and  the  Arts,  has  been 
called  suddenly  away.  He  died  on  his  road  from  Berlin, 
near  Torgau,  on  the  24th  of  June. 


produce  of  his  twenty-fourth  year.      Werter 
appeared  to   seize  the  hearts  of  men  in  all 
quarters  of  the  world,  and  to  utter  for  them  the 
word  which  they  had  long  been  waiting  to  hear. 
As  usually  happens,  too,  this  same  word,  once 
uttered,  was  soon  abundantly  repeated ;  spoken 
in  all  dialects,  and  chanted  through  all  notes 
of  the  gamut,  till  the  sound  of  it  had  grown  a 
weariness  rather  than  a  pleasure.    Skeptical 
sentimentality,  view-hunting,  love,  friendship, 
suicide,  and  desperation,  became  the  staple  of 
literary  ware ;  and  though  the  epidemic,  after 
a  long  course  of  years,  subsided  in  Germany, 
it  reappeared  with  various  modifications  in 
other   countries,   and    everywhere    abundant 
traces  of  its  good  and  bad  effects  are  still  to  be 
discerned.     The  fortune  of  Berlichingen  with  the 
Iron  Hand,   though   less   sudden,  was  by  no 
means  less  exalted.    In  his  own  country,  Goetz, 
though  he  now  stands  solitary  and  childless, 
became  the  parent  of  an  innumerable  progeny, 
of  chivalry  plays,  feudal  delineations,  and  po- 
etico-antiquarian  performances ;  which,  though 
long  ago  deceased,  made  noise  enough  in  their 
day  and  generation:  and  with  ourselves,  his 
influence  has  been  perhaps  still  more  remark- 
able.    Sir  Walter  Scott's  first  literary  enter- 
prise was  a  translation  of  Goetz  von  Berlichingen  ; 
and,  if  genius  could  be  communicated  like  in- 
struction, we  might  call  this  work  of  Goethe's 
the  prime  cause  of  Marmion  and  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake,  with  all  that  has  followed  from  the 
same  creative  hand.    Truly,  a  grain  of  seed 
that  has  lighted  on  the  right  soil !     For  if  not 
firmer  and  fairer,  it  has  grown  to  be  taller  and 
broader  than  any  other  tree  ;  and  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth  are  still  yearly  gathering  of  its 
fruit. 

"  But  overlooking  these  spiritual  genealogies, 
which  bring  little  certainty  and  little  profit,  it 
may  be  sufficient  to  observe  of  Berlichingen  and 
Werter,  that  they  stand  prominent  among  the 
causes,  or  at  the  very  least,  among  the  signals 
of  a  great  change  in  modern  literature.  The 
former  directed  men's  attention  with  a  new 
force  to  the  picturesque  effects  of  the  Past; 
and  the  latter,  for  the  first  time,  attempted  the 
more  accurate  delineation  of  a  class  of  feelings 
I  deeply  important  to  modern  minds,  but  for 
I  which  our  elder  poetry  offered  no  exponent, 
I  and  perhaps  could  offer  none,  because  they 
are  feelings  that  arise  from  Passion  incapable 
of  being  converted  into  Action,  and  belong 
chiefly  to  an  age  as  indolent,  cultivated,  and 
unbelieving  as  our  own.  This,  notwithstanding 
the  dash  of  falsehood  which  may  exist  in  Wer- 
ter itself,  and  the  boundless  delirium  of  extra- 
vagance which  it  called  forth  in  others,  is  a 
high  praise  which  cannot  justly  be  denied  it. 
The  English  reader  ought  also  to  understand 
that  our  current  version  of  Werter  is  mutilated 
and  inaccurate :  it  comes  to  us  through  the 
all-subduing  medium  of  the  French,  shorn  of 
its  caustic  strength,  with  its  melancholy  ren- 
dered maudlin,  its  hero  reduced  from  the  state- 
ly gloom  of  a  broken-hearted  poet  to  the  tear- 
ful wrangling  of  a  dyspeptic  tailor."* 

To  the  same  dark,  wayward  mood,  which, 
in  Werter,  pours  itself  forth  in  bitter  wailings 

♦  German  Romance,  vol.  iv.  pp.  5—7. 
e  2 


78 


CARLYLE  S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


over  human  life ;  and,  in  Berlkhingen,  appears  as 
a  fond  and  sad  looking  back  into  the  Past,  be- 
long various  other  productions  of  Goethe's; 
for  example,  the  Mitschuldigen,  and  the  first 
idea  of  Faust,  which,  however,  was  not  realized 
in  actual  composition,  till  a  calmer  period  of 
his  history.  Of  this  early  "  harsh  and  crude," 
yet  fervid  and  genial  period,  Werter  may  stand 
here  as  the  representative ;  and,  viewed  in  its 
external  and  internal  relation,  will  help  to  il- 
lustrate both  the  writer  and  the  public  he  was 
writing  for. 

At  the  present  day,  it  would  be  difficult  for 
us,  satisfied,  nay,  sated  to  nausea,  as  we  have 
been  with  the  doctrines  of  Sentimentality,  to 
estimate  the  boundless  interest  which  Werter 
must  have  excited  when  first  given  to  the 
world.  It  was  then  new  in  all  senses ;  it  was 
wonderful,  yet  wished  for,  both  in  its  own 
country  and  in  every  other.  The  literature 
of  Germany  had  as  yet  but  partially  awakened 
from  its  long  torpor:  deep  learning,  deep  re- 
flection, have  at  no  time  been  wanting  there : 
but  the  creative  spirit  had  for  above  a  century 
been  almost  extinct.  Of  late,  however,  the 
Ramlers,  Rabeners,  Gellerts,  had  attained  to  no 
inconsiderable  polish  of  style ;  Klopstock's 
Messias  had  called  forth  the  admiration,  and 
perhaps  still  more  the  pride,  of  the  country,  as 
a  piece  of  art ;  a  high  enthusiasm  was  abroad  ; 
Lessing  had  roused  the  minds  of  men  to  a 
deeper  and  truer  interest  in  literature,  had 
even  decidedly  begun  to  introduce  a  heartier, 
warmer,  and  more  expressive  style.  The 
Germans  were  on  the  alert ;  in  expectation,  or 
at  least  in  full  readiness  for  some  far  bolder 
impulse ;  waiting  for  the  Poet  that  might  speak 
to  them  from  the  heart  to  the  heart.  It  was  in 
Goethe  that  such  a  Poet  was  to  be  given  them. 

Nay,  the  literature  of  other  countries,  placid 
self-satisfied  as  they  might  seem,  was  in  an 
equally  expectant  condition.  Everywhere,  as 
in  Germany,  there  was  polish  and  languor, 
external  glitter  and  internal  vacuity;  it  was 
not  fire,  but  a  picture  of  fire,  at  which  no  soul 
could  be  warmed.  Literature  had  sunk  from 
its  former  vocation :  it  no  longer  held  the  mir- 
ror up  to  nature  ;  no  longer  reflected,  in  many- 
coloured  expressive  symbols,  the  actual  pas- 
sions, the  hopes,  sorrows,  joys  of  Living  men  ; 
but  dwelt  in  a  remote  conventional  world,  in 
Castles  of  Otranto,  in  Epigoniads  and  Leonidases, 
among  clear,  metallic  heroes,  and  white,  high, 
stainless  beauties,  in  whom  the  drapery  and 
elocution  were  nowise  the  least  important 
qualities.  Men  thought  it  right  that  the  heart 
should  swell  into  magnanimity  with  Caracta- 
cus  and  Cato,  and  melt  into  sorrow  with  many 
an  Eliza  and  Adelaide ;  but  the  heart  was  in 
no  haste  either  to  swell  or  to  melt.  Some 
pulses  of  heroical  sentiment,  a  few  wnnatural 
tears  might,  with  conscientious  readers,  be  ac- 
tually squeezed  forth  on  such  occasions :  but 
they  came  only  from  the  surface  of  the  mind; 
nay,  had  the  conscientious  man  considered  of 
the  matter,  he  would  have  found  that  they 
ought  not  to  have  come  at  all.  Our  only  Eng- 
lish poet  of  the  period  was  Goldsmith  ;  a  pure, 
clear,  genuine  spirit,  had  he  been  of  depth  or 
strength  sufficient:  his   Vicar  of  Wakefield  re- 


mains the  best  of  all  modern  Idyls ;  but  it  is 
and  was  nothing  more.  And  consider  our 
leading  writers  ;  consider  the  poetry  of  Gray, 
and  the  prose  of  Johnson.  The  first  a  labo- 
rious mosaic,  through  the  hard,  stiff  linea- 
ments of  which  little  life  or  true  grace  could 
be  expected  to  look  :  real  feeling,  and  all  free- 
dom of  expi'essing  it,  are  sacrificed  to  pomp, 
to  cold  splendour;  for  vigour  we  have  a  cer- 
tain mouthing  vehemence,  too  elegant  indeed 
to  be  tumid,  yet  essentially  foreign  to  the 
heart,  and  seen  to  extend  no  *deeper  than  the 
mere  voice  and  gesture.  Were  it  not  for  his 
Letters,  which  are  full  of  warm,  exuberant 
power,  we  might  almost  doubt  whether  Gray 
was  a  man  of  genius ;  nay,  was  a  living  man 
at  all,  and  not  rather  some  thousand-times 
more  cunningly  devised  poetical  turning-loom, 
than  that  of  Swift's  Philosophers  in  Laputa. 
Johnson's  prose  is  true,  indeed,  and  sound, 
and  full  of  practical  sense:  few  men  have 
seen  more  clearly  into  the  motives,  the  inte- 
rests, the  whole  walk  and  conversation  of  the 
living  busy  world  as  it  lay  before  him ;  but 
farther  than  this  busy,  and,  to  most  of  us, 
rather  prosaic  world,  he  seldom  looked:  his 
instruction  is  for  men  of  business,  and  in  re- 
gard to  matters  of  business  alone.  Prudence 
is  the  highest  Virtue  he  can  inculcate;  and  for 
that  finer  portion  of  our  nature,  that  portion 
of  it  which  belongs  essentially  to  Literature 
strictly  so  called  ;  where  our  highest  feelings, 
our  best  joys  and  keenest  sorrows,  our  Doubt, 
our  Love,  our  Religion  reside,  he  has  no  word 
to  utter;  no  remedy,  no  counsel  to  give  us  in 
our  straits  ;  or  at  most,  if,  like  poor  Boswell, 
the  patient  is  importunate,  will  answer:  "My 
dear  Sir,  endeavour  to  clear  your  mind  of 
Cant." 

The  turn  which  Philosophical  speculation 
had  taken  in  the  preceding  age  corresponded 
with  this  tendency,  and  enhanced  its  narcotic 
influences  ;  or  was,  indeed,  properly  speaking, 
the  root  they  had  sprung  from.  Locke,  him- 
self, a  clear,  humble-minded,  patient,  reverent, 
nay,  religious  man,  had  paved  the  way  for 
banishing  religion  from  the  world.  Mind,  by 
being  modelled  in  men's  imaginations  into  a 
Shape,  a  Visibility;  and  reasoned  of  as  if  it 
had  been  some  composite,  divisible  and  re- 
unitable  substance,  some  finer  chemical  salt, 
or  curious  piece  of  logical  joinery, — began  to 
lose  its  immaterial,  mysterious,  divine  though 
invisible  character:  it  was  tacitly  figured  as 
something  that  might,  were  our  organs  fine 
enough,  be  seen.  Yet  who  had  ever  seen  it? 
Who  could  ever  see  itl  Thus  by  degrees  it 
passed  into  a  Doubt,  a  Relation,  some  faint 
possibility;  and  at  last  into  a  highly-probable 
Nonentity.  Following  Locke's  footsteps,  the 
French  had  discovered  that  "as  the  stomach 
secretes  Chyle,  so  does  the  brain  secrete 
Thought."  And  what  then  was  Religion,  what 
was  Poetry,  what  was  all  high  and  heroic 
feeling?  Chiefly  a  delusion  ;  often  a  false  and 
pernicious  one.  Poetry,  indeed,  was  still  to 
be  preserved;  because  Poetry  was  a  useful 
thing:  men  needed  amusement,  and  loved  to 
amuse  themselves  with  Poetry:  the  playhouse 
was  a  pretty  lounge  of  an  evening;  then  there 


GOETHE. 


79 


were  so  many  precepts,  satirical,  didactic,  so 
much  more  impressive  for  the  rhyme ;  to  say 
nothing  of  your  occasional  verses,  birth-day 
odes,  epithalamiums,  epicediums,  by  which 
"the  dream  of  existence  may  be  so  highly 
sweetened  and  embellished."  Nay,  does  not 
Poetry,  acting  on  the  imaginations  of  men, 
excite  them  to  daring  purposes ;  sometimes,  as 
in  the  case  of  Tyrtseus,  to  fight  better;  in 
which  wise  may  it  not  rank  as  a  useful  stimu* 
lant  to  man,  along  with  Opium  and  Scotch 
Whisky,  the  manufacture  of  which  is  allowed 
by  law  ]  In  Heaven's  name,  then,  let  Poetry 
be  preserved. 

With  Religion,  however,  it  fared  somewhat 
worse.  In  the  eyes  of  Voltaire  and  his  dis- 
ciples, Religion  was  a  superfluity,  indeed  a 
nuisance.  Here,  it  is  true,  his  followers  have 
since  found  that  he  went  too  far ;  that  Religion, 
being  a  great  sanction  to  civil  morality,  is  of 
use  for  keeping  society  in  order,  at  least  the 
lower  classes,  who  have  not  the  feeling  of 
Honour  in  due  force ;  and  therefore,  as  a  con- 
siderable help  to  the  Constable  and  Hangman, 
ought  decidedly  to  be  kept  up.  But  such  tolera- 
tion is  the  fruit  only  of  later  days.  In  those 
times,  there  was  no  question  but  how  to  get 
rid  of  it,  root  and  branch,  the  sooner  the  better. 
A  gleam  of  zeal,  nay,  we  will  call  it,  however 
basely  alloyed,  a  glow  of  real  enthusiasm  and 
love  of  truth,  may  have  animated  the  minds  of 
these  men,  as  they  looked  abroad  on  the  pesti- 
lent jungle  of  Superstition,  and  hoped  to  clear 
the  earth  of  it  for  ever.  This  little  glow,  so  al- 
loyed, so  contaminated  with  pride  and  other 
poor  or  bad  admixtures,  was  the  last  which 
thinking  men  were  to  experience  in  Europe 
for  a  time.  So  is  it  always  in  regard  to  Reli- 
gious Belief,  how  degraded  and  defaced  soever: 
the  delight  of  the  Destroyer  and  Denier  is  no 
pure  delight,  and  must  soon  pass  away.  With 
bold,  with  skilful  hand,  Voltaire  set  his  torch 
to  the  jungle :  it  blazed  aloft  to  heaven ;  and 
the  flame  exhilarated  and  comforted  the  incen- 
diaries ;  but,  unhappily,  such  comfort  could  not 
continue.  Ere  long  this  flame,  with  its  cheer- 
ful light  and  heat,  was  gone :  the  jungle,  it  is 
true,  had  been  consumed;  but,  with  its  en- 
tanglements, its  shelter  and  spots  of  verdure 
also ;  and  the  black,  chill,  ashy  swamp,  left  in 
its  stead,  seemed  for  the  time  a  greater  evil 
than  the  other. 

In  such  a  state  of  painful  obstruction,  ex- 
tending itself  everywhere  over  Europe,  and 
already  master  of  Germany,  lay  the  general 
mind,  when  Goethe  first  appeared  in  Litera- 
ture. Whatever  belonged  to  the  finer  nature 
of  man  had  withered  under  the  Harmattan 
breath  of  Doubt,  or  passed  away  in  the  confla- 
gration of  open  Infidelity;  and  now,  where  the 
Tree  of  Life  once  bloomed  and  brought  fruit 
of  goodliest  savour,  there  was  only  barrenness 
and  desolation.  To  such  as  could  find  suffi- 
cient interest  in  the  day-labour  and  day-wages 
of  earthly  existence;  in  the  resources  of  the 
five  bodily  Senses,  and  of  Vanity,  the  only 
mental  sense  which  yet  flourished,  which 
flourished  indeed  with  gigantic  vigour,  matters 
were  still  not  so  bad.  Such  men  helped  them- 
selves forward,  as  they  will  generally  do;  and 
found  the  world,  if  not  an  altogether  proper 


sphere,  (for  every  man,  disguise  it  as  he  may, 
has  a  soul  in  him,)  at  least  a  tolerable  enough 
place ;  where,  by  one  item  and  another,  some 
comfort,  or  show  of  comfort,  might  from  time 
to  time  be  got  up,  and  these  few  years,  espe- 
cially since  they  were  so  few,  be  spent  with- 
out much  murmuring.  But  to  men  afilicted 
with  the  "  malady  of  Thought,"  some  devout- 
ness  of  temper  was  an  inevitable  heritage  :  to 
such  the  noisy  forum  of  the  world  could  ap- 
pear but  an  empty,  altogether  insuflScient  con- 
cern ;  and  the  whole  scene  of  life  had  become 
hopeless  enough.  Unhappily,  such  feelings 
are  yet  by  no  means  so  infrequent  with  our- 
selves, that  we  need  stop  here  to  depict  them. 
That  state  of  Unbelief  from  which  the  Ger- 
mans do  seem  to  be  in  some  measure  deliver- 
ed, still  presses  with  incubus  force  on  the 
greater  part  of  Europe ;  and  nation  after 
nation,  each  in  its  own  way,  feels  that  the  first 
of  all  moral  problems  is  how  to  cast  it  off",  or 
how  to  rise  above  it.  Governments  naturally 
attempt  the  first  expedient;  Philosophers,  in 
general,  the  second. 

The  poet,  says  Schiller,  is  a  citizen  not  only 
of  his  country,  but  of  his  time.  Whatever  oc- 
cupies and  interests  men  in  general,  will  in- 
terest him  still  more.  That  nameless  Unrest, 
the  blind  struggle  of  a  soul  in  bondage,  that 
high,  sad,  longing  Discontent,  which  was  agi- 
tating every  bosom,  had  driven  Goethe  almost 
to  despair.  All  felt  it;  he  alone  could  give  it 
voice.  And  here  lies  the  secret  of  his  popu- 
larity;  in  his  deep,  susceptive  heart,  he  felt  a 
thousand  times  more  keenly  what  every  one 
was  feeling ;  with  the  creative  gift  which  be- 
longed to  him  as  a  poet,  he  bodied  it  forth  into 
visible  shape,  gave  it  a  local  habitation  and  a 
name ;  and  so  made  himself  the  spokesman  of 
his  generation.  Werter  is  but  the  cry  of  that 
dim,  rooted  pain,  under  which  all  thoughtful 
men  of  a  certain  age  were  languishing:  it 
paints  the  misery,  it  passionately  utters  the 
complaint;  and  heart  and  voice,  all  over  Eu- 
rope, loudly  and  at  once  respond  to  it.  True, 
it  prescribes  no  remedy ;  for  that  was  a  far 
different,  far  harder  enterprise,  to  which  other 
years  and  a  higher  culture  were  required ;  but 
even  this  utterance  of  the  pain,  even  this  little, 
for  the  present,  is  ardently  grasped  at,  and 
with  eager  sympathy  appropriated  in  every 
bosom.  If  Byron's  life-weariness,  his  moody 
melancholy,  and  mad,  stormful  indignation, 
borne  on  the  tones  of  a  wild  and  quite  artless 
melody,  could  pierce  so  deep  into  many  a  Bri- 
tish heart,  now  that  the  whole  matter  is  no 
longer  new, — is  indeed  old  and  trite, — we  may 
judge  with  what  vehement  acceptance  this 
Werter  must  have  been  welcomed,  coming  as 
it  did  like  a  voice  from  unknown  regions,  the 
first  thrilling  peal  of  that  impassioned  dirge, 
which,  in  country  after  country,  men's  ears 
have  listened  to,  till  they  were  deaf  to  all  else. 
For  Werter,  infusing  itself  into  the  core  and 
whole  spirit  of  Literature,  gave  birth  to  a  race 
of  Sentimentalists,  who  have  raged  and  wailed 
in  every  part  of  the  world;  till  better  light 
dawned  on  them,  or  at  worst  exhausted  Nature 
laid  herself  to  sleep,  and  it  was  discovered 
that  lamenting  was  an  unproductive  labour. 
These  funereal  choristers,  in  Germany,  a  loud, 


80 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


haggard,  tumultuous,  as  well  as  tearful  class, 
were  named  the  Kraftmdnner,  or  Power-men ; 
but  have  all  long  since,  like  sick  children, 
cried  themselves  to  rest.  Byron  was  our 
English  Sentimentalist  and  Power-man;  the 
strongest  of  his  kind  in  Europe ;  the  wildest, 
the  gloomiest,  and  it  may  be  hoped,  the  last. 
For  what  good  is  it  to  "  whine,  put  finger  i'  the 
eye,  and  sob,"  in  such  a  case  1  Still  more,  to 
snarl  and  snap  in  malignant  wise,  "  like  dog 
distract,  or  a  monkey  sickl"  Why  should 
we  quarrel  with  our  existence,  here  as  it  lies 
before  us,  our  field  and  inheritance,  to  make 
or  to  mar,  for  better  or  for  worse ;  in  which, 
too,  so  many  noblest  men  have,  ever  from  the 
beginning,  warring  with  the  very  evils  we  war 
with,  both  made  and  been  what  will  be  vene- 
rated to  all  time  1 

What  shapest  thou  here  at  the  World?    'Tis  shapen 

long  ago ; 
The  Maker  shaped  it,  and  thought  it  were  best  even  so. 
Thy  lot  is  appointed,  go  follow  its  hest ; 
Thy  journey's  begun,  thou  must  move  and  not  rest ; 
For  sorrow  and  care  cannot  alter  thy  case, 
And  running,  not  raging,  will  win  thee  the  race. 

Meanwhile,  of  the  philosophy  which  reigns 
in  Werter,  and  which  it  has  been  our  lot  to 
hear  so  often  repeated  elsewhere,  we  may  here 
produce  a  short  specimen.  The  following 
passage  will  serve  our  turn ;  and  be,  if  we 
mistake  not,  new  to  the  mere  English  reader. 

"That  the  life  of  man  is  but  a  dream,  has 
come  into  many  a  head ;  and  with  me,  too, 
some  feeling  of  that  sort  is  ever  at  work. 
When  I  look  upon  the  limits  within  which 
man's  powers  of  action  and  inquiry  are  hem- 
med in  ;  when  I  see  how  all  effort  issues  sim- 
ply in  procuring  supply  for  wants,  which  again 
have  no  object  but  continuing  this  poor  exist- 
ence of  ours ;  and  then,  that  all  satisfaction 
on  certain  points  of  inquiry  is  but  a  dreaming 
resignation,  while  you  paint,  with  many-co- 
loured figures  and  gay  prospects,  the  walls 
you  sit  imprisoned  by, — all  this,  Wilhelm, 
makes  me  dumb.  I  return  to  my  own  heart, 
and  find  there  such  a  world  !  Yet  a  world  too, 
more  in  forecast  and  dim  desire,  than  in  vision 
and  living  power.  And  then  all  swims  before 
my  mind's  eye ;  and  so  I  smile,  and  again  go 
dreaming  on  as  others  do. 

"  That  children  know  not  what  they  want,  all 
'conscientious  tutors  and  education-philoso- 
phers have  long  been  agreed :  but  that  full- 
grown  men,  as  well  as  children,  stagger  to  and 
fro  along  this  earth ;  like  these,  not  knowing 
whence  they  come  or  whither  they  go;  aiming, 
just  as  little,  after  true  objects  ;  governed  just 
as  well  by  biscuit,  cakes,  and  birch-rods  :  this  is 
what  no  one  likes  to  believe  ;  and  yet,  it  seems 
to  me,  the  fact  is  lying  under  our  very  nose. 

"I  will  confess  to  thee,  for  I  know  what  thou 
wouldst  say  to  me  on  this  point,  that  those  are  the 
happiest,  who,  like  children,  live  from  one  day  to 
the  other,  carrying  their  dolls  about  with  them, 
to  dress  and  undress ;  gliding,  also,  with  the 
highest  respect,  before  the  drawer  where  mam- 
ma has  locked  the  gingerbread :  and,  when 
they  do  get  the  wished-for  morsel,  devouring 
it  with  pufFed-out  cheeks,  and  crying.  More ! — 
These  are  the  fortunate  of  the  earth.    Well  is 


it  likewise  with  those  who  can  label  their  rag- 
gathering  employments,  or  perhaps  their  pas- 
sions, with  pompous  titles,  and  represent  them 
to  mankind  as  gigantic  undertakings  for  its 
welfare  and  salvation.  Happy  the  man  who 
can  live  in  such  wise !  But  he  who,  in  his 
humility,  observes  where  all  this  issues,  who 
sees  how  featly  any  small  thriving  citizen  can 
trim  his  patch  of  garden  into  a  Paradise,  and 
with  what  unbroken  heart  even  the  unhappy 
crawls  along  under  his  burden,  and  all  are 
alike  ardent  to  see  the  light  of  this  sun  but 
one  minute  longer: — yes,  he  is  silent,  and  he 
too  forms  his  world  out  of  himself,  and  he  too 
is  happy  because  he  is  a  man.  And  then,  hem- 
med in  as  he  is,  he  ever  keeps  in  his  heart  the 
sweet  feeling  of  freedom,  and  that  this  dungeon 
— can  be  left  when  he  likes."  * 

What  Goethe's  own  temper  and  habit  of 
thought  must  have  been,  while  the  materials 
of  such  a  work  were  forming  themselves  with- 
in his  heart,  might  be  in  some  degree  conjec- 
tured, and  he  has  himself  informed  us.  We 
quote  the  following  passage  from  his  Dichivmg 
und  Wahrheit.  The  writing  of  Werter,  it  would 
seem,  vindicating  so  gloomy,  almost  desperate 
a  state  of  mind  in  the  author,  was  at  the  same 
time  a  symptom,  indeed  a  cause,  of  his  now 
having  got  delivered  from  such  melancholy. 
Far  from  recommending  suicide  to  others,  as 
Werter  has  often  been  accused  of  doing,  it  was 
'^he  first  proof  that  Goethe  himself  had  aban- 
doned these  "  hypochondriacal  crotchets : "  the 
imaginary  "Sorrows"  had  helped  to  free  him 
from  many  real  ones. 

"Such  weariness  of  life,"  he  says,  "has  its 
physical  and  spiritual  causes ;  those  we  shall 
leave  to  the  Doctor,  these  to  the  Moralist,  for 
investigation;  and  in  this  so  trite  matter,  touch 
only  on  the  main  point,  when  that  phenome- 
non expresses  itself  most  distinctly.  All  plea- 
sure in  life  is  founded  on  the  regular  return  of 
external  things.  The  alternations  of  day  and 
night,  of  the  seasons,  of  the  blossoms  and 
fruits,  and  whatever  else  meets  us  from  epoch 
to  epoch  with  the  offer  and  command  of  en- 
joyment,— these  are  the  essential  springs  of 
earthly  existence.  The  more  open  we  are  to 
such  enjoyments,  the  happier  we  feel  our- 
selves; but,  should  the  vicissitude  of  these  ap- 
pearances come  and  go  without  our  taking 
interest  in  it,  should  such  benignant  invi- 
tations address  themselves  to  us  in  vain, 
then  follows  the  greatest  misery,  the  heaviest 
malady  ;  one  grows  to  view  life  as  a  sickening 
burden.  We  have  heard  of  the  Englishman 
who  hanged  himself,  to  be  no  more  troubled 
with  daily  putting  off  and  on  his  clothes.  I 
knew  an  honest  gardener,  the  overseer  of  some 
extensive  pleasure-grounds,  who  once  splenet- 
ically  exclaimed :  Shall  I  see  these  clouds  for 
ever  passing,  then,  from  east  to  west  ?  It  is 
told  of  one  of  our  most  distinguished  men,f 
that  he  viewed  with  dissatisfaction  the  spring 
again  growing  green,  and  wished  that,  by  way 
of  change,  it  would  for  once  be  red.  These 
are  specially  the  symptoms  of  life-weariness. 


*Leiden  des  jungen  Werther.     ^m  22  Maij. 

tLessing,  we  believe:  but  perhaps  it  was  less  the 
greenness  of  spring  that  vexed  him  than  Jacobi's  too 
lyric  admiration  of  it.— Ed. 


GOETHE. 


81 


which  not  seldom  issues  in  suicide,  and,  at 
this  time,  among  men  of  meditative,  secluded 
character,  was  more  frequent  than  might  be 
supposed. 

"  Nothing,  however,  will  sooner  induce  this 
feeling  of  satiety  than  the  return  of  love.  The 
first  love,  it  is  said  justly,  is  the  only  one  ;  for 
in  the  second,  and  by  the  second,  the  highest 
significance  of  love  is  in  fact  lost.  That  idea 
of  infinitude,  of  everlasting  endurance,  which 
supports  and  bears  it  aloft,  is  destroyed ;  it 
seems  transient,  like  all  that  returns.     *    *    * 

"Further,  a  young  man  soon  comes  to  find, 
if  not  in  himself,  at  least  in  others,  that  moral 
epochs  have  their  course,  as  well  as  the  sea- 
sons. The  favour  of  the  great,  the  protection 
of  the  powerful,  the  help  of  the  active,  the 
good- will  of  the  many,  the  love  of  the  few,  all 
fluctuates  up  and  down  ;  so  that  we  cannot 
hold  it  fast,  any  more  than  we  can  hold  sun, 
moon,  and  stars.  And  yet  these  things  are 
not  mere  natural  events  :  such  blessings  flee 
away  from  us,  by  our  own  blame  or  that  of 
others,  by  accident  or  destiny;  but  they  flee 
away,  they  fluctuate,  and  we  are  never  sure  of 
them. 

"  But  what  most  pains  the  young  man  of  sen- 
sibility is  the  incessant  return  of  our  faults  : 
for  how  long  is  it  before  we  learn,  that  in  cul- 
tivating our  virtues,  we  nourish  our  faults 
along  with  them  1  The  former  rests  on  the 
latter,  as  on  their  roots ;  and  these  ramify 
themselves  in  secret  as  strongly  and  as  wide 
as  those  others  in  the  open  light.  Now,  as  we 
for  the  most  part  practise  our  virtues  with 
forethought  and  will,  but  by  our  faults  are 
overtaken  unexpectedly,  the  former  seldom 
give  us  much  joy,  the  latter  are  continually 
giving  us  sorrow  and  distress.  Indeed,  here 
lies  the  subtilest  difficulty  in  Self-knowledge, 
the  difficulty  which  almost  renders  it  impossi- 
ble. But  figure,  in  addition  to  all  this,  the  heat 
of  youthful  blood,  an  imagination  easily  fasci- 
nated and  paralyzed  by  individual  objects ; 
further,  the  wavering  commotions  of  the  day, 
and  you  will  find  that  an  impatient  striving  to 
free  one's  self  from  such  a  pressure  was  no 
unnatural  state. 

"However,  these  gloomy  contemplations, 
which,  if  a  man  yield  to  them,  will  lead  him  to 
boundless  lengths,  could  not  have  so  decidedly 
developed  themselves  in  our  young  German 
minds,  had  not  some  outward  cause  excited 
and  forwarded  us  in  this  sorrowful  employ- 
ment. Such  a  cause  existed  for  us  in  the  Lit- 
erature, especially  the  Poetical  Literature,  of 
England,  the  great  qualities  of  which  are  ac- 
companied by  a  certain  earnest  melancholy, 
which  it  imparts  to  every  one  that  occupies 
himself  with  it. 

****** 

"In  such  an  element,  with  such  an  environ- 
ment of  circumstances,  with  studies  and  tastes 
of  this  sort,  harassed  by  unsatisfied  desires, 
externally  nowhere  called  forth  to  important 
action  ;  with  the  soleprospect  of  dragging  on  a 
languid,  spiritless,  mere  civic  life,  we  had  re- 
curred, in  our  disconsolate  pride,  to  the  thought 
that  life,  when  it  no  longer  suited  one,  might 
be  cast  aside  at  pleasure  ;  and  had  helped  our- 
selves hereby,  stintedly  enough,  over  the 
11 


crosses  and  tediums  of  the  time.  These  sen- 
timents were  so  universal,  that  Werter,  on  this 
very  account,  could  produce  the  greatest  ef- 
fect; striking  in  everywhere  with  the  domi- 
nant humour,  and  representing  the  interior  of 
a  sickly,  youthful  heart,  in  a  visible  and  pal- 
pable shape.  How  accurately  the  English 
have  known  this  sorrow,  might  be  seen  from 
these  few  significant  lines,  written  before  the 
appearance  of  Werter : 

To  ariefs  congenial  prone 

More  wounds  than  nature  gave  he  knew, 

While  misery's  form  his  fancy  drew 

In  dark  ideal  hues,  and  horrors  not  its  own.* 

"  Self-murder  is  an  occurrence  in  men's  af- 
fairs, which,  how  much  soever  it  may  have 
already  been  discussed  and  commented  upon, 
excites  an  interest  in  every  mortal;  and,  at 
every  new  era,  must  be  discussed  again.  Mon- 
tesquieu confers  on  his  heroes  and  great  men 
the  right  of  putting  themselves  to  death  when 
they  see  good ;  observing,  that  it  must  stand 
at  the  will  of  every  one  to  conclude  the  Fifth 
Act  of  his  Tragedy  whenever  he  thinks  best. 
Here,  however,  our  business  lies  not  with  per- 
sons who,  in  activity,  have  led  an  important 
life,  who  have  spent  their  days  for  some  mighty 
empire,  or  for  the  cause  of  freedom :  and  whom 
one  may  forbear  to  censure,  when,  seeing  the 
high  ideal  purpose  which  had  inspired  them 
vanish  from  the  earth,  they  meditate  pursuing 
it  to  that  other  undiscovered  country.  Our 
business  here  is  with  persons  to  whom,  pro- 
perly for  want  of  activity,  and  in  the  peace- 
fullest  condition  imaginable,  life  has,  never- 
theless, by  their  exorbitant  requisitions  on 
themselves,  become  a  burden.  As  I  myself 
was  in  this  predicament,  and  know  best  what 
pain  I  suffered  in  it,  what  efl^orts  it  cost  me  to 
escape  from  it,  I  shall  not  hide  the  specula- 
tions, I  from  time  to  time  considerately  prose- 
cuted, as  to  the  various  modes  of  death  one 
had  to  choose  from. 

"  It  is  something  so  unnatural  for  a  man  to 
break  loose  from  himself,  not  only  to  hurt,  but 
to  annihilate  himself,  that  he  for  the  most  part 
catches  at  means  of  a  mechanical  sort  for  put- 
ting his  purpose  in  execution.  When  Ajax 
falfs  on  his  swxjrd,  it  is  the  weight  of  his  body 
that  performs  this  service  for  him.  When 
the  warrior  adjures  his  armour-bearer  to  slay 
him,  rather  than  that  he  come  into  the  hands 
of  the  enemy,  this  is  likewise  an  external  force 
which  he  secures  for  himself;  only  a  moral 
instead  of  a  physical  one.  Women  seek  in 
the  water  a  cooling  for  their  desperation;  and 
the  highly  mechanical  means  of  pistol-shoot- 
ing insures  a  quick  act  with  the  smallest  effort. 
Hanging  is  a  death  one  mentions  unwillingly, 
because  it  is  an  ignoble  one.  In  England  it  may 
happen  more  readily  than  elsewhere,  because 
from  youth  upwards  you  there  see  that  punish- 
ment frequent  without  being  specially  ignomini- 
ous. By  poison,  by  opening  of  veins,  men  aim 
but  at  parting  slowly  from  life ;  and  the  most  re- 
fined the  speediest,  the  most  painless  death,  by 
means  of  an  asp,  was  worthy  of  a  Queen,  who 
had  spent  her  life  in  pomp  and  luxurious  plea- 
sure.    All  these,  however,  are  external  helps ; 


♦  So  in  the  original. 


82 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


are  enemies,  with  which  a  man,  that  he  may- 
fight  against  himself,  makes  league. 

"  When  I  considered  these  various  methods, 
and,  further,  looked  abroad  over  history,  I 
could  find  among  all  suicides  no  one  that  had 
gone  about  this  deed  with  such  greatness  and 
freedom  of  spirit  as  the  Emperor  Otho.  This 
man,  beaten  indeed  as  a  general,  yet  nowise 
reduced  to  extremities,  determines  for  the  good 
of  the  Empire,  which  already  in  some  measure 
belonged  to  him,  and  for  the  saving  of  so  many 
thousands,  to  leave  the  world.  With  his 
friends  he  passes  a  gay,  festive  night,  and 
next  morning  it  is  found  that  with  his  own 
hand  he  has  plunged  a  sharp  dagger  into  his 
heart.  This  sole  act  seemed  to  me  worthy  of 
imitation;  and  I  convinced  myself  that  who- 
ever could  not  proceed  herein  as  Otho  had 
done,  was  not  entitled  to  resolve  on  renouncing 
life.  By  this  conviction,  I  saved  myself  from 
the  purpose,  or  indeed,  more  properly  speaking, 
from  the  whim,  of  suicide,  which  in  those  fair 
peaceful  times  had  insinuated  itself  into  the 
mind  of  indolent  youth.  Among  a  considera- 
ble collection  of  arms,  I  possessed  a  costly 
well-ground  dagger.  This  I  laid  down  nightly 
beside  my  bed  ;  and  before  extinguishing  the 
light,  I  tried  whether  I  could  succeed  in  send- 
ing the  sharp  point  an  inch  or  two  deep  into 
my  breast.  But  as  I  truly  never  could  suc- 
ceed, I  at  last  took  to  laughing  at  myself;  threw 
away  all  these  hypochondriacal  crotchets,  and 
determined  to  live.  To  do  this  with  cheerful- 
ness, however,  I  required  to  have  some  poetical 
task  given  me,  wherein  all  that  I  had  felt, 
thought,  or  dreamed  on  this  weighty  business, 
might  be  spoken  forth.  With  such  view,  I 
endeavoured  to  collect  the  elements  which  for 
a  year  or  two  had  been  floating  about  in  me  ; 
I  represented  to  myself  the  circumstances 
which  had  most  oppressed  and  afflicted  me ; 
but  nothing  of  all  this  would  take  form  ;  there 
was  wanting  an  incident,  a  fable,  in  which  I 
might  imbody  it. 

"  All  at  once  I  hear  tidings  of  Jerusalem's 
death;  and  directly  following  the  general 
rumour,  came  the  most  precise  and  circum- 
stantial description  of  the  business;  and  in 
this  instant  the  plan  of  Wcrter  was  invented  ; 
the  whole  shot  together  from  all  sides,  and  be- 
came a  solid  mass ;  as  the  water  in  the  vessel, 
which  already  stood  on  the  point  of  freezing, 
is  by  the  slightest  motion  changed  at  once  into 
firm  ice."* 

A  wide,  and  every  way  most  important,  in- 
terval divides  Werter,  with  its  skeptical  philo- 
sophy, and  "hypochondriacal  crotchets,"  from 
Goethe's  next  novel,  Wilhelrn  Meister^s  Appren- 
ticeship, published  some  twenty  years  after- 
wards. This  work  belongs,  in  all  senses,  to 
the  second  and  sounder  period  of  Goethe's 
life,  and  may  indeed  serve  as  the  fullest,  if 
perhaps  not  the  purest,  impress  of  it;  being 
written  with  due  forethought,  at  various  times, 
during  a  period  of  no  less  than  ten  years. 
Considered  as  a  piece  of  Art,  there  were  much 
to  be  said  on  Meister ;  all  which,  however,  lies 
beyond  our  present  purpose.  We  are  here 
[looking  at  the  work  chiefly  as  a  document  for 

*Dichtung  und  Wahrheit,  b.iii.  b.  200—213. 


the  writer's  history;  and  in  this  point  of  view, 
it  certainly  seems,  as  contrasted  with  its 
more  popular  precursor,  to  deserve  our  best 
attention :  for  the  problem  which  had  been 
stated  in  Werter,  with  despair  of  its  solution,  is 
here  solved.  The  lofty  enthusiasm,  which, 
wandering  wildly  over  the  universe,  found  no 
resting  place,  has  here  reached  its  appointed 
home ;  and  lives  in  harmony  with  what  long 
appeared  to  threaten  it  with  annihilation. 
Anarchy  has  now  become  Peace ;  the  once 
gloomy  and  perturbed  spirit  is  now  serene, 
cheerfully  vigorous,  and  rich  in  good  fruits. 
Neither,  which  is  most  important  of  all,  has 
this  Peace  been  attained  by  a  surrender  to 
Necessity,  or  any  compact  with  Delusion ;  a 
seeming  blessing,  such  as  years  and  dispirit- 
ment  will  of  themselves  bring  to  most  men, 
and  which  is  indeed  no  blessing,  since  even 
continued  battle  is  better  than  destruction  or 
captivity;  and  peace  of  this  sort  is  like  that  of 
Galgacus's  Romans,  who  "  called  it  peace  when 
they  had  made  a  desert."  Here  the  ardent, 
high  aspiring  youth  has  grown  into  the  calmest 
man,  yet  with  increase  and  not  loss  of  ardour, 
and  with  aspirations  higher  as  well  as  clearer. 
For  he  has  conquered  his  unbelief;  the  Ideal 
has  been  built  on  the  actual;  no  longer  floats 
vaguely  in  darkness  and  regions  of  dreams, 
but  rests  in  light,  on  the  firm  ground  of  human 
interest  and  business,  as  in  its  true  scene,  on 
its  true  basis. 

It  is  wonderful  to  see  with  what  softness  the 
skepticism  of  Jarno,  the  commercial  spirit  of 
Werner,  the  reposing,  polished  manhood  of 
Lothario  and  the  Uncle,  the  unearthly  enthu- 
siasm of  the  Harper,  the  gay,  animal  vivacity 
of  Philina,  the  mystic,  ethereal,  almost  spiritual 
nature  of  Mignon,  are  blended  together  in  this 
work  ;  how  justice  is  done  to  each,  how  each 
lives  freely  in  his  proper  element,  in  his  proper 
form ;  and  how,  as  Wilhelm  himself,  the 
mild-hearted,  all-hoping,  all-believing  Wilhelm, 
struggles  forward  towards  his  world  of  Art 
through  these  curiously  complected  influences, 
all  this  unites  itself  into  a  multifarious,  yet 
so  harmonious  Whole,  as  into  a  clear  poetic 
mirror,  where  man's  life  and  business  in  this 
age,  his  passions  and  purposes,  the  highest 
equally  with  the  lowest,  are  imaged  back  to 
us  in  beautiful  significance.  Poetry  and 
Prose  are  no  longer  at  variance,  for  the  poet's 
eyes  are  opened  :  he  sees  the  changes  of  many- 
coloured  existence,  and  sees  the  loveliness  and 
deep  purport  which  lies  hidden  under  the  very 
meanest  of  them ;  hidden  to  the  vulgar  sight, 
but  clear  to  the  poet's;  because  the  "open 
secret,"  is  no  longer  a  secret  to  him,  and  he 
knows  that  the  Universe  is  full  of  goodness ; 
that  whatever  has  being  has  beauty. 

Apart  from  its  literary  merits  or  demerits, 
such  is  the  temper  of  mind  Ave  trace  in  Goethe's 
Meister,  and,  more  or  less  expressly  exhibited, 
in  all  his  later  works.  We  reckon  it  a  rare 
phenomenon,  this  temper;  and  worthy,  in  our 
times,  if  it  do  exist,  of  best  study  from  all  in- 
quiring men.  How  has  such  a  temper  been 
attained  in  this  so  lofty  and  impetuous  mind, 
once,  too,  dark,  desolate,  and  full  of  doubt, 
more  than  any  other?  How  may  we,  each  of 
us  in  his  several  sphere,  attain  it,  or  slrengihea 


GOETHE. 


83 


it,  for  ourselves  1  These  are  questions,  this 
last  is  a  question,  in  which  no  one  is  uncon- 
cerned. 

To  answer  these  questions,  to  begin  the 
answer  of  them,  would  lead  us  very  far  beyond 
our  present  limits.  It  is  not,  as  we  believe, 
without  long,  sedulous  study,  without  learning 
much,  and  unlearning  much,  that,  for  any  man, 
the  answer  of  such  questions  is  even  to  be 
hoped.  Meanwhile,  as  regards  Goethe,  there 
is  one  feature  of  the  business  which,  to  us, 
throws  considerable  light  on  his  moral  per- 
suasions, and  will  not,  in  investigating  the 
secret  of  them,  be  overlooked.  We  allude  to 
the  spirit  in  which  he  cultivates  his  Art;  the 
noble,  disinterested,  almost  religious  love  with 
which  he  looks  on  Art  in  general,  and  strives 
towards  it  as  towards  the  sure,  highest,  nay, 
only  good.  We  extract  one  passage  from 
Wilhelm  Meister :  it  may  pass  for  a  piece  of  fine 
declamation,  but  not  in  that  light  do  we  offer 
it  here.  Strange,  unaccountable  as  the  thing 
may  seem,  we  have  actually  evidence  before 
our  mind  that  Goethe  believes  in  such  doc- 
trines, nay,  has,  in  some  sort,  lived  and  en- 
deavoured to  direct  his  conduct  by  them. 

" '  Look  at  men,'  continues  Wilhelm,  '  how 
they  struggle  after  happiness  and  satisfaction ! 
Their  wishes,  their  toil,  their  gold,  are  ever 
hunting  restlessly ;  and  after  what  1  After  that 
which  the  Poet  has  received  from  nature  ;  the 
right  enjoyment  of  the  world:  the  feeling  of 
himself  in  others ;  the  harmonious  conjunction 
of  many  things  that  will  seldom  go  together. 

" '  What  is  it  that  keeps  men  in  continual  dis- 
content and  agitation  1  It  is  that  they  cannot 
make  realities  correspond  with  their  concep- 
tions, that  enjoyment  steals  away  from  among 
their  hands,  that  the  wished-for  comes  too  late, 
and  nothing  reached  and  acquired  produces  on 
the  heart  the  effect  which  their  longing  for  it  at 
a  distance  led  them  to  anticipate.  Now  fate 
has  exalted  the  Poet  above  all  this,  as  if  he 
were  a  god.  He  views  the  conflicting  tumult 
of  the  passions ;  sees  families  and  kingdoms 
raging  in  aimless  commotion ;  sees  those  per- 
plexed enigmas  of  misunderstanding,  which 
often  a  single  syllable  would  explain,  occa- 
sioning convulsions  unutterably  baleful.  He 
has  a  fellow-feeling  of  the  mournful  and  the 
joyful  in  the  fate  of  all  mortals.  When  the  man 
of  the  world  is  devoting  his  days  to  wasting 
melancholy  for  some  deep  disappointment ;  or, 
in  the  ebullience  of  joy,  is  going  out  to  meet 
his  happy  destiny,  the  lightly-moved  and  all- 
conceiving  spirit  of  the  Poet  steps  forth,  like 
the  sun  from  night  to  day,  and  with  soft  transi- 
tion tunes  his  harp  to  joy  or  wo.  From  his 
heart,  its  native  soil,  springs  the  fair  flower  of 
Wisdom ;  and  if  others  while  waking  dream, 
and  are  pained  with  fantastic  delusions  from 
their  every  sense,  he  passes  the  dream  of  life 
like  one  awake,  and  the  strangest  event  is  to 
him  nothing,  save  a  part  of  the  past  and  of  the 
future.  And  thus  the  Poet  is  a  teacher,  a  pro- 
phet, a  friend  of  gods  and  men.  How !  Thou 
wouldst  have  him  descend  from  his  height  to 
some  paltry  occupation  1  He  who  is  fashioned, 
like  a  bird,  to  hover  round  the  world,  to  nestle  on 
the  lofty  summits,  to  feed  on  flowers  and  fruits, 
exchanging  gaily  one   bough  for  another,  he 


ought  also  to  work  at  the  plough  like  an  ox ; 
like  a  dog  to  train  himself  to  the  harness  and 
draught ;  or,  perhaps,  tied  up  in  a  chain,  to 
guard  a  farm-yard  by  his  barking  V 

"  Werner,  it  may  well  be  supposed,  had  list- 
ened with  the  greatest  surprise.  '  All  true,'  he 
rejoined,  *  if  men  were  but  made  like  birds  ; 
and,  though  they  neither  spun  nor  weaved, 
could  spend  peaceful  days  in  perpetual  enjoy- 
ment; if,  at  the  approach  of  winter,  they  could 
as  easily  betake  themselves  to  distant  regions ; 
could  retire  before  scarcity,  and  fortify  them- 
selves against  frost.' 

"  *  Poets  have  lived  so,'  exclaimed  Wilhelm, 
*  in  times  when  true  nobleness  was  better  re- 
verenced ;  and  so  should  they  ever  live.  Suffi- 
ciently provided  for  within,  they  had  need  of 
little  from  without;  the  gift  of  imparting  lofty 
emotions,  and  glorious  images  to  men,  in  melo- 
dies and  words  that  charmed  the  ear,  and  fixed 
themselves  inseparably  on  whatever  they  might 
touch,  of  old  enraptured  the  world,  and  served 
the  gifted  as  a  rich  inheritance.  At  the  courts 
of  kings,  at  the  tables  of  the  great,  under  the 
windows  of  the  fair,  the  sound  of  them  was 
heard,  while  the  ear  and  the  soul  were  shut  for 
all  beside ;  and  men  felt,  as  we  do  when  de- 
light comes  over  us,  and  we  pause  with  rap- 
ture if,  among  th«  dingles  we  are  crossing,  the 
voice  of  the  nightingale  starts  out,  touching 
and  strong.  They  found  a  home  in  every  ha- 
bitation of  the  world,  and  the  lowliness  of  their 
condition  but  exalted  them  the  more.  The 
hero  listened  to  their  songs,  and  the  Conqueror 
of  the  Earth  did  reverence  to  a  Poet;  for  he 
felt  that,  without  poets,  his  own  wild  and  vast 
existence  would  pass  away  like  a  whirlwind, 
and  be  forgotten  for  ever.  The  lover  wished 
that  he  could  feel  his  longings  and  his  joys  so 
variedly  and  so  harmoniously  as  the  Poet's  in- 
spired lips  had  skill  to  show  them  forth ;  and 
even  the  rich  man  could  not  of  himself  discern 
such  costliness  in  his  idol  grandeurs,  as  when 
they  were  presented  to  him  shining  in  the 
splendour  of  the  Poet's  spirit,  sensible  to  all 
worth,  and  ennobling  all.  Nay,  if  thou  wilt 
have  it,  who  but  the  Poet  was  it  that  first  form- 
ed Gods  for  us ;  that  exalted  us  to  them,  and 
brought  them  down  to  us  V  "* 

For  a  man  of  Goethe's  talent  to  write  many 
such  pieces  of  rhetoric,  setting  forth  the  dignity 
of  poets,  and  their  innate  independence  on  ex- 
ternal circumstances,  could  be  no  very  hard 
task:  accordingly,  we  find  such  sentiments 
again  and  again  expressed,  sometimes  with 
still  more  gracefulness,  still  clearer  emphasis, 
in  his  various  writings.  But  to  adopt  these 
sentiments  into  his  sober  practical  persuasion  ; 
in  any  measure  to  feel  and  believe  that  such 
was  still,  and  must  always  be,  the  high  voca- 
tion of  the  poet ;  on  this  ground  of  universal 
humanity,  of  ancient  and  now  almost  forgotten 
nobleness,  to  take  his  stand,  even  in  these  tri- 
vial, jeering,  withered,  unbelieving  days;  and 
through  all  their  complex,  dispiriting,  mean, 
yet  tumultuous  influences,  to  "  make  his  light 
shine  before  men,"  that  it  might  beautify  even 
our  "  rag-gathering  age"  with  some  beams  of 
that  mild,  divine  splendour,  which  had  long 


♦  Wilhelm  Meister' 8  JlpprtnticesAip,  book  ii.  chap.  2. 


84 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


left  us — the  very  possibility  of  which  was  de- 
nied; heartily  and  in  earnest  to  meditate  all 
this,  was  no  common  proceeding;  to  bring  it 
into  practice,  especially  in  such  a  life  as  his 
has  been,  was  among  the  highest  and  hardest 
enterprises,  which  any  man  whatever  could 
engage  in.  We  reckon  this  a  greater  novelty, 
than  all  the  novelties  which  as  a  mere  writer 
he  ever  put  forth,  whether  for  praise  or  cen- 
sure. We  have  taken  it  upon  us  to  say  that  if 
such  is,  in  any  sense,  the  state  of  the  case  with 
regard  to  Goethe,  he  deserves  not  mere  approval 
as  a  pleasing  poet  and  sweet  singer;  but  deep, 
grateful  study,  observance,  imitation,  as  a  Mo- 
ralist and  Philosopher.  If  there  be  any  proba- 
bility that  such  is  the  state  of  the  case,  we  can- 
not but  reckon  it  a  matter  well  worthy  of  being 
inquired  into.  And  it  is  for  this  only  that  we 
are  here  pleading  and  arguing. 

On  the  literary  .merit  and  meaning  of  Wilhelm 
Meister  we  have  already  said  that  we  must  not 
enter  at  present.  The  book  has  been  trans- 
lated into  English;  it  underwent  the  usual 
judgment  from  our  Reviews  and  Magazines  ; 
was  to  some  a  stone  of  stumbling,  to  others 
foolishness,  to  most  an  object  of  wonder.  On 
the  whole,  it  passed  smoothly  through  the  criti- 
cal Assaying-house,  for  the  Assayers  have 
Christian  dispositions,  and  very  little  time  ;  so 
Meister  was  ranked,  without  umbrage,  among  the 
legal  coin  of  the  Minerva  Press ;  and  allowed 
to  circulate  as  copper  currency  among  the  rest. 
That  in  so  quick  a  process,  a  German  Freid- 
rich  d'or  might  not  slip  through  unnoticed 
among  new  and  equally  brilliant  British  brass 
Farthings,  there  is  no  warranting.  For  our 
critics  can  now  criticise  impromptu,  which, 
though  far  the  readiest,  is  nowise  the  surest 
plan.  Meister  is  the  mature  product  of  the  first 
genius  in  our  times ;  and  must,  one  would  think, 
be  different,  in  various  respects,  from  the  im- 
mature products  of  geniuses  who  are  far  from 
the  first,  and  whose  works  spring  from  the 
brain  in  as  many  weeks  as  Goethe's  cost  him 
years. 

Nevertheless,  we  quarrel  with  no  man's  ver- 
dict; for  Time,  which  tries  all  things,  will  try 
this  also,  and  bring  to  light  the  truth,  both  as 
regards  criticism  and  the  thing  criticised  ;  or 
sink  both  into  final  darkness,  which  likewise 
will  be  the  truth  as  regards  them.  But  there 
is  one  censure  which  we  must  advert  to  for  a 
monnent,  so  singular  does  it  seem  to  us.  Meis- 
ter, it  appears,  is  a  "  vulgar"  work  ;  no  "  gen- 
tleman,"  we  hear  in  certain  circles,  could  have 
written  it ;  few  real  gentlemen,  it  is  insinuated, 
can  like  to  read  it ;  no  real  lady,  unless  pos- 
sessed of  considerable  courage,  should  profess 
having  read  it  at  all.  Of  Goethe's  "  gentility" 
we  shall  leave  all  men  to  speak  that  have  any, 
even  the  faintest  knowledge  of  him  ;  and  with 
regard  to  the  gentility  of  his  readers,  state  only 
the  following  fact.  Most  of  us  have  heard  of 
the  late  Queen  of  Prussia,  and  know  whether 
or  not  she  was  genteel  enough,  and  of  real 
ladyhood :  nay,  if  we  must  prove  every  thing, 
her  character  can  be  read  in  the  Life  of  Napo- 
leon, by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  passes  fpr  a 
judge  of  those  matters.  And  yet  this  is  whajt  we 
find  written  in  the  Kunst  und  Mterthum  for  1$24.* 


*  Band  v.  s.  8. 


"  Books,  too,  have  their  past  happiness, 
which  no  chance  can  take  away : 

Wer  nie  sein  Brod  mit  Thriinen  ass, 
Wer  nicht  die  kumrnervollen  JVcichte 
Auf  seinem  Bette  weinend  sass, 
Der  kennt  euch  nicht,  ihr  himmlischen  Jilclchte.  * 

"  These  heart-broken  lines  a  highly  noble- 
minded,  venerated  Queen  repeated  in  the  crud- 
est exile,  when  cast  forth  to  boundless  misery. 
She  made  herself  familiar  with  the  Book  in 
which  these  words,  with  many  other  painful 
experiences,  are  communicated,  and  drew  from 
it  a  melancholy  consolation.  This  influence, 
stretching  of  itself  into  boundless  time,  what  is 
there  that  can  obliterate  V 

Here  are  strange  diversities  of  taste ;  "  na- 
tional discrepancies"  enough,  had  we  time  to 
investigate  them  !  Nevertheless,  wishing  each 
party  to  retain  his  own  special  persuasions,  so 
far  as  they  are  honest,  and  adapted  to  his  in- 
tellectual position,  national  or  individual,  we 
cannot  but  believe  that  there  is  an  inward  and 
essential  Truth  in  Art;  a  Truth  far  deeper 
than  the  dictates  of  mere  Mode,  and  which, 
could  we  pierce  through  these  dictates,  would 
be  true  for  all  nations  and  all  men.  To  arrive 
at  this  Tn*th,  distant  from  every  one  at  first, 
approachable  by  most,  attainable  by  some 
small  number,  is  the  end  and  aim  of  all  real 
study  of  Poetry.  For  such  a  purpose,  among 
others,  the  comparison  of  English  with  foreign 
judgment,  on  works  that  will  bear  judging, 
forms  no  unprofitable  help.  Some  day,  we 
may  translate  Friedrich  Schlegel's  Essay  on 
Meister,  by  way  of  contrast  to  our  English  ani- 
madversions on  that  subject.  Schlegel's  praise, 
whatever  ours  might  do,  rises  sufficiently  high : 
neither  does  ^e  seem,  during  twenty  years,  to 
have  repented  of  what  he  said ;  for  we  observe 
in  the  edition  of  his  works,  at  present  publish- 
ing, he  repeats  the  whole  Character,  and  even 
appends  to  it,  in  a  separate  sketch,  some  new 
assurances  and  elucidations. 

It  may  deserve  to  be  mentioned  here  that 
Meister,  at  its  first  appearance  in  Germany,  was 
received  very  much  as  it  has  been  in  England. 
Goethe's  known  character,  indeed,  precluded 
indifference  there;  but  otherwise  it  was  much 
the  same.  The  whole  guild  of  criticism  was 
thrown  into  perplexity,  into  sorrow  ;  every- 
where was  dissatisfaction  open  or  concealed. 
Official  duty  impelling  them  to  speak,  some 
said  one  thing,  some  another;  all  felt  in  secret 
that  they  knew  not  what  to  say.  Till  the  ap- 
pearance of  Schlegel's  Character,  no  word,  that 
we  have  seen,  of  the  smallest  chance  to  be  de- 
cisive, or  indeed  to  last  beyond  the  day,  had 
been  uttered  regarding  it.  Some  regretted  that 
the  fire  of  Werter  was  so  wonderfully  abated; 
whisperings  there  might  be  about  "  lowness," 
"  heaviness  ;"  some  spake  forth  boldly  in  be- 
half of  suffering  "  virtue."  Novalis  was  not 
among  the  speakers,  but  he  censured  the  work 
in  secret,  and  this  for  a  reason  which  to  us 
will  seem  the  strangest;  for  its  being,  as  we 
should  say,  a  Benthamite  work!  Many  are 
the  bitter  aphorisms  we  find,  among  his  Frag- 


*  Who  never  ate  his  bread  in  sorrow  ; 

Who  never  spent  the  darksome  hours 
Weeping  and  watchinjj  for  the  morrow, 

He  knows  you  not,  ye  unseen  Powers. 

Wilhelm  Meister,  book  11.  chap.  13. 


GOETHE. 


86 


ments,  directed  against  Meister  for  its  prosaic, 
mechanical,  economical,  cold-hearted,  alto- 
gether Utilitarian  character.  We  English 
again  call  Goethe  a  mystic  :  so  difficult  is  it  to 
please  all  parties  !  But  the  good,  deep,  nobl.^ 
Novalis  made  the  fairest  amends  ;  for  notwith- 
standing all  this,  Tieck  tells  us,  if  we  remem- 
ber rightly,  he  regularly  perused  Meister  twice 
a  year. 

On  a  somewhat  different  ground,  proceeded 
quite  another  sort  of  assault  from  one  Pust- 
kucher  of  Quedlinburg.  Herr  Pustkucher  felt 
afflicted,  it  would  seem,  at  the  want  of  Patriot- 
ism and  Religion  too  manifest  in  Meister  j  and 
determined  to  take  what  vengeance  he  could. 
By  way  of  sequel  to  the  Apprenticeship,  Goethe 
had  announced  his  Wllhelm  Meisters  Wander- 
jahre*  as  in  a  state  of  preparation ;  but  the 
book  still  lingered:  whereupon,  in  the  interim, 
forth  comes  this  Pustkucher  with  a  pseudo- 
Wanderjahre  of  his  own  ;  satirizing,  according 
to  ability,  the  spirit  and  principles  of  the  Jp- 
prenticeship.  We  have  seen  an  epigram  on 
Pustkucker  and  his  Wanderjahre,  attributed, 
with  what  justice  we  know  not,  to  Goethe  him- 
self; whether  it  is  his  or  not,  it  is  written  in 
his  name ;  and  seems  to  express  accurately 
enough  for  such  a  purpose  the  relation  between 
the  parties, — in  language  which  we  had  rather 
not  translate : 

Will  denn  von  Quedlinburg  aus 
Ein  neuer  Wanderer  traben  ? 
Hat  dock  die  Wallfiseh  seine  Laus, 
Muss  auch  die  meine  haben. 

So  much  for  Pustkucher,  and  the  rest.  The 
true  Wanderjahre  has  at  length  appeared :  the 
first  volume  has  been  before  the  world  since 
1821.  This  fragment,  for  it  still  continues 
such,  is  in  our  view  one  of  the  most  perfect 
pieces  of  composition  that  Goethe  has  ever 
produced.  We  have  heard  something  of  his 
being  at  present  engaged  in  extending  or  com- 
pleting it :  what  the  whole  may  in  his  hands 
become,  we  are  anxious  to  see ;  but  the 
Wanderjahre,  even  in  its  actual  state,  can 
hardly  be  called  unfinished,  as  a  piece  of 
writing;  it  coheres  so  beautifully  within  it- 
self; and  yet  we  see  not  whence  the  wonder- 
ous  landscape  came,  or  whither  it  is  stretch- 
ing; but  it  hangs  before  us  as  a  fairy  region, 
hiding  its  borders  on  this  side  in  light  sunny 
clouds,  fading  away  on  that  into  the  infinite 
azure:  already,  we  might  almost  say,  it  gives 
us  the  notion  of  a  completed  fragment,  or  the 
state  in  which  a  fragment,  not  meant  for  com- 
pletion, might  be  left. 

But  apart  from  its  environment,  and  con- 
sidered merely  in  itself,  this  Wanderjahre  seems 
to  us  a  most  estimable  work.  There  is,  in 
truth,  a  singular  gracefulness  in  it;  a  high, 
melodious  Wisdom ;  so  light  is  it,  yet  so  earn- 

*"  Wanderjahre  Aeno\.es  the  period  which  a  German 
artisan  is,  by  law  or  usage,  oblijred  to  pass  in  travelling, 
to  perfect  himself  in  his  craft,  after  the  conclusion  of  his 
Lehriahre  (Apprenticeship),  and  before  his  Mastership 
can  begin.  In  many  guilds  this  ciistoni  is  as  old  as  their 
existence,  and  continues  still  to  be  indispensable  :  it  is 
said  to  have  originated  in  the  frequent  journeys  of  the 
German  Emperors  to  Italy,  and  the  consequent  improve- 
ment observed  in  such  workmen  among  their  menials  as 
had  attended  them  thither.  Most  of  the  guilds  are  what 
is  caWed.  geschenkten,  that  is,  presenting,  having  presents 
to  give  to  needy  wandering  brothers." 


est ;  so  calm,  so  gay,  yet  so  strong  and  deep : 
for  the  purest  spirit  of  all  Art  rests  over  it  and 
breathes  through  it ;  "  mild  Wisdom  is  wedded 
in  living  union  to  Harmony  divine;"  the 
Thought  of  the  Sage  is  melted,  we  might  say, 
and  incorporated  in  the  liquid  music  of  the 
Poet.  "  It  is  called  a  Romance,"  observes  the 
English  Translator ;  "  but  it  treats  not  of  ro- 
mance characters  or  subjects  ;  it  has  less  re- 
lation to  Fielding's  Tom  Jones,  than  to  Spenser's 
Faery  Queen.'*  We  have  not  forgotten  what  is 
due  to  Spenser ;  yet,  perhaps,  beside  his  im- 
mortal allegory  this  Wanderjahre  may,  in  fact, 
not  unfairly  be  named ;  and  with  this  advan- 
tage, that  it  is  an  allegory,  not  of  the  Seven- 
teenth century,  but  of  the  Nineteenth ;  a  pic- 
ture full  of  expressiveness,  of  what  men  are 
striving  for,  and  ought  to  strive  for  in  these 
actual  days.  "The  scene,"  we  are  further 
told,  "  is  not  laid  on  this  firm  earth  ;  but  in  a 
fair  Utopia  of  Art  and  Science  and  free  Activity; 
the  figures,  light  and  aeriform,  come  unlooked 
for,  and  melt  away  abruptly,  like  the  pageants 
of  Prospero,  in  his  Enchanted  Island."  We 
venture  to  add,  that,  like  Prospero's  Island, 
this  too  is  drawn  from  the  inward  depths,  the 
purest  sphere  of  poetic  inspiration :  ever,  as 
we  read  it,  the  images  of  old  Italian  Art  flit 
before  us  ;  the  gay  tints  of  Titian  ;  the  quaint 
grace  of  Domenichino;  sometimes  the  clear, 
yet  unfathomable  depth  of  Rafaelle ;  and  what- 
ever else  we  have  known  or  dreamed  of  in 
that  rich  old  genial  world. 

As  it  is  Goethe's  moral  sentiments,  and  cul- 
ture as  a  man,  that  we  have  made  our  chief 
object  in  this  survey,  we  would  fain  give  some 
adequate  specimen  of  the  Wanderjahre,  where, 
as  appears  to  us,  these  are  to  be  traced  in  their 
last  degree  of  clearness  and  completeness. 
But  to  do  this,  to  find  a  specimen  that  should 
be  adequate,  were  difficult,  or  rather  impossible. 
How  shall  we  divide  what  is  in  itself  one  and 
indivisible  1  How  shall  the  fraction  of  a  com- 
plex picture  give  us  any  idea  of  the  so  beauti- 
ful whole  ]  Nevertheless,  we  shall  refer  our 
readers  to  the  Tenth  and  Eleventh  Chapters  of 
the  Wanderjahre ;  where  in  poetic  and  symbolic 
style,  they  will  find  a  sketch  of  the  nature, 
objects,  and  present  ground  of  Religious  Belief, 
which,  if  they  have  ever  reflected  duly  on  that 
matter,  will  hardly  fail  to  interest  them.  They 
will  find  these  chapters,  if  we  mistake  not, 
worthy  of  deep  consideration ;  for  this  is  the 
merit  of  Goethe :  his  maxims  will  bear  study, 
nay,  they  require  it,  and  improve  by  it  more 
and  more.  They  come  from  the  depths  of  his 
mind,  and  are  not  in  their  place  till  they  have 
reached  the  depths  of  ours.  The  wisest  man, 
we  believe,  may  see  in  them  a  reflex  of  his  own 
wisdom:  but  to  him  who  is  still  learning,  they 
become  as  seeds  of  knowledge ;  they  take  root 
in  the  mind,  and  ramify,  as  we  meditate  them, 
into  a  whole  garden  of  thought.  The  sketch 
we  mentioned  is  far  too  long  for  being  extracted 
here :  however,  we  give  some  scattered  portions 
of  it,  which  the  reader  will  accept  with  fair 
allowance.  As  the  wild  suicidal  Night-thoughts 
of  Wer!er  formed  our  first  extract,  this  by  way 
of  counterpart  may  be  the  last.  We  must 
fancy  Wilhelm  in  the  "  Pedagogic  province," 
proceeding  towards  the  *•  Chief,  or  the  Thbke," 
H 


86 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


with  intent  to  place  his  son  under  their  charge, 
in  that  wonderful  region,  "  where  he  was  to  see 
so  many  singularities." 

"Wilhelm  had  already  noticed  that  in  the 
cut  and  colour  of  the  young  people's  clothes,  a 
variety  prevailed,  which  gave  the  whole  tiny 
population  a  peculiar  aspect :  he  was  about  to 
question  his  attendant  on  this  point,  when  a 
still  stranger  observation  forced  itself  upon 
him ;  all  the  children,  how  employed  soever, 
laid  down  their  work,  and  turned,  with  singular 
yet  diverse  gestures,  towards  the  party  riding 
past  them ;  or  rather,  as  it  was  easy  to  infer, 
towards  the  Overseer,  who  was  in  it.  The 
youngest  laid  their  arms  crosswise  over  their 
breasts  and  looked  cheerfully  up  to  the  sky ; 
those  of  middle  size  held  their  hands  on  their 
backs,  and  looked  smiling  on  the  ground ;  the 
eldest  stood  with  a  frank  and  spirited  air ;  their 
arms  stretched  down,  they  turned  their  heads 
to  the  right,  and  formed  themselves  into  a  line; 
whereas  the  others  kept  separate,  each  where 
he  chanced  to  be. 

"  The  riders  having  stopped  and  dismounted 
here,  as  several  children,  in  their  various 
modes,  were  standing  forth  to  be  inspected  by 
the  Overseer,  Wilhelm  asked  the  meaning  of 
these  gestures ;  but  Felix  struck  in  and  cried 
gaily:  'What  posture  am  I  to  take  then?' 
*  Without  doubt,'  said  the  Overseer,  *  the  first 
posture ;  the  arms  over  the  breast,  the  face 
earnest  and  cheerful  towards  the  sky.'  Felix 
obeyed,  but  soon  cried :  '  This  is  not  much  to 
my  taste ;  I  see  nothing  up  there :  does  it  last 
long?  But  yes  !'  exclaimed  he  joyfully,  *  yon- 
der are  a  pair  of  falcons  flying  from  the  west 
to  the  east;  that  is  a  good  sign  tool' — *  As 
thou  takest  it,  as  thou  behavest,'  said  the  other  : 
'Now  mingle  among  them  as  they  mingle.' 
He  gave  a  signal,  and  the  children  left  their 
postures,  and  again  betook  them  to  work  or 
sport  as  before." 

Wilhelm  a  second  time  "  asks  the  meaning 
of  these  gestures ;"  but  the  Overseer  is  not  at 
liberty  to  throw  much  light  on  the  matter; 
mentions  only  that  they  are  symbolical,  •'no- 
wise mere  grimaces,  but  have  a  moral  purport, 
which  perhaps  the  Chief  or  the  Three  may 
further  explain  to  him."  The  children  them- 
selves, it  would  seem,  only  know  it  in  part; 
"  secrecy  having  many  advantages  ;  for  when 
you  tell  a  man  at  once  and  straight  forward 
the  purpose  of  any  object,  he  fancies  there  is 
nothing  in  it."  By  and  by,  however,  having 
left  Felix  by  the  way,  and  parted  with  the 
Overseer,  Wilhelm  arrives  at  the  abode  of  the 
Three  "  who  preside  over  sacred  things,"  and 
from  whom  further  satisfaction  is  to  be  looked 
for. 

"  Wilhelm  had  now  reached  the  gate  of  a 
wooded  vale,  surrounded  with  high  walls  :  on 
a  certain  sign,  the  little  door  opened  and  a 
man  of  earnest,  imposing  look  received  our 
traveller.  The  latter  found  himself  in  a  large 
beautifully  umbrageous  space,  decked  with  the 
richest  foliage,  shaded  with  trees  and  bushes 
of  all  sorts  ;  while  stately  walls  and  magnificent 
buildings  were  discerned  only  in  glimpses 
through  this  thick  natural  boscage.  A  friendly 
reception  from  the  Three,  who  by  and  by  ap- 
peared, at  last  turned  into  a  general  conversa- 


tion, the  substance  of  which  we  now  present 
in  an  abbreviated  shape. 

"'Since  you  intrust  your  son  to  us,'  said 
they,  'it  is  fair  that  we  admit  you  to  a  closer 
view  of  our  procedure.  Of  what  is  external 
you  have  seen  much  that  does  not  bear  its 
meaning  on  its  front.  What  part  of  this  do 
you  wish  to  have  explained  V 

"'Dignified  yet  singular  gestures  of  saluta- 
tion I  have  noticed;  the  import  of  which  I 
would  gladly  learn :  with  you,  doubtless,  the 
exterior  has  a  reference  to  the  interior,  and 
inversely :  let  me  know  what  this  reference  is.' 

"  'Well-formed  healthy  children,'  replied  the 
Three, '  bring  much  into  the  world  along  with 
them ;  nature  has  given  to  each  whatever  he 
requires  for  time  and  duration ;  to  unfold  this 
is  our  duty;  often  it  unfolds  itself  better  of  its 
own  accord.  One  thing  there  is,  however, 
which  no  child  brings  into  the  world  with  him ; 
and  yet  it  is  on  this  one  thing  that  all  depends 
for  making  man  in  every  point  a  man.  If  you 
can  discover  it  yourself,  speak  it  out.'  Wil- 
helm thought  a  little  while,  then  shook  his 
head. 

"The  Three,  after  a  suitable  pause,  ex- 
claimed, '  Reverence  !'  Wilhelm  seemed  to 
hesitate.  '  Reverence !'  cried  they,  a  second 
time.    *  All  want  it,  perhaps  yourself.' 

'"Three  kinds  of  gestures  you  have  seen; 
and  we  inculcate  a  threefold  reverence,  which 
when  commingled  and  formed  into  one  whole, 
attains  its  full  force  and  effect.  The  first  is 
Reverence  for  what  is  Above  us.  That  pos- 
ture, the  arms  crossed  over  the  breast,  the  look 
turned  joyfully  towards  heaven  ;  that  is  what 
we  have  enjoined  on  young  children  ;  requiring 
from  them  thereby  a  testimony  that  there  is  a 
God  above,  who  images  and  reveals  himself  "in 
parents,  teachers,  superiors.  Then  comes  the 
second;  Reverence  for  what  is  Under  us. 
Those  hands  folded  over  the  back,  and  as  it 
were  tied  together,  that  down-turned  smiling 
look,  announce  that  we  are  to  regard  the  earth 
with  attention  and  cheerfulness :  from  the 
bounty  of  the  earth  we  are  nourished  :  the  earth 
aflfords  unutterable  joys ;  but  disproportionate 
sorrows  she  also  brings  us.  Should  one  of 
our  children  do  himself  external  hurt,  blamably 
or  blamelessly;  should  others  hurt  him  acci- 
dentally or  purposely;  should  dead  involuntary 
matter  do  him  hurt;  then  let  him  well  con- 
sider it;  for  such  dangers  will  attend  him  all 
his  days.  But  from  this  posture  we  delay  not 
to  free  our  pupil,  the  instant  we  become  con- 
vinced that  the  instruction  connected  with  it 
has  produced  sufficient  influence  on  him. 
Then,  on  the  contrary,  we  bid  him  gather 
courage,  and,  turning  to  his  comrades,  range 
himself  along  with  them.  Now,  at  last,  he 
stands  forth,  frank  and  bold;  not  selfishly 
isolated;  only  in  combination  with  his  equals 
does  he  front  the  world.  Further  we  have 
nothing  to  add.' 

"  <  I  see  a  glimpse  of  it !'  said  Wilhelm.  *  Are 
not  the  mass  of  men  so  marred  and  stinted 
because  they  take  pleasure  only  in  the  element 
of  evil-wishing  and  evil-speaking?  Whoever 
gives  himself  to  this,  soon  comes  to  be  indif- 
ferent towards  God,  contemptuous  towards  the 
world,  spiteful  towards  his  equals ;  and  the  true, 


GOETHE. 


87 


genuine,  indispensable  sentiment  of  self-esti- 
mation corrupts  into  self-conceit  and  presump- 
tion. Allow  me,  however,'  continued  he,  '  to 
state  one  difficulty.  You  say  that  reverence  is 
not  natural  to  man  :  now  has  not  the  reverence 
or  fear  of  rude  people  for  violent  convulsions 
of  nature,  or  other  inexplicable  mysteriously 
foreboding  occurrences,  been  heretofore  re- 
garded as  the  germ  out  of  which  a  higher  feel- 
ing, a  purer  sentiment,  was  by  degrees  to  be 
developed  1' 

"  *  Nature  is  indeed  adequate  to  fear,'  replied 
they,  *  but  to  reverence  not  adequate.  Men  fear 
a  known  or  unknown  powerful  being;  the 
strong  seeks  to  conquer  it,  the  weak  to  avoid 
it :  both  endeavour  to  get  quit  of  it,  and  feel 
themselves  happy  when  for  a  short  season 
they  have  put  it  aside,  and  their  nature  has  in 
some  degree  restored  itself  to  freedom  and  in- 
dependence. The  natural  man  repeats  this 
operation  millions  of  times  in  the  course  of 
his  life ;  from  fear  he  struggles  to  freedom ; 
from  freedom  he  is  driven  back  to  fear,  and  so 
makes  no  advancement.  To  fear  is  easy,  but 
grievous ;  to  reverence  is  difficult,  but  satis- 
factory. Man  does  not  willingly  submit  himself 
to  reverence,  or  rather  he  never  so  submits  him- 
self:  it  is  a  higher  sense  which  must  be  com- 
municated to  his  nature  ;  which  only  in  some 
favoured  individuals  unfolds  itself  spontane- 
ously, who  on  this  account  too  have  of  old  been 
looked  upon  as  Saints  and  Gods.  Here  lies 
the  worth,  here  lies  the  business  of  all  true 
Religions,  whereof  there  are  likewise  only 
three,  according  to  the  objects  towards  which 
they  direct  our  devotion.' 

"  The  men  paused ;  Wilhelm  reflected  for  a 
time  in  silence;  but  feeling  in  himself  no  pre- 
tensions to  unfold  these  strange  words,  he  re- 
quested the  Sages  to  proceed  with  their  expo- 
sition. They  immediately  complied.  *  No 
Religion  that  grounds  itself  on  fear,'  said  they, 
*  is  regarded  among  us.  With  the  reverence 
to  which  a  man  should  give  dominion  in  his 
mind,  he  can,  in  paying  honour,  keep  his  own 
honour;  he  is  not  disunited  with  himself  as  in 
the  former  case.  The  Religion,  which  depends 
on  Reverence  for  what  is  Above  us,  we  deno- 
minate the  Ethnic ;  it  is  the  Religion  of  the 
Nations,  and  the  first  happy  deliverance  from 
a  degrading  fear;  all  Heathen  religions,  as  we 
call  them,  are  of  this  sort,  whatsoever  names 
they  may  bear.  The  Second  Religion,  which 
founds  itself  on  Reverence  for  what  is  Around 
us,  we  denominate  the  Philosophical;  for  the 
Philosopher  stations  himself  in  the  middle, 
and  must  draw  down  to  him  all  that  is  higher, 
and  up  to  him  all  that  is  lower,  and  only  in  this 
medium  condition  does  he  merit  the  title  of 
Wise.  Here,  as  he  surveys  with  clear  sight 
his  relation  to  his  equals,  and  therefore  to  the 
whole  human  race,  his  relation  likewise  to  all 
other  earthly  circumstances  and  arrangements 
necessary  or  accidental,  he  alone,  in  a  cosmic 
sense,  lives  in  Truth.  But  now  we  have  to 
speak  of  the  Third  Religion,  grounded  on  Re- 
verence for  what  is  Under  us ;  this  we  name 
the  Christian;  as  in  the  Christian  Religion 
such  a  temper  is  the  most  distinctly  manifest- 
ed ;  it  is  a  last  step  to  which  mankind  were 
fitted  and  destined  to  attain.    But  what  a  task 


was  it  not  only  to  be  patient  with  the  Earth, 
and  let  it  lie  beneath  us,  we  appealing  to  a 
higher  birthplace ;  but  also  to  recognise  hu- 
mility and  poverty,  mockery  and  despite,  dis- 
grace and  wretchedness,  suffering  and  death, 
to  recognise  these  things  as  divine;  nay,  even 
on  sin  and  crime  to  look  not  as  hindrances, 
but  to  honour  and  love  them  as  furtherances, 
of  what  is  holy.  Of  this,  indeed,  we  find  some 
traces  in  all  ages ;  but  the  trace  is  not  the  goal ; 
and  this  being  now  attained,  the  human  spe- 
cies cannot  retrograde ;  and  we  may  say  that 
the  Christian  Religion,  having  once  appeared, 
cannot  again  vanish  ;  having  once  assumed  its 
divine  shape,  can  be  subject  to  no  dissolution.' 

" '  To  which  of  these  Religions  do  you  spe- 
cially adhere  V  inquired  Wilhelm. 

" '  To  all  the  three,'  replied  they,  *  for  in  their 
union  they  produce  what  may  properly  be 
called  the  true  Religion.  Out  of  those  three 
Reverences  springs  the  highest  Reverence,  Re- 
verence for  One's  self,  and  these  again  unfold 
themselves  from  this  ;  so  that  man  attains  the 
highest  elevation  of  which  he  is  capable,  that 
of  being  justified  in  reckoning  himself  the  Best 
that  God  and  Nature  have  produced ;  nay,  of 
being  able  to  continue  on  this  lofty  eminence, 
without  being  again  by  self-conceit  and  pre- 
sumption drawn  down  from  it  into  the  vulgar 
level.' " 

The  Three  undertake  to  admit  him  into  the 
interior  of  their  Sanctuary ;  whither,  accord- 
ingly, he,  "  at  the  hand  of  the  Eldest,"  proceeds 
on  the  morrow.  Sorry  are  we  that  we  cannot 
follow  them  into  the  "  octagonal  hall,"  so  full 
of  paintings,  and  the  "gallery  open  on  one 
side,  and  stretching  round  a  spacious,  gay^ 
flowery  garden."  It  is  a  beautiful  figurative  re- 
presentation, by  pictures  and  symbols  of  Art, 
of  the  First  and  the  Second  Religions,  the  Ethnic 
and  the  Philosophical ;  for  the  former  of  which 
the  pictures  have  been  composed  from  the  Old 
Testament ;  for  the  latter  from  the  New.  We 
can  only  make  room  for  some  small  portions. 

"*I  observe,'  said  Wilhelm,  'you  have  done 
the  Israelites  the  honour  to  select  their  history 
as  the  groundwork  of  this  delineation,  or  ra- 
ther you  have  made  it  the  leading  object  there.*" 

"*  As  you  see,'  replied  the  Eldest;  'for  you  will 
remark,  that  on  the  socles  and  friezes  we  have 
introduced  another  series  of  transactions  and. 
occurrences,  not  so  much  of  a  synchronistic  as 
of  a  symphronistic  kind;  since,  among  all  na- 
tions, we  discover  records  of  a  similar  import,, 
and  grounded  on  the  same  facts.  Thus  you 
perceive  here,  while,  in  the  main  field  of  the 
picture,  Abraham  receives  a  visit  from  his 
gods  in  the  form  of  fair  youths,  Apollo  among: 
the  herdsmen  of  Admetus  is  painted  above  on 
the  frieze.  From  which  we  may  learn,  that 
the  gods,  when  they  appear  to  men,  are  com- 
monly unrecognised  of  them.' 

"  The  friends  walked  on.  Wilhelm,  for  the 
most  part,  met  with  well-known  objects ;  but 
they  were  here  exhibited  in  a  livelier,  more 
expressive  manner,  than  he  had  been  used  to 
see  them.  On  some  few  matters,  he  requested 
explanation,  and  at  last  could  not  help  return- 
ing to  his  former  question  :  '  Why  the  Isra- 
elitish  history  had  been  chosen  in  preference 
to  aU  others  r 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


"  The  Eldest  answered:  'Among  all  Heathen 
religions,  for  such  also  is  the  Israelitish,  this 
has  the  most  distinguished  advantages;  of 
which  I  shall  mention  only  a  few.  At  the  Eth- 
nic judgment-seat,  at  the  judgment-seat  of  the 
God  of  Nations,  it  is  not  asked  whether  this  is 
best,  the  most  excellent  nation  ;  but  whether  it 
lasts,  whether  it  has  continued.  The  Isra- 
elitish people  never  was  good  for  much,  as  its 
own  leaders,  judges,  rulers,  prophets,  have  a 
thousand  times  reproachfully  declared ;  it  pos- 
sesses few  virtues,  and  most  of  the  faults  of 
other  nations  :  but  in  cohesion,  steadfastness, 
valour,  and,  when  all  this  would  not  serve,  in 
obstinate  toughness,  it  has  no  match.  It  is  the 
most  perseverant  nation  in  the  world  ;  it  is,  it 
was,  and  it  will  be,  to  glorify  the  name  of  Je- 
hovah through  all  ages.  We  have  set  it  up, 
therefore,  as  the  pattern  figure;  as  the  main 
figure,  to  which  the  others  only  serve  as  a 
frame.' 

"*It  becomes  not  me  to  dispute  with  you,' 
said  Wilhelm,  'since  you  have  instruction  to 
impart.  Open  to  me,  therefore,  the  other  ad- 
vantages of  this  people,  or  rather  of  its  history, 
of  its  religion.' 

" '  One  chief  advantage,'  said  the  other,  '  is 
its  excellent  collection  of  Sacred  Books.  These 
stand  so  happily  combined  together,  that  even 
out  of  the  most  diverse  elements,  the  feeling 
of  a  whole  still  rises  before  us.  They  are  com- 
plete enough  to  satisfy;  fragmentary  enough 
to  excite  ;  barbarous  enough  to  rouse  ;  tender 
enough  to  appease ;  and  for  many  other  con- 
tradicting merits  might  not  these  Books,  might 

jiot  this  one  Book,  be  praised  V 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  Thus  wandering  on,  they  had  now  reached 
the  gloomy  and  perplexed  periods  of  the  His- 
tory, the  destruction  of  the  City  and  the  Temple, 
the  murder,  exile,  slavery  of  whole  masses  of 
this  stiff-necked  people.  Its  subsequent  for- 
tunes were  delineated  in  a  cunning  allegorical 
way;  a  real  historical  delineation  of  them 
'Would  have  lain  without  the  limits  of  true  Art. 

"  At  this  point,  the  gallery  abruptly  termi- 
nated in  a  closed  door,  and  Wilhelm  was  sur- 
prised to  see  himself  already  at  the  end.  '  In 
your  historical  series,'  said  he,  'I  find  a  chasm. 
You  have  destroyed  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem, 
and  dispersed  the  people ;  yet  you  have  not  in- 
troduced the  divine  Man  who  taught  there 
shortly  before;  to  whom,  shortly  before,  they 
would  give  no  ear.' 

"'To  have  done  this,  as  you  require  it, 
would  have  been  an  error.  The  life  of  that 
divine  Man,  whom  you  allude  to,  stands  in  no 
connection  with  the  general  history  of  the 
world  in  his  time.  It  was  a  private  life ;  his 
teaching  was  a  teaching  for  individuals.  What 
has  publicly  befallen  vast  masses  of  people, 
and  the  minor  parts  which  compose  them,  be- 
longs to  the  general  History  of  the  World,  to 
the  general  Religion  of  the  World ;  the  Reli- 
gion we  have  named  the  First.  What  inwardly 
befalls  individuals  belongs  to  the  Second  Re- 
ligion, the  Philosophical :  such  a  Religion 
was  it  that  Christ  taught  and  practised,  so  long 
as  he  went  about  on  earth.  For  this  reason, 
Ihe  external  here  closes,  and  I  now  open  to 
you  the  internal.' 


"A  door  went  back,  and  they  entered  a 
similar  gallery;  where  Wilhelm  soon  recog- 
nised a  corresponding  series  of  Pictures  from 
the  New  Testament.  They  seemed  as  if  by 
another  hand  than  the  first:  all  was  softer; 
forms,  movements,  accompaniments,  light,  and 
colouring." 

Into  this  second  gallery,  with  its  strange 
doctrine  about  "Miracles  and  Parables,"  the 
characteristic  of  the  Philosophical  Religion, 
we  cannot  enter  for  the  present,  yet  must  give 
one  hurried  glance.  Wilhelm  expresses  some 
surprise  that  these  delineations  terminate 
"with  the  Supper,  with  the  scene  where  the 
Master  and  his  Disciples  part."  He  inquires 
for  the  remaining  portion  of  the  history. 

'"In  all  sorts  of  instruction,'  said  the  Eldest, 
'  in  all  sorts  of  communication,  we  are  fond 
of  separating  whatever  it  is  possible  to  sepa- 
rate ;  for  by  this  means  alone  can  the  notion 
of  importance  and  peculiar  significance  arise 
in  the  young  mind.  Actual  experience  of  it- 
self mingles  and  mixes  all  things  together: 
here,  accordingly,  we  have  entirely  disjoined 
that  sublime  Man's  life  from  its  termination. 
In  life,  he  appears  as  a  true  Philosopher,-^let 
not  the  expression  stagger  you, — as  a  Wise 
Man  in  the  highest  sense.  He  stands  firm  to 
this  point:  he  goes  on  his  way  inflexibly,  and 
while  he  exalts  the  lower  to  himself,  while  he 
makes  the  ignorant,  the  poor,  the  sick,  par- 
takers of  his  wisdom,  of  his  riches,  of  his 
strength,  he,  on  the  other  hand,  in  nowise  con- 
ceals his  divine  origin ;  he  dares  to  equal 
himself  with  God,  nay,  to  declare  that  he  him- 
self is  God.  In  this  manner  is  he  wont,  from 
youth  upwards,  to  astound  his  familiar  friends  ; 
of  these  he  gains  a  part  to  his  own  cause; 
irritates  the  rest  against  him;  and  shows  to 
all  men,  who  are  aiming  at  a  certain  elevation 
in  doctrine  and  life,  what  they  have  to  look  for 
from  the  world.  And  thus,  for  the  noble  por- 
tion of  mankind,  his  walk  and  conversation 
are  even  more  instructive  and  profitable  than 
his  death :  for  to  those  trials  every  one  is  called, 
to  this  trial  but  a  few.  Now,  omitting  all  that 
results  from  this  consideration,  do  but  look  at 
the  touching  scene  of  the  Last  Supper.  Here 
the  Wise  Man,  as  it  ever  is,  leaves  those,  that 
are  his  own,  utterly  orphaned  behind  him  ; 
aad  while  he  is  careful  for  the  Good,  he  feeds 
along  with  them  a  traitor,  by  whom  he  and 
the  Better  are  to  be  destroyed.' " 

This  seems  to  us  to  have  "  a  deep,  still 
meaning;"  and  the  longer  and  closer  we  ex- 
amine it,  the  more  it  pleases  us.  Wilhelm  is 
not  admitted  into  the  shrine  of  the  Third  Re- 
ligion, the  Christian,  or  that  of  which  Christ's 
sufferings  and  death  were  the  symbols,  as  his 
walk  and  conversation  had  been  the  symbol 
of  the  Second,  or  Philosophical  Religion. 
"That  last  Religion,"  it  is  said,— 

" '  That  last  Religion  which  arises  from  the 
Reverence  of  what  is  Beneath  us ;  that  venera- 
tion of  the  contradictory,  the  hated,  the  avoided, 
we  give  to  each  of  our  pupils,  in  small  por- 
tions, by  way  of  outfit,  along  with  him  into 
the  world,  merely  that  he  may  know  where 
more  is  to  be  had,  should  such  a  want  spring 
up  within  him.  I  invite  you  to  return  hither 
at  the  end  of  a  year,  to  attend  our  general 


GOETHE. 


89 


Festival,  and  see  how  far  your  son  is  advanced : 
then  shall  you  be  admitted  into  the  Sanctuary 
of  Sorrow.' 

" '  Permit  me  one  question,'  said  Wilhelm  : 
*  as  you  have  set  up  the  life  of  this  divine 
Man  for  a  pattern  and  example,  have  you  like- 
wise selected  his  sufferings,  his  death,  as  a 
model  of  exalted  patience  V 

" '  Undoubtedly  we  have,'  replied  the  Eldest. 
'Of  this  we  make  no  secret;  but  we  draw  a 
veil  over  these  sufferings,  even  because  we 
reverence  them  so  highly.  We  hold  it  a  damna- 
ble audacity  to  bring  forth  that  torturing 
Cross,  and  the  Holy  One  who  suffers  on  it,  or 
to  expose  them  to  the  light  of  the  Sun,  which 
hid  its  face  when  a  reckless  world  forced  such 
a  sight  on  it;  to  take  these  mysterious  secrets, 
in  which  the  divine  depth  of  Sorrow  lies  hid, 
and  play  with  them,  fondle  them,  trick  them 
out,  and  rest  not  till  the  most  reverend  of  all 
solemnities  appears  vulgar  and  paltry.  Let 
so  much  for  the  present  suffice — *  *  *  The 
rest  we  must  still  owe  you  for  a  twelvemonth. 
The  instruction,  which  in  the  interim  we  give 
the  children,  no  stranger  is  allowed  to  witness  : 
then,  however,  come  to  us,  and  you  will  hear 
what  our  best  Speakers  think  it  serviceable  to 
make  public  on  those  matters.'  " 

Could  we  hope  that,  in  its  present  disjointed 
state,  this  emblematic  sketch  would  rise  before 
the  minds  of  our  readers,  in  any  measure  as  it 
stood  before  the  mind  of  the  writer;  that,  in 
considering  it,  they  might  seize  only  an  out- 
line of  those  many  meanings  which,  at  less  or 
greater  depth,  lie  hidden  under  it,  we  should 
anticipate  their  thanks  for  having,  a  first  or  a 
second  time,  brought  it  before  them.  As  it  is, 
believing  that  to  open-minded,  truth-seeking 
men,  the  deliberate  words  of  an  open-minded, 
truth-seeking  man  can  in  no  case  be  wholly 
unintelligible,  nor  the  words  of  such  a  man  as 
Goethe  indifferent,  we  have  transcribed  it  for 
their  perusal.  If  we  induce  them  to  turn  to 
the  original,  and  study  this  in  its  completeness, 
with  so  much  else  that  environs  it,  and  bears 
on  it,  they  will  thank  us  still  more.  To  our 
own  judgment,  at  least,  there  is  a  fine  and  pure 
significance  in  this  whole  delineation:  such 
phrases  even  as  "the  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow," 
"the  divine  depth  of  Sorrow,"  have  of  them- 
selves pathetic  wisdom  for  us;  as  indeed  a 
tone  of  devoutness,  of  calm,  mild,  priestlike 
dignity  pervades  the  whole.  In  a  time  like 
ours,  it  is  rare  to  see,  in  the  writings  of  culti- 
vated men,  any  opinion  whatever,  bearing  any 
mark  of  sincerity,  on  such  a  subject  as  this  : 
yet  it  is  and  continues  the  highest  subject,  and 
ihey  that  are  highest  are  most  fit  for  studying 
it,  and  helping  others  to  study  it. 

Goethe's  Wanderjahre  was  published  in  his 
seventy-second  year;  Wertcr  inhis  twenty-fifth: 
thus  in  passing  between  these  two  works,  and 
over  Mcislers  Lehrjahre,  which  stands  nearly 
midway,  we  have  glanced  over  a  space  of 
almost  fifty  years,  including  within  them,  of 
course,  whatever  was  most  important  in  his 
public  or  private  history.  By  means  of  these 
quotations,  so  diverse  in  their  tone,  we  meant 
to  make  it  visible  that  a  great  change  had 
taken  place  in  the  moral  disposition  of  the 
man ;  a  change  from  inward  imprisonment, 
12 


doubt,  and  discontent,  into  freedom,  belief,  and 
clear  ajctivity :  such  a  change  as,  in  our  opinion, 
must  take  place,  more  or  less  consciously, 
in  every  character  that,  especially  in  these 
times,  attains  to  spiritual  manhood;  and  in 
characters  possessing  any  ihoughtfulness  and 
sensibility,  will  seldom  take  place  without  a 
too  painful  consciousness,  without  bitter  con- 
flicts, in  which  the  character  itself  is  too  often 
maimed  and  impoverished,  and  which  end  too 
often  not  in  victory,  but  in  defeat,  or  fatal 
compromise  with  the  enemy.  Too  often,  we 
may  well  say;  for  though  many  gird  on  the 
harness,  few  bear  it  warrior-like ;  still  fewer 
put  it  off  with  triumph.  Among  our  own  poets, 
Byron  was  almost  the  only  man  we  saw  faith- 
fully and  manfully  struggling,  to  the  end,  in 
this  cause  ;  and  he  died  while  the  victory  was 
still  doubtful,  or  at  best,  only  beginning  to  be 
gained.  We  have  already  stated  our  opinion, 
that  Goethe's  success  in  this  matter  has  been 
more  complete  than  that  of  any  other  man  in 
his  age;  nay,  that,  in  the  strictest  sense,  he 
may  also  be  called  the  only  one  that  has  so 
succeeded.  On  this  ground,  were  it  on  no 
other,  we  have  ventured  to  say,  that  his  spiritual 
history  and  procedure  must  deserve  attention; 
that  his  opinions,  his  creations,  his  mode  of 
thought,  his  whole  picture  of  the  world  as  it 
dwells  within  him,  must  to  his  contemporaries 
be  an  inquiry  of  no  common  interest;  of  an 
interest  altogether  peculiar,  and  not  in  this 
degree  exampled  in  existing  literature.  These 
things  can  be  but  imperfectly  stated  here,  and 
must  be  left,  not  in  a  state  of  demonstration, 
but,  at  the  utmost,  of  loose  fluctuating  proba- 
bility;  nevertheless,  if  inquired  into,  they  will 
be  found  to  have  a  precise  enough  meaning, 
and,  as  we  believe,  a  highly  important  one. 

For  the  rest,  what  sort  of  mind  it  is  that  has 
passed  through  this  change,  that  has  gained 
this  victory;  how  rich  and  high  a  mind  ;  how 
learned  by  study  in  all  that  is  wisest,  by  expe- 
rience in  all  that  is  most  complex,  the  bright- 
est as  well  as  the  blackest, in  man's  existence; 
gifted  with  what  insight,  with  what  grace 
and  power  of  utterance,  we  shall  not  for 
the  present  attempt  discussing.  All  these  the 
reader  will  learn,  who  studies  his  writings  with 
such  attention  as  they  merit :  and  by  no  other 
means.  Of  Goethe's  dramatic,  lyrical,  didac- 
tic poems,  in  their  thousandfold  expressiveness, 
for  they  are  full  of  expressiveness,  we  can 
here  say  nothing.  But  in  every  department 
of  Literature,  of  Art  ancient  and  modern,  in 
many  provinces  of  Science,  we  shall  often 
meet  him;  and  hope  to  have  other  occasions 
of  estimating  what,  in  these  respects,  we  and 
all  men  owe  him. 

Two  circumstances,  meanwhile  we  have  re- 
marked, which  to  us  throw  light  on  the  nature 
of  his  original  faculty  for  Poetry,  and  go  far 
to  convince  us  of  the  Mastery  he  has  attained 
in  that  art ;  these  we  may  here  state  briefly, 
for  the  judgment  of  such  as  already  know  his 
writings,  or  the  help  of  such  as  are  beginning 
to  know  them.  The  first  is  his  singularly  em- 
blematic intellect;  his  perpetual  never-failing 
tendency  to  transform  into  shape,  into  life,  the 
opinion,  the  feeling  that  may  dwell  in  him; 
which,  in  its  widest  sense,  we  reckon  to  be 
b2 


90 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


essentially  the  grand  problem  of  the  Poet. 
We  do  not  mean  mere  metaphor  and  rheto- 
rical trope :  these  are  but  the  exterior  concern, 
often  but  the  scaffolding  of  the  edifice,  which 
is  to  be  built  up  (within  our  thoughts)  by 
means  of  them.  In  allusions,  in  similitudes, 
though  no  one  known  to  us  is  happier,  many 
are  more  copious,  than  Goethe.  But  we  find 
this  faculty  of  his  in  the  very  essence  of  his 
intellect ;  and  trace  it  alike  in  the  quiet,  cun- 
ning epigram,  the  allegory,  the  quaint  device, 
reminding  us  of  some  Quarles  or  Bunyan ; 
and  in  the  Fausts,  the  Tassos,  the  Mignons,  which, 
in  their  pure  and  genuine  personality,  may  al- 
most remind  us  of  the  Jriels  and  Hamlets  of 
Shakspeare.  Every  thing  has  form,  every  thing 
has  visual  existence ;  the  poet's  imagination 
bodies  forth  the  forms  of  things  unseen,  his  pen 
turns  them  to  shape.  This,  as  a  natural  endow- 
ment, exists  in  Goethe,  we  conceive,  to  a  very 
high  degree. 

The  other  characteristic  of  his  mind,  which 
proves  to  us  his  acquired  mastery  in  art,  as 
this  shows  us  the  extent  of  his  original  capa- 
city for  it,  is  his  wonderful  variety,  nay,  uni- 
versality ;  his  entire  freedom  from  Mannerism. 
We  read  Goethe  for  years  before  we  come  to 
see  wherein  the  distinguishing  peculiarity  of 
his  understanding,  of  his  disposition,  even  of 
his  way  of  writing,  consists.  It  seems  quite  a 
simple  style — that  of  his  ;  remarkable  chiefly 
for  its  calmness,  its  perspicuity,  in  short,  its 
commonness :  and  yet  it  is  the  most  uncom- 
mon of  all  styles :  we  feel  as  if  every  one 
might  imitate  it,  and  yet  it  is  inimitable.  As 
hard  is  it  to  discover  in  his  writings, — though 
there  also,  as  in  every  man's  writings,  the 
character  of  the  writer  must  lie  recorded, — 
what  sort  of  spiritual  construction  he  has, 
what  are  his  temper,  his  affections,  his  indivi- 
dual specialities.  For  all  lives  freely  within 
him  ;  Philina  and  Clarchen,  Mephistopheles 
and  Mignon,  are  alike  indifferent,  or  alike  dear 
to  him  ;  he  is  of  no  sect  or  caste :  he  seems 
not  this  man  or  that  man,  but  a  man.  We 
reckon  this  to  be  the  characteristic  of  a  Mas- 
ter in  Art  of  any  sort ;  and  true  especially  of 
all  great  Poets.  How  true  is  it  of  Shakspeare 
and  Homer !  Who  knows,  or  can  figure  what 
the  Man  Shakspeare  was,  by  the  first,  by  the 
twentieth  perusal  of  his  works  ?  He  is  a 
Voice  coming  to  us  from  the  Land  of  Melody : 
his  old,  brick  dwelling-place,  in  the  mere 
earthly  burgh  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  offers  us 
the  most  inexplicable  enigma.  And  what  is 
Homer  in  the  Ilias?  He  is  the  witness  ;  he 
has  seen,  and  he  reveals  it ;  we  hear  and  be- 
lieve, but  do  not  behold  him.  Now  compare, 
with  these  two  poets,  any  other  two ;  not  of 
equal  genius,  for  there  are  none  such,  but  of 
equal  sincerity,  who  wrote  as  earnestly,  and 
from  the  heart,  like  them.  Take,  for  instance, 
Jean  Paul  and  Lord  Byron.  The  good  Richter 
begins  to  show  himself,  in  his  broad,  massive, 
kindly,  quaint  significance,  before  we  have 
read  many  pages  of  even  his  slightest  work ; 
and  to  the  last,  he  paints  himself  much  better 
than  his  subject.  Byron  may  almost  be  said 
to  have  painted  nothing  else  than  himself,  be 
his  subject  what  it  might.  Yet  as  a  test  for 
the  culture  of  a  Poet,  in  his  poetical  capacity, 


for  his  pretensions  to  mastery  and  complete- 
ness in  his  heart,  we  can  but  reckon  this 
among  the  surest.  Tried  by  this,  there  is  no 
living  writer  that  approaches  within  many 
degrees  of  Goethe. 

Thus,  it  would  seem,  we  consider  Goethe  to 
be  a  richly  educated  Poet,  no  less  than  a  richly 
educated  Man :  a  master  both  of  Humanity, 
and  of  Poetry ;  one  to  whom  Experience  has 
given  true  wisdom,  and  the  "Melodies  Eternal" 
a  perfect  utterance  for  his  wisdom.  Of  the 
particular  form  which  this  humanity,  this 
wisdom  has  assumed;  of  his  opinions,  cha- 
racter, personality, — for  these,  with  whatever 
diflJculty,  are  and  must  be  decipherable  in  his 
writings, — we  had  much  to  say :  but  this  also 
we  must  decline.  In  the  present  state  of  mat- 
ters, to  speak  adequately  would  be  a  task  too 
hard  for  us,  and  one  in  which  our  readers 
could  afford  little  help,  nay,  in  which  many  of 
them  might  take  little  interest.  Meanwhile, 
we  have  found  a  brief  cursory  sketch  on  this 
subject,  already  written  in  our  language :  some 
parts  of  it,  by  way  of  preparation,  we  shall 
here  transcribe.  It  is  written  by  a  professed 
admirer  of  Goethe ;  nay,  as  might  almost  seem, 
by  a  grateful  learner,  whom  he  taught,  whom 
he  had  helped  to  lead  out  of  spiritual  obstruc- 
tion, into  peace  and  light.  Making  due  allow- 
ance for  all  this,  there  is  little  in  the  paper 
that  we  object  to. 

"  In  Goethe's  mind,"  observes  he,  "  the  first 
aspect  that  strikes  us  is  its  calmness,  then  its 
beauty;  a  deeper  inspection  reveals  to  us  its 
vastness  and  unmeasured  strength.  This  man 
rules,  and  is  not  ruled.  The  stem  and  fiery 
energies  of  a  most  passionate  soul  lie  silent 
in  the  centre  of  its  being;  a  trembling  sensi- 
bility has  been  enured  to  stand,  without  flinch- 
ing or  murmur,  the  sharpest  trials.  Nothing 
outward,  nothing  inward,  shall  agitate  or  con- 
trol him.  The  brightest  and  most  capricious 
fancy,  the  most  piercing  and  inquisitive  intel- 
lect, the  wildest  and  deepest  imagination  ;  the 
highest  thrills  of  joy,  the  bitterest  pangs  of 
sorrow :  all  these  are  his,  he  is  not  theirs. 
While  he  moves  every  heart  from  its  stead- 
fastness, his  own  is  firm  and  still :  the  words 
that  search  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  our 
nature,  he  pronounces  with  a  tone  of  coldness 
and  equanimity ;  in  the  deepest  pathos  he 
weeps  not,  or  his  tears  are  like  water  trickling 
from  a  rock  of  adamant.  He  is  a  king  of 
himself  and  of  this  world  ;  nor  does  he  rule 
it  like  a  vulgar  great  man,  like  Napoleon  or 
Charles  the  Twelfth,  by  the  mere  brute  exer- 
tion of  his  will,  grounded  on  no  principle,  or 
on  a  false  one  :  his  faculties  and  feelings  are 
not  fettered  or  prostrated  under  the  iron  sway 
of  Passion,  but  led  and  guided  in  kindly  union 
under  the  mild  sway  of  Reason  ;  as  the  fierce 
primeval  elements  of  Chaos  were  stilled  at  the 
coming  of  Light,  and  bound  together,  under 
its  soft  vesture,  into  a  glorious  and  beneficent 
Creation. 

"This  is  the  true  rest  of  man ;  the  dim  aim 
of  every  human  soul,  the  full  attainment  of 
only  a  chosen  few.  It  comes  not  unsought  to 
any  ;  but  the  wise  are  wise  because  they  think 
no  price  too  high  for  it.  Goethe's  inward 
home  has  been  reared  by  slow  and  laborious 


GOETHE. 


91 


efforts;  but  it  stands  on  no  hollow  or  deceitful 
basis :  for  his  peace  is  not  from  blindness,  but 
from  clear  vision ;  not  from  uncertain  hope 
of  alteration,  but  from  sure  insight  into  what 
cannot  alter.  His  world  seems  once  to  have 
been  desolate  and  baleful  as  that  of  the  dark- 
est skeptic :  but  he  has  covered  it  anew  with 
beauty  and  solemnity,  derived  from  deeper 
sources,  over  which  Doubt  can  have  no  sway. 
He  has  acquired  fearlessly,  and  fearlessly 
searched  out  and  denied  the  False;  but  he  has 
not  forgotten,  what  is  equally  essential  and  in- 
finitely harder,  to  search  out  and  admit  the 
True.  His  heart  is  still  full  of  warmth,  though 
his  head  is  clear  and  cold ;  the  world  for  him 
is  still  full  of  grandeur,  though  he  clothes  it 
with  no  false  colours  ;  his  fellow-creatures  are 
still  objects  of  reverence  and  love,  though  their 
basenesses  are  plainer  to  no  eye  than  to  his. 
To  reconcile  these  contradictions  is  the  task 
of  all  good  men,  each  for  himself,  in  his  own 
way  and  manner;  a  task  which,  in  our  age, 
is  encompassed  with  difficulties  peculiar  to 
the  time ;  and  which  Goethe  seems  to  have  ac- 
complished with  a  success  that  few  can  rival. 
A  mind  so  in  unity  with  itself,  even  though  it 
were  a  poor  and  small  one,  would  arrest  our 
attention,  and  win  some  kind  regard  from  us; 
but  when  this  mind  ranks  among  the  strong- 
est and  most  complicated  of  the  species,  it 
becomes  a  sight  full  of  interest,  a  study  full  of 
deep  instruction. 

"  Such  a  mind  as  Goethe's  is  the  fruit  not 
only  of  a  royal  endowment  by  nature,  but  also 
of  a  culture  proportionate  to  her  bounty.  In 
Goethe's  original  form  of  spirit,  we  discern  the 
highest  gifts  of  manhood,  without  any  defi- 
ciency of  the  lower :  he  has  an  eye  and  a  heart 
equally  for  the  sublime,  the  common,  and  the 
ridiculous  ;  the  elements  at  once  of  a  poet,  a 
thinker,  and  a  wit.  Of  his  culture  we  have 
often  spoken  already ;  and  it  deserves  again  to 
be  held  up  to  praise  and  imitation.  This,  as 
he  himself  unostentatiously  confesses,  has 
been  the  soul  of  all  his  conduct,  the  great 
enterprise  of  his  life ;  and  few  that  understand 
him  will  be  apt  to  deny  that  he  has  prospered. 
As  a  writer,  his  resources  have  been  accumu- 
lated from  nearly  all  the  provinces  of  human 
intellect  and  activity ;  and  he  has  trained  him- 
self to  use  these  complicated  instruments,  with 
a  light  expertness  which  we  might  have  ad- 
mired in  the  professor  of  a  solitary  depart- 
ment. Freedom,  and  grace,  and  smiling 
earnestness  are  the  characteristics  of  his 
works:  the  matter  of  them  flows  along  in 
chaste  abundance,  in  the  softest  combination ; 
and  their  style  is  referred  to  by  native  critics 
as  the  highest  specimen  of  the  German  tongue. 
»  *  »  *  » 

"But  Goethe's  culture  as  a  writer  is  perhaps 
less  remarkable  than  his  culture  as  a  man. 
He  has  learned  not  in  head  only,  but  also  in 
heart;  not  from  Art  and  Literature,  but  also 
by  action  and  passion,  in  the  rugged  school  of 
Experience.  If  asked  what  was  the  grand 
characteristic  of  his  writings,  we  should  not 
say  knowledge,  but  wisdom.  A  mind  that  has 
seen,  and  suffered,  and  done,  speaks  to  us  of 
what  it  has  tried  and  conquered.  A  gay  de- 
lineation will  give  us  notice  of  dark  and  toil- 


some experiences,  of  business  done  in  the 
great  deep  of  the  spirit ;  a  maxim,  trivial  to  the 
careless  eye,  will  rise  with  light  and  solution 
over  long  perplexed  periods  of  our  own  history. 
It  is  thus  that  heart  speaks  to  heart,  that  the 
life  of  one  man  becomes  a  possession  to  all. 
Here  is  a  mind  of  the  most  subtile  and  tumultu- 
ous elements ;  but  it  is  governed  in  peaceful 
diligence,  and  its  impetuous  and  ethereal  fa- 
culties work  softly  together  for  good  and  noble 
ends.  Goethe  may  be  called  a  Philosopher; 
for  he  loves  and  has  practised  as  a  man  the 
wisdom  which,  as  a  poet,  he  inculcates.  Com- 
posure and  cheerful  seriousness  seem  to 
breathe  over  all  his  character.  There  is  no 
whining  over  human  woes :  it  is  understood 
that  we  must  simply  all  strive  to  alleviate  or 
remove  them.  There  is  no  noisy  battling  for 
opinions ;  but  a  persevering  effort  to  make 
Truth  lovely,  and  recommend  her,  by  a  thou- 
sand avenues,  to  the  hearts  of  all  men.  Of  his 
personal  manners  we  can  easily  believe  the 
universal  report,  as  often  given  in  the  way  of 
censure  as  of  praise,  that  he  is  a  man  of  con- 
summate breeding  and  the  stateliest  presence  : 
for  an  air  of  polished  tolerance,  of  courtly,  we 
might  almost  say,  majestic  repose,  and  serene 
humanity,  is  visible  throughout  his  works.  In 
no  line  of  them  does  he  speak  with  asperity  of 
any  man  :  scarcel)'^  ever  even  of  a  thing.  He 
knows  the  good,  and  loves  it;  he  knows  the 
bad  and  hateful,  and  rejects  it;  but  in  neither 
case  with  violence:  his  love  is  calm  and 
active ;  his  rejection  is  implied,  rather  than 
pronounced  ;  meek  and  gentle,  though  we  see 
that  it  is  thorough,  and  never  to  be  revoked. 
The  noblest  and  the  basest  he  not  only  seems 
to  comprehend,  but  to  personate  and  body 
forth  in  their  most  secret  lineaments:  hence 
actions  and  opinions  appear  to  him  as  they 
are,  with  all  the  circumstances  which  extenu- 
ate or  endear  them  to  the  hearts  where  they 
originated  and  are  entertained.  This  also  is 
the  spirit  of  our  Shakspeare,  and  perhaps  of 
every  great  dramatic  poet.  Shakspeare  is  no 
sectarian;  to  all  he  deals  with  equity  and 
mercy ;  because  he  knows  all,  and  his  heart 
is  wide  enough  for  all.  In  his  mind  the  world 
is  a  whole ;  he  figures  it  as  Providence  go- 
verns it ;  and  to  him  it  is  not  strange  that  the 
sun  should  be  caused  to  shine  on  the  evil  and 
the  good,  and  the  rain  to  fall  on  the  just  and 
the  unjust." 

Considered  as  a  transient,  far-off  view  of 
Goethe  in  his  personal  character,  all  this,  from 
the  writer's  peculiar  point  of  vision,  may  have 
its  true  grounds,  and  wears  at  least  the  aspect 
of  sincerity.  We  may  also  quote  something 
of  what  follows  on  Goethe's  character  as  a  poet 
and  thinker,  and  the  contrast  he  exhibits  in 
this  respect  with  another  celebrated,  and  now 
altogether  European  author. 

"Goethe,"  observes  this  critic,  "has  been 
called  the  'German  Voltaire,'  but  it  is  a 
name  which  does  him  wrong  and  describes 
him  ill.  Except  in  the  corresponding  variety 
of  their  pursuits  and  knowledge,  in  which,  per- 
haps, it  does  Voltaire  wrong,  the  two  cannot 
be  compared.  Goethe  is  all,  or  the  best  of  all, 
that  Voltaire  was,  and  he  is  much  that  Voltaire 
did  not  dream  of.    To  say  nothing  of  his  dig- 


92 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


nified  and  truthful  character  as  a  man,  he  be- 
longs, as  a  thinker  and  a  writer,  to  a  far  higher 
class  than  this  enfant  gate  du  monde  qu'll  gdtu. 
He  is  not  a  questioner  and  a  despiser,  but  a 
teacher  and  a  reverencer  ;  not  a  destroyer,  but 
a  builder  up;  not  a  wit  only,  bat  a  wise  man. 
Of  him  Montesquieu  could  not  have  said,  with 
even  epigrammatic  truth  :  II  a  plus  que  personnc 
Vesprit  que  tout  le  monde  a.  Voltaire  is  the  cle- 
verest of  all  past  and  present  men ;  but  a  great 
man  is  something  more,  and  this  he  surely 
was  not." 

Whether  this  epigram,  which  we  have  seen 
in  some  Biographical  Dictionary,  really  be- 
longs to  Montesquieu,  we  know  not;  but  it 
does  seem  to  us  not  wholly  inapplicable  to 
Voltaire,  and  at  all  events,  highly  expressive 
of  an  important  distinction  among  men  of 
talent  generally.  In  fact,  the  popular  man, 
and  the  man  of  true,  at  least  of  great  origin- 
ality, are  seldom  one  and  the  same ;  we  sus- 
pect that,  till  after  a  long  struggle  on  the  part 
of  the  latter,  they  are  never  so.  Reasons  are 
obvious  enough.  The  popular  man  stands  on 
our  own  level,  or  a  hair's  breadth  higher ;  he 
shows  us  a  truth  which  we  can  see  without 
shifting  our  present  intellectual  position.  This 
is  a  highly  convenient  arrangement.  The 
original  man,  again,  stands  above  us ;  he 
wishes  to  wrench  us  from  our  old  fixtures,  and 
elevate  us  to  a  higher  and  clearer  level :  but 
to  quit  our  old  fixtures,  especially  if  we  have 
sat  in  them  with  moderate  comfort  for  some 
score  or  two  of  years,  is  no  such  easy  business  ; 
accordingly  we  demur,  we  resist,  we  even  give 
battle;  we  still  suspect  that  he  is  above  us, 
but  try  to  persuade  ourselves  (Laziness  and 
Vanity  earnestly  assenting)  that  he  is  below. 
For  is  it  not  the  very  essence  of  such  a  man 
that  he  be  new?  And  who  will  warrant  us 
that,  at  the  same  time,  he  shall  only  be  an  in- 
tensation  and  continuation  of  the  old,  which,  in 
general,  is  what  we  long  and  look  for?  No 
one  can  warrant  us.  And,  granting  him  to  be 
a  man  of  real  genius,  real  depth,  and  that 
speaks  not  till  after  earnest  meditation,  what 
sort  of  a  philosophy  were  his,  could  we  esti- 
mate the  length,  breadth,  and  thickness  of  it  at 
a  single  glance  1  And  when  did  Criticism 
give  two  glances  1  Criticism,  therefore,  opens 
on  such  a  man  its  greater  and  its  lesser  bat- 
teries, on  every  side;  he  has  no  security  but 
to  go  on  disregarding  it;  and  "in  the  end," 
says  Goethe,  *'  Criticism  itself  comes  to  relish 
that  method."  But  now  let  a  speaker  of  the 
other  class  come  forward;  one  of  those  men 
that  "  have  more  than  any  one,  the  opinion 
which  all  men  have  !"  No  sooner  does  he 
speak,  than  all  and  sundry  of  us  feel  as  if  we 
had  been  wishing  to  speak  that  very  thing,  as 
if  we  ourselves  might  have  spoken  it;  and 
forthwith  resounds  from  the  united  universe  a 
celebration  of  that  surprising  feat.  What  clear- 
ness, brilliancy,  justness,  penetration  !  Who 
can  doubt  that  this  man  is  right,  when  so 
many  thousand  voles  are  ready  to  back  him  1 
Doubtless,  he  is  right ;  doubtless,  he  is  a  clever 
man;  and  his  praise  will  long  be  in  all  the 
Magazines. 

Clever  men  are  good,  but  they  are  not  the 
dest    "  The  instruction  they  can   give  us  is 


like  baked  bread,  savoury  and  satisfying  for  a 
single  day;"  but,  unhappily,  "flour  cannot  be 
sown,  and  seed-corn  ought  not  to  be  ground." 
We  proceed  with  our  Critic  in  his  contrast  of 
Goethe  with  Voltaire. 

"As  poets,"  continues  he, "  the  two  live  not  in 
the  same  hemisphere,  not  in  the  same  world. 
Of  Voltaire's  poetry,  it  were  blindness  to  deny 
the  polished,  intellectual  vigour,  the  logical 
symmetry,  the  flashes  that  from  time  to  time 
give  it  the  colour,  if  not  the  warmth,  of  fire  :  but 
it  is  in  a  far  other  sense  than  this  that  Goethe 
is  a  poet;  in  a  sense  of  which  the  French 
literature  has  never  afforded  any  example.  We 
may  venture  to  say  of  him,  that  his  province  is 
high  and  peculiar ;  higher  than  any  poet  but 
himself,  for  several  generations,  has  so  far 
succeeded  in,  perhaps  even  has  steadfastly  at- 
tempted. In  reading  Goethe's  poetry,  it  per- 
petually strikes  us  that  we  are  reading  the 
poetry  of  our  own  day  and  generation.  No 
demands  are  made  on  our  credulity :  the  light, 
the  science,  the  skepticism  of  our  age,  is  not 
hid  from  us.  He  does  not  deal  in  antiquated 
mythologies,  or  ring  changes  on  traditionary 
poetic  forms  ;  there  are  no  supernal,  no  infernal 
influences,  for  Faust  is  an  apparent,  rather 
than  a  real  exception ;  but  there  is  the  barren 
prose  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  vulgar  life 
which  we  are  all  leading,  and  it  starts  into 
strange  beauty  in  his  hands,  and  we  pause  in. 
delighted  wonder  to  behold  the  flowerage  of 
poesy  blooming  in  that  parched  and  rugged 
soil.  This  is  the  end  of  his  Mignons  and 
Harpers,  of  his  Hermanns  and  Meisters.  Poetry, 
as  he  views  it,  exists  not  in  time  or  place,  but 
in  the  spirit  of  man;  and  Art  with  Nature  is 
now  to  perform  for  the  poet  what  Nature  alone 
performed  of  old.  The  divinities  and  demons, 
the  witches,  spectres,  and  fairies,  are  vanished 
from  the  world,  never  again  to  be  recalled  :  but 
the  Imagination,  which  created  these,  still  lives, 
and  will  for  ever  live,  in  man's  soul ;  and  can 
again  pour  its  wizard  light  over  the  Universe, 
and  summon  forth  enchantments  as  lovely  or 
impressive,  and  which  its  sister  faculties  will 
not  contradict.  To  say  that  Goethe  has  ac- 
complished all  this,  would  be  to  say  that  his 
genius  is  greater  than  was  ever  given  to  any 
man  :  for  if  it  was  a  high  and  glorious  mind, 
or  rather  series  of  minds,  that  peopled  the  first 
ages  with  their  peculiar  forms  of  poetry,  it  must 
be  a  series  of  minds  much  higher  and  more 
glorious  that  shall  so  people  the  present.  The 
angels  and  demons,  that  can  lay  prostrate  our 
hearts  in  the  nineteenth  century  must  be  of  ano- 
ther, and  more  cunning  fashion,  than  those  that 
subdued  us  in  the  ninth.  To  have  attempted, 
to  have  begun  this  enterprise,  may  be  account- 
ed the  greatest  praise.  That  Goethe  ever  me- 
ditated it,  in  the  form  here  set  forth,  Ave  have  no 
direct  evidence :  but,  indeed,  such  is  the  end  and 
aim  of  high  poetry  at  all  times  and  seasons ; 
for  the  fiction  of  the  poet  is  not  falsehood,  but 
the  purest  truth  ;  and,  if  he  would  lead  captive 
our  whole  being,  not  rest  satisfied  with  a  part 
of  it,  he  must  address  us  on  interests  that  are, 
not  that  were,  ours  ;  and  in  a  dialect  which  finds 
a  response,  and  not  a  contradiction,  within  our 
bosoms."* 


*  German  Romance,  vol.  iv.  pp.  17—25. 


A 


GOETHE. 


93 


Here,  however,  we  must  terminate  our  pil- 
ferings,  or  open  robberies,  and  bring  these 
straggling  lucubrations  to  a  close.  In  the  ex- 
tracts we  have  given,  in  the  remarks  made  on 
them,  and  on  the  subject  of  them,  we  are  aware 
that  we  have  held  the  attitude  of  admirers  and 
pleaders :  neither  is  it  unknown  to  us  that  the 
critic  is,  in  virtue  of  his  office,  a  judge,  and  not 
an  advocate;  sits  there,  not  to  do  favour,  but 
to  dispense  justice,  which  in  most  cases  will 
involve  blame  as  well  as  praise.  But  we  are 
firm  believers  in  the  maxim  that,  for  all  right 
judgment  of  any  man  or  thing,  it  is  useful,  nay, 
essential,  to  see  his  good  qualities  before  pro- 
nouncing on  his  bad.  This  maxim  is  so  clear 
to  ourselves,  that,  in  respect  of  poetry  at  least, 
we  almost  think  we  could  make  it  clear  to  other 
men.  In  the  first  place,  at  all  events,  it  is  a 
much  shallower  and  more  ignoble  occupation 
to  detect  faults  than  to  discover  beauties.  The 
"  critic  fly,"  if  it  do  but  alight  on  any  plinth  or 
single  cornice  of  a  brave,  stately  building,  shall 
be  able  to  declare,  with  its  half-inch  vision,  that 
here  is  a  speck,  and  there  an  inequality  ;  that, 
in  fact,  this  and  the  other  individual  stone  are 
nowise  as  they  should  be ;  for  all  this  the 
"critic  fly"  will  be  sufficient:  but  to  take  in 
the  fair  relations  of  the  Whole,  to  see  the  build- 
ing as  one  object,  to  estimate  its  purpose,  the 
adjustment  of  its  parts,  and  their  harmonious 
co-operation  towards  thatpurpose,  will  require 
the  eye  and  the  mind  of  a  Vitruvius,  or  a  Pal- 
ladio.  But  further,  the  faults  of  a  poem,  or 
other  piece  of  art,  as  we  view  them  at  first,  will 
by  no  means  continue  unaltered  when  we  view 
them  after  due  and  final  investigation.  Let  us 
consider  what  we  mean  by  a  fault.  By  the  word 
fault,  we  designate  something  that  displeases  us, 
that  contradicts  us.  But  here  the  question  might 
arise.  Who  are  we?  This  fault  displeases, 
contradicts  us ;  so  far  is  clear ;  and  had  we,  had 
/,  and  my  pleasure  and  confirmation,  been  the 
chief  end  of  the  poet,  then  doubtless  he  has 
failed  in  that  end,  and  his  fault  remains  a  fault  ir- 
remediably,  and  without  defence.  But  who  shall 
say  whether  such  really  was  his  object,  whether 
such  ought  to  have  been  his  object]  And 
if  it  was  not,  and  ought  not  to  have  been,  what 
becomes  of  the  fault  ?  It  must  hang  altogether 
undecided  ;  we  as  yet  know  nothing  of  it ;  per- 
haps it  may  not  be  the  poet's  but  our  own  fault ; 
perhaps  it  may  be  no  fault  whatever.  To  see 
rightly  into  this  matter,  to  determine  with  any 
infallibility,  whether  what  we  call  a  fault  is  in 
very  deed  a  fault,  we  must  previously  have  set- 
tled two  points,  neither  of  which  may  be  so 
readily  settled.  First,  we  must  have  made 
plain  to  ourselves  what  the  poet's  aim  really 
and  truly  was,  how  the  task  he  had  to  do  stood 
before  his  own  eye,  and  how  far,  with  such 
means  as  it  afforded  him,  he  has  fulfilled  it. 
Secondly,  we  must  have  decided  whether  and 
how  far  this  aim,  this  task  of  his,  accorded, — 
not  with  MS,  and  our  individual  crotchets,  and 
the  crotchets  of  our  little  senate  where  we  pjive 
or  take  the  law, — but  with  human  nature,  and 
the  nature  of  things  at  large ;  with  the  univer- 
sal principles  of  poetic  beauty,  not  as  they  stand 
written  in  our  text-books,  but  in  the  hearts  and 
imaginations  of  all  men.  Does  the  answer  in 
either  case  come  out  unfavourable ;  was  there 


an  inconsistency  between  the  means  and  the 
end  ;  a  discordance  between  the  end  and  truth, 
there  is  a  fault :  was  there  not,  there  is  no  fault. 

Thus  it  would  appear  that  the  detection  of 
faults,  provided  they  be  faults  of  any  depth  and 
consequence,  leads  us  of  itself  into  that  regioji 
where  also  the  higher  beauties  of  the  piece,  if 
it  have  any  true  beauties,  essentially  reside.  In 
fact,  according  to  our  view,  do  man  can  pro- 
nounce dogmatically,  with  even  a  chance  of 
being  right,  on  the  faults  of  a  poem,  till  he  has 
seen  its  very  last  and  highest  beauty ;  the  last 
in  becoming  visible  to  any  one,  which  few  ever 
look  after,  which  indeed  in  most  pieces  it  were 
very  vain  to  look  after ;  the  beauty  of  the  poem 
as  a  Whole,  in  the  strict  sense ;  the  clear  view 
of  it  as  an  indivisible  Unity ;  and  whether  it 
has  grown  up  naturally  from  the  general  soil 
of  Thought,  and  stands  there  like  a  thousand- 
years  Oak,  no  leaf,  no  bough  superfluous ;  or 
is  nothing  but  a  pasteboard  Tree,  cobbled  to- 
gether out  of  size  and  waste-paper  and  water- 
colours  ;  altogether  unconnected  with  the  soil 
of  Thought,  except  by  mere  juxtaposition,  or 
at  best  united  with  it  by  some  decayed  stump 
and  dead  boughs,  which  the  more  cunning  De- 
corationist  (as  in  your  Historic  Novel)  may 
have  selected  for  the  basis  and  support  of  his 
agglutinations.  It  is  true,  most  readers  judge 
of  a  poem  by  pieces,  they  praise  and  blame  by 
pieces :  it  is  a  common  practice,  and  for  most 
poems  and  most  readers  may  be  perfectly 
sufficient ;  yet  we  would  advise  no  man  to  fol- 
I  low  this  practice,  who  traces  in  himself  even 
the  slightest  capability  of  following  a  better  one  j 
and  if  possible,  we  would  advise  him  to  prac- 
tise only  on  worthy  subjects  ;  to  read  few  poems 
that  will  not  bear  being  studied  as  well  as  read. 

That  Goethe  has  his  faults  cannot  be  doubt- 
ful; for  we  believe  it  was  ascertained  long  ago 
that  there  is  no  man  free  from  them.  Neither 
are  we  ourselves  without  some  glimmering  of 
certain  actual  limitations  and  inconsistencies 
by  which  he  too,  as  he  really  lives,  and  writes, 
and  is,  may  be  hemmed  in ;  which  beset  him 
too,  as  they  do  meaner  men ;  which  show  us 
that  he  too  is  a  son  of  Eve.  But  to  exhibit 
these  before  our  readers,  in  the  present  state 
of  matters,  we  should  reckon  no  easy  labour, 
were  it  to  be  adequately,  to  be  justly  done; 
and  done  any  how,  no  profitable  one.  Better 
is  it  we  should  first  study  him ;  better  "  to  see 
the  great  man  before  attempting  to  oversee  him." 
We  are  not  ignorant  that  certain  objections 
against  Goethe  already  float  vaguely  in  the 
English  mind,  and  here  and  there,  according  to 
occasion,  have  even  come  to  utterance :  these, 
as  the  study  of  him  proceeds,  we  shall  hold  our- 
selves ready,  in  due  season,  to  discuss;  but 
for  the  present  we  must  beg  the  reader  to  be- 
lieve, on  our  word,  that  we  do  not  reckon 
them  unanswerable,  nay,  that  we  reckon  them 
in  general  the  most  answerable  things  in  the 
world;  and  things  which  even  a  little  increase 
of  knowledge  will  not  fail  to  answer  without 
other  help. 

For  furthering  such  increase  of  knowledge 
on  this  matter,  may  we  beg  the  reader  to  ac- 
cept two  small  pieces  of  advice,  which  we 
ourselves  have  found  to  be  of  use  in  studying 
Goethe.    They  seem  applicable  to  the  study 


94 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  Foreign  Literature  generally ;  indeed  to  the 
study  of  all  Literature  that  deserves  the  name. 
The  first  is,  nowise  to  suppose  that  Poetry 
is  a  superficial,  cursory  business,  which  may 
be  seen  through  to  the  very  bottom,  so  soon 
as  one  inclines  to  cast  his  eye  on  it.  We 
reckon  it  the  falsest  of  all  maxims  that  a  true 
Poem  can  be  adequately  tasted;  can  be  judged 
of  "as  men  judge  of  a  dinner,"  by  some  inter- 
nal tongue,  that  shall  decide  on  the  matter  at 
once  and  irrevocably.  Of  the  poetry  which 
supplies  spouting-clubs,  and  circulates  in  cir- 
culating libraries,  we  speak  not  here.  That 
is  quite  another  species ;  which  has  circulated, 
and  will  circulate,  and  ought  to  circulate,  in 
all  times ;  but  for  the  study  of  which  no  man 
is  required  to  give  rules,  the  rules  being  al- 
ready given  by  the  thing  itself.  We  speak  of 
that  Poetry  which  Masters  write,  which  aims 
not  "  at  furnishing  a  languid  mind  with  fan- 
tastic shows  and  indolent  emotions,"  but  at 
incorporating  the  everlasting  Reason  of  man 
in  forms  visible  to  his  Sense,  and  suitable  to 
it:  and  of  this  we  say  that  to  know  it  is  no 
slight  task  ;  but  rather  that  being  the  essence 
of  all  science,  it  requires  the  purest  of  all  study 
for  knowing  it.  "What!"  cries  the  reader, 
"  are  we  to  study  Poetry  1  To  pore  over  it  as 
we  do  over  Fluxions  1"  Reader,  it  depends 
upon  your  object:  if  you  want  only  amusement, 
choose  your  book,  and  you  get  along,  without 
study,  excellently  well.  "  But  is  not  Shakspeare 
plain,  visible  to  the  very  bottom,  without 
study  1"  cries  he.  Alas,  no,  gentle  Reader; 
we  cannot  think  so ;  we  do  not  find  that  he  is 
"visible  to  the  very  bottom,"  even  to  those 
that  profess  the  study  of  him.  It  has  been  our 
lot  to  read  some  criticisms  on  Shakspeare,  and 
to  hear  a  great  many ;  but  for  most  part  they 
amounted  to  no  such  "visibility."  Volumes 
we  have  seen  that  were  simply  one  huge  In- 
terjection printed  over  three  hundred  pages. 
Nine  tenths  of  our  critics  have  told  us  little 
more  of  Shakspeare,  than  what  honest  Franz 
Horn  says  our  neighbours  used  to  tell  of  him, 
"that  he  was  a  great  spirit,  and  stept  majes- 
tically along."  Johnson's  Preface,  a  sound 
and  solid  piece  for  its  purpose,  is  a  complete 
exception  to  this  rule ;  and,  so  far  as  we  re- 
member, the  only  complete  one.  Students  of 
Doetry  admire  Shakspeare  in  their  tenth  year ; 
but  go  on  admiring  him  more  and  more,  un- 
derstanding him  more  and  more,  till  their 
ihreescore-and-tenth.     Grotius  said,  he  read 


Terence  otherwise  than  boys  do.  "Happy 
contractedness  of  youth,"  adds  Goethe,  "  nay, 
of  men  in  general;  that  at  all  moments  of  their 
existence  they  can  look  upon  themselves  as 
complete ;  and  inquire  neither  after  the  True 
nor  the  False,  nor  the  High  nor  the  Deep ;  but 
simply  after  what  is  proportioned  to  them- 
selves." 

Our  second  advice  we  shall  state  in  a  few 
words.  It  is  to  remember  that  a  Foreigner  is 
no  Englishman;  that  in  judging  a  foreign 
work,  it  is  not  enough  to  ask  whether  it  is 
suitable  to  our  modes,  hut  whether  it  is  suitable 
to  foreign  tvants :  above  all,  whether  it  is  suit- 
able to  itself.  The  fairness,  the  necessity  of 
this  can  need  no  demonstration  :  yet  how  often 
do  we  find  it,  in  practice,  altogether  neglected ! 
We  could  fancy  we  saw  some  Bond-street 
Tailor  criticising  the  costume  of  an  ancient 
Greek;  censuring  the  highly  improper  cut  of 
collar  and  lapel ;  lamenting,  indeed,  that  col- 
lar and  lapel  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He 
pronounces  the  costume,  easily  and  decisive- 
ly, to  be  a  barbarous  one  ;  to  know  whether  it 
is  a  barbarous  one,  and  how  barbarous,  the 
judgment  of  a  Winkelmann  might  be  required, 
and  he  would  find  it  hard  to  give  a  judgment. 
For  the  questions  set  before  the  two  were  radi- 
cally difierent.  The  Fraction  asked  himself: 
How  will  this  look  in  Almacks,  and  before 
Lord  Mahogany  1  The  Winklemann  asked 
himself:  How  will  this  look  in  the  Universe, 
and  before  the  Creator  of  Man  1 

Whether  these  remarks  of  ours  may  do 
any  thing  to  forward  a  right  appreciation  of 
Goethe  in  this  country,  we  know  not;  neither 
do  we  reckon  this  last  result  to  be  of  any  vital 
importance.  Yet  must  we  believe  that,  in  re- 
commending Goethe,  we  are  doing  our  part  to 
recommend  a  truer  study  of  Poetry  itself:  and 
happy  were  we  to  fancy  that  any  efl^orts  of 
ours  could  promote  such  an  object.  Promoted, 
attained  it  will  be,  as  we  believe,  by  one  means 
and  another.  A  deeper  feeling  for  Art  is 
abroad  over  Europe ;  a  purer,  more  earnest 
purpose  in  the  study,  in  the  practice  of  it.  In 
this  influence  we  too  must  participate:  the 
time  will  come  when  our  own  ancient  noble 
Literature  will  be  studied  and  felt,  as  well  as 
talked  of;  when  Dilettantism  will  give  place 
to  Criticism  in  respect  of  it;  and  vague  won- 
der end  in  clear  knowledge,  in  sincere  reve- 
rence, and,  what  were  best  of  all,  in  hearty 
emulation. 


BURNS. 


95 


BURNS.* 

[Edinburgh  Review,  1828.] 


Is  the  modern  arrangements  of  society,  it  is 
no  uncommon  thing  that  a  man  of  genius  must, 
like  Butler,  "ask  for  bread  and  receive  a 
stone ;"  for,  in  spite  of  our  grand  maxim  of 
supply  and  demand,  it  is  by  no  means  the 
highest  excellence  that  men  are  most  forward 
to  recognise.  The  inventor  of  a  spinning- 
jenny  is  pretty  sure  of  his  reward  in  his  own 
day ;  but  the  writer  of  a  true  poem,  like  the 
apostle  of  a  true  religion,  is  nearly  as  sure  of 
the  -contrary.  We  do  not  know  whether  it  is 
not  an  aggravation  of  the  injustice,  that  there 
is  generally  a  posthumous  retribution.  Robert 
Burns,  in  the  course  of  nature,  might  yet  have 
been  living;  but  his  short  life  was  spent  in 
toil  and  penury ;  and  he  died,  in  the  prime  of 
his  manhood,  miserable  and  neglected ;  and 
yet  already  a  brave  mausoleum  shines  over  his 
dust,  and  more  than  one  splendid  monument 
has  been  reared  in  other  places  to  his  fame  * 
the  street  where  he  languished  in  poverty  is 
called  by  his  name  ;  the  highest  personages  in 
our  literature  have  been  proud  to  appear  as 
his  commentators  and  admirers,  and  here  is 
the  sixth  narrative  of  his  Life,  that  has  been 
given  to  the  world  ! 

Mr.  Lockhart  thinks  it  necessary  to  apologize 
for  this  new  attempt  on  such  a  subject :  but  his 
readers,  we  believe,  will  readily  acquit  him; 
or,  at  worst,  will  censure  only  the  performance 
of  his  task,  not  the  choice  of  it.  The  character 
of  Burns,  indeed,  is  a  theme  that  cannot  easily 
become  either  trite  or  exhausted;  and  will  pro- 
bably gain  rather  than  lose  in  its  dimensions 
by  the  distance  to  which  it  is  removed  by 
Time.  No  man,  it  has  been  said,  is  a  hero  to 
his  valet :  and  this  is  probably  true ;  but  the 
fault  is  at  least  as  likely  to  be  the  valet's  as 
the  hero's  :  For  it  is  certain,  tlfat  to  the  vulgar 
eye  few  things  are  wonderful  that  are  not 
distant.  It  is  difficult  for  men  to  believe  that 
the  man,  the  mere  man  whom  they  see,  nay, 
perhaps,  painfully  feel,  toiling  at  their  side 
through  the  poor  jostlings  of  existence,  can  be 
made  of  finer  clay  than  themselves.  Suppose 
that  some  dining  acquaintance  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's,  and  neighbour  of  John  a  Combe's,  had 
snatched  an  hour  or  two  from  the  preservation 
of  his  game,  and  written  us  a  Life  of  Shak- 
speare!  What  dissertations  should  we  not 
have  had,— not  on  Hamlet  and  Th£  Tempest,  but 
on  the  wool-trade,  and  deer-stealing,  and  the 
libel  and  vagrant  laws  !  and  how  the  Poacher 
became  a  Player ;  and  how  Sir  Thomas  and 
Mr.  John  had  Christian  bowels,  and  did  not 
push  him  to  extremities  !  In  like  manner,  we 
believe,  with  respect  to  Burns,  that  till  the 
companions  of  his  pilgrimage,  the  honourable 
Excise  Commissioners,  and  the  Gentlemen  of 
the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  the  Dumfries  Aris- 


*The  Life  of  Robert  Burns.  By  J.  G.  Lockhart,  LL.  B. 
Edinburgb,  1828. 


tocracy,  and  all  the  Squires  and  Earls,  equally 
with  the  Ayr  Writers,  and  the  New  and  Old 
Light  Clergy,  whom  he  had  to  do  with,  shall 
have  become  invisible  in  the  darkness  of  the 
Past,  or  visible  only  by  light  borrowed  from  his 
juxtaposition,  it  will  be  difficult  to  measure 
him  by  any  true  standard,  or  to  estimate  what 
he  really  was  and  did,  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, for  his  country  and  the  world.  It  will  be 
difficult,  we  say;  but  still  a  fair  problem  for 
literary  historians;  and  repeated  attempts  will 
give  us  repeated  approximations. 

His  former  biographers  have  done  some- 
thing, no  doubt,  but  by  no  means  a  great  deal, 
to  assist  us.  Dr.  Currie  and  Mr.  Walker,  the 
principal  of  these  writers,  have  both,  we  think, 
mistaken  one  essentially  important  thing ; — 
Their  own  and  the  world's  true  relation  to 
their  author,  and  the  style  in  which  it  became 
such  men  to  think  and  to  speak  of  such  a 
man.  Dr.  Currie  loved  the  poet  truly ;  more 
perhaps  than  he  avowed  to  his  readers,  or  even 
to  himself;  yet  he  everywhere  introduces  him 
with  a  certain  patronizing,  apologetic  air ;  as 
if  the  polite  public  might  think  it  strange  and 
half  unwarrantable  that  he,  a  man  of  science, 
a  scholar,  and  gentleman,  should  do  such 
honour  to  a  rustic.  In  all  this,  however,  we 
readily  admit  that  his  fault  was  not  want  of 
love,  but  weakness  of  faith ;  and  regret  that 
the  first  and  kindest  of  all  our  poet's  biogra- 
phers should  not  have  seen  farther,  or  believed 
more  boldly  what  he  saw.  Mr.  Walker  offends 
more  deeply  in  the  same  kind :  and  b'olh  err 
alike  in  presenting  us  with  a  detached  cata- 
logue of  his  several  supposed  attributes,  vir- 
tues, and  vices,  instead  of  a  delineation  of  the 
resulting  character  as  a  living  unity.  This, 
however,  is  not  painting  a  portrait ;  but  gaug- 
ing the  length  and  breadth  of  the  several  fea- 
tures, and  jotting  down  their  dimensions  in 
arithmetical  ciphers.  Nay,  it  is  not  so  much 
as  this  :  for  we  are  yet  to  learn  by  what  arts  or 
instruments  the  mind  cott/rf  be  so  measured  and 
ganged. 

Mr.  Lockhart,  we  are  happy  to  say,  has 
avoided  both  these  errors.  He  uniformly  treats 
Burns  as  the  high  and  remarkable  man  the 
public  voice  has  now  pronounced  him  to  be: 
and  in  delineating  him,  he  has  avoided  the 
method  of  separate  generalities,  and  rather 
sought  for  characteristic  incidents,  habits, 
actions,  sayings  ;  in  a  word,  for  aspects  which 
exhibit  the  whole  man,  as  he  looked  and  lived 
among  his  fellows.  The  book  accordingly, 
with  all  its  deficiencies,  gives  more  insight,  we 
think,  into  the  true  character  of  Burns,  than 
any  prior  biography  :  though,  being  written  on 
the  very  popular  and  condensed  scheme  of  an 
article  for  Constable*s  Miscellany,  it  has  less 
depth  than  we  could  have  wished  and  expected 
from  a  writer  of  such  power;  and  contains 
rather  more,  and  more  multifarious,  quotations, 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


than  belong  of  right  to  an  original  production. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Lockhart's  own  writing  is  gene- 
rally so  good,  so  clear,  direct,  and  nervous, 
that  we  seldom  wish  to  see  it  making  place 
for  another  man's.  However,  the  spirit  of  the 
work  is  throughout  candid,  tolerant,  and  anx- 
iously conciliating;  compliments  and  praises 
are  liberally  distributed,  on  all  hands,  to  great 
and  small ;  and,  as  Mr.  Morris  Birkbeck  ob- 
serves of  the  society  in  the  backwoods  of 
America,  "  the  courtesies  of  polite  life  are 
never  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment."  But  there 
are  better  things  tnan  these  in  the  volume; 
and  we  can  safely  testify,  not  only  that  it  is 
easily  and  pleasantly  read  a  first  time,  but  may 
even  be  without  difficulty  read  again. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  far  from  thinking  that 
the  problem  of  Burns's  Biography  has  yet 
been  adequately  solved.  We  do  not  allude  so 
much  to  deficiency  of  facts  or  documents, — 
though  of  these  we  are  still  every  day  receiv- 
ing some  fresh  accession, — as  to  the  limited 
and  imperfect  application  of  them  to  the  great 
end  of  Biography.  Our  notions  upon  this  sub- 
ject may  perhaps  appear  extravagant;  but  if 
an  individual  is  really  of  consequence  enough 
to  have  his  life  and  character  recorded  for 
public  remembrance,  we  have  always  been  of 
opinion,  that  the  public  ought  to  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  inward  springs  and  rela- 
tions of  his  character.  \How  did  the  world  and 
man's  life,  from  his  particular  position,  repre- 
sent themselves  to  his  mindl  How  did  coex- 
isting circumstances  modify  him  from  without ; 
how  did  he  modify  these  from  within  1  With 
what  endeavours  and  what  efficacy  rule  over 
them ;  with  what  resistance  and  what  suffer- 
ing sink  under  them  1  In  one  word,  what  and 
how  produced  was  the  effect  of  society  on  him; 
what  and  how  produced  was  his  effect  on 
society  ?  He  who  should  answer  these  ques- 
tions, in  regard  to  any  individual,  would,  as 
we  believe,  furnish  a  model  of  perfection  in 
biography.  Few  individuals,  indeed,  can  de- 
serve such  a  study ;  and  many  lives  will  be 
written,  and,  for  the  gratification  of  innocent 
curiosity,  ought  to  be  written,  and  read,  and 
forgotten,  which  are  not  in  this  sense  biogra- 
phies. But  Burns,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  one  of 
these  few  individuals ;  and  such  a  study,  at 
least  with  such  a  result,  he  has  not  yet  obtained. 
Our  own  contributions  to  it,  we  are  aware,  can 
be  but  scanty  and  feeble;  but  we  offer  them 
with  good-will,  and  trust  they  may  meet  with 
acceptance  from  those  for  whom  they  are  in- 
tended. 
V),  Burns  first  came  upon  the  world  as  a  prodi- 
gy ;  and  was,  in  that  character,  entertained  by 
it,  in  the  usual  fashion,  with  loud,  vague,  tu- 
multuous wonder,  speedily  subsiding  into  cen- 
sure and  neglect;  till  his  early  and  most 
mournful  death  again  awakened  an  enthu- 
siasm for  him,  which,  especially  as  there  was 
now  nothing  to  be  done,  and  much  to  be 
spoken,  has  prolonged  itself  even  to  our  own 
time.  It  is  true,  the  "nine  days"  have  long 
since  elapsed  ;  and  the  very  continuance  of 
this  clamour  proves  that  Burns  was  no  vulgar 
wonder.  Accordingly,  even  in  sober  judg- 
ments, where,  as  years  passed  by,  he  has 
come  to  rest  more  and  more  exclusively  on  his 


own  intrinsic  merits,  and  may  now  be  well 
nigh  shorn  of  that  casual  radiance,  he  appears 
not  only  as  a  true  British  poet,  but  as  one  of 
the  most  considerable  British  men  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Let  it  not  be  objected  that 
he  did  little  :  He  did  much,  if  we  consider  where 
and  how.  If  the  work  performed  was  small, 
we  must  remember  that  he  had  his  very  ma- 
terials to  discover;  for  the  metal  he  worked 
in  lay  hid  under  the  desert,  where  no  eye  but 
his  had  guessed  its  existence;  and  we  may  al- 
most say,  that  with  his  own  hand  he  had  to 
construct  the  tools  for  fashioning  it.  For  he 
found  himself  in  deepest  obscurity,  without 
help,  without  instruction,  without  model;  or 
with  models  only  of  the  meanest  sort.  An 
educated  man  stands,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst 
of  a  boundless  arsenal  and  magazine,  filled 
with  all  the  weapons  and  engines  which  man's 
skill  has  been  able  to  devise  from  the  earliest 
time ;  and  he  works,  accordingly,  with  a 
strength  borrowed  from  all  past  ages.  How 
different  is  his  state  who  stands  on  the  outside 
of  that  storehouse,  and  feels  that  its  gates  must 
be  stormed,  or  remain  for  ever  shut  against 
him?  His  means  are  the  commonest  and 
rudest;  the  mere  work  done  is  no  measure  of 
%is  strength.  A  dwarf  behind  his  steam- 
engine  may  remove  mountains  ;  but  no  dwarf 
will  hew  them  down  with  the  pick-axe ;  and 
he  must  be  a  Titan  that  hurls  them  abroad 
with  his  arms. 

It  is  in  this  last  shape  that  BurnS  presents 
himself.  Born  in  an  age  the  most  prosaic 
Britain  had  yet  seen,  and  in  a  condition  the 
most  disadvantageous,  where  his  mind,  if  it 
accomplished  aught,  must  accomplish  it  un- 
der the  pressure  of  continual  bodily  toil,  nay, 
of  penury  and  desponding  apprehension  of 
the  worst  evils,  and  with  no  furtherance  but 
such  knowledge  as  dwells  in  a  poor  man's  hut, 
and  the  rhymes  of  a  Ferguson  or  Ramsay  for 
his  standard  of  beauty,  he  sinks  not  under  all 
these  impediments:  Through  the  fogs  and 
darkness  of  that  obscure  region,  his  eagle  eye 
discerns  the  true  relations  of  the  world  and 
human  life  ;  h^grows  into  intellectual  strength, 
and  trains  himself  into  intellectual  expertness. 
Impelled  by  the  irrepressible  movement  of  his 
inward  spirit,  he  struggles  forward  into  the 
general  view,  and  with  haughty  modesty  lays 
down  before  us,  as  the  fruit  of  his  labour,  a 
gift,  which  Time  has  now  pronounced  im- 
perishable. Add  to  all  this,  that  his  darksome, 
drudging  childhood  and  youth  was  by  far  the 
kindliest  era  of  his  whole  life  ;  and  that  he  died 
in  his  thirty-seventh  year :  and  then  ask  if  it 
be  strange  that  his  poems  are  imperfect,  and 
of  small  extent,  or  that  his  genius  attained  no 
mastery  in  its  art?  Alas,  his  Sun  shone  as 
through  a  tropical  tornado;  and  the  pale 
Shadow  of  Death  eclipsed  it  at  noon  !  Shroud- 
ed in  such  baleful  vapours,  the  genius  of  Burns 
was  never  seen  in  clear  azure  splendour,  en- 
lightening the  world:  But  some  beams  from  it 
did,  by  fits,  pierce  through;  and  it  tinted  those 
clouds  with  rainbow  and  orient  colours  into  a 
glory  and  stern  grandeur,  which  men  silently 
gazed  on  with  wonder  and  tears ! 

We  are  anxious  not  to  exaggerate;  for  it  is 
exposition  rather  than  admiration  that  our 


BURNS. 


97 


readers  require  of  us  here ;  and  yet  to  avoid 
some  tendency  to  that  side  is  no  easy  matter. 
We  love  Burns,  and  we  pity  him;  and  love 
and  pity  are  prone  to  magnify.  Criticism,  it 
is  sometimes  thought,  should  be  a  cold  busi- 
ness ;  we  are  not  so  sure  of  this ;  but,  at  all 
events,  our  concern  with  Burns  is  not  exclu- 
sively that  of  critics.  True  and  genial  as  his 
poetry  must  appear,  it  is  not  chiefly  as  a  poet, 
but  as  a  man,  that  he  interests  and  affects  us. 
He  was  often  advised  to  write  a  tragedy :  time 
and  means  were  not  lent  him  for  this;  but 
through  life  he  enacted  a  tragedy,  and  one  of 
the  deepest.  We  question  whether  the  world 
has  since  witnessed  so  utterly  sad  a  scene; 
whether  Napoleon  himself,  left  to  brawl  with 
Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  and  perish  on  his  rock, 
"  amid  the  melancholy  main,"  presented  to  the 
reflecting  mind  such  a  "  spectacle  of  pity  and 
fear,"  as  did  this  intrinsically  nobler,  gentler, 
and  perhaps  greater  soul,  wasting  itself  away 
in  a  hopeless  struggle  with  base  entangle- 
ments, which  coiled  closer  and  closer  round 
him,  till  only  death  opened  him  an  outlet. 
Conquerors  are  a  race  with  whom  the  world 
could  well  dispense ;  nor  can  the  hard  intel- 
lect, the  unsympathizing  loftiness,  and  high 
but  selfish  enthusiasm  of  such  persons,  inspire 
us  in  general  with  any  aflfection  ;  at  best  it  may 
excite  amazement ;  and  their  fall,  like  that  of 
a  pyramid,  will  be  beheld  with  a  certain  sad- 
ness and  awe.  But  a  true  Poet,  a  man  in 
whose  heart  resides  some  efiluence  of  Wis- 
dom, some  tone  of  the  "  Eternal  Melodies,"  is 
the  most  precious  gift  that  can  be  bestowed 
on  a  generation :  we  see  in  him  a  freer,  purer, 
development  of  whatever  is  noblest  in  our- 
selves; his  life  is  a  rich  lesson  to  us,  and  we 
mourn  his  death,  as  that  of  a  benefactor  who 
loved  and  taught  us. 
^  Such  a  gift  had  Nature  in  her  bounty  be- 
\  stowed  on  us  in  Robert  Burns ;  but  with  queen- 
like indifference  she  cast  it  from  her  hand, 
like  a  thing  of  no  moment;  and  it  was  defaced 
and  torn  asunder,  as  an  idle  bauble,  before  we 
recognised  it.  To  the  ill-starred  Burns  was 
given  the  power  of  making  man's  life  more 
venerable,  but  that  of  wisely  guiding  his  own 
was  not  given.  Destiny, — for  so  in  our  igno- 
rance we  must  speak, — his  faults,  the  faults 
of  others,  proved  too  hard  for  him ;  and  that 
spirit,  which  might  have  soared,  could  it  but 
have  walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its  glori- 
ous faculties  trodden  under  foot  in  the  blos- 
som, and  died,  we  may  almost  say,  without 
ever  having  lived.  And  so  kind  and  warm  a 
soul ;  so  full  of  inborn  riches,  of  love  to  all 
living  and  lifeless  things!  How  his  heart 
flows  out  in  sympathy  over  universal  nature; 
and  in  her  bleakest  provinces  discerns  a 
beauty  and  a  meaning !  The  "  Daisy"  falls 
not  unheeded  under  his  ploughshare;  nor  the 
ruined  nest  of  that  "  wee,  cowering,  timorous 
beastie,"  cast  forth,  after  all  its  provident 
pains,  to  "  thole  the  sleety  dribble,  and  cran- 
reuch  cauld."  The  "hoar  visage"  of  Winter 
delights  him :  he  dwells  with  a  sad  and  oft- 
returning  fondness  in  these  scenes  of  solemn 
desolation ;  but  the  voice  of  the  tempest  be- 
comes an  anthem  to  his  ears ;  he  loves  to  walk 
in  the  sounding  woods,  for  "it  raises  his 
13 


thoughts  to  Him  that  walketh  on  the  vnngs  of  the 
rjuind"  A  true  Poet-soul,  for  it  needs  but  to  be 
struck,  and  the  sound  it  yields  will  be  music  ! 
But  observe  him  chiefly  as  he  mingles  with 
his  brother  men.  What  warm,  all-compre- 
hending, fellow-feeling,  what  trustful,  bound- 
less love,  what  generous  exaggeration  of  the 
object  loved !  His  rustic  friend,  his  nut-brown 
maiden,  are  no  longer  mean  and  homely,  but 
a  hero  and  a  queen,  whom  he  prizes  as  the 
paragons  of  Earth.  The  rough  scenes  of 
Scottish  life,  not  seen  by  him  in  any  Arcadian 
illusion,  but  in  the  rude  contradiction,  in  the 
smoke  and  soil  of  a  too  harsh  reality,  are  still 
lovely  to  him :  Poverty  is  indeed  his  compa- 
nion, but  Love  also,  and  Courage  ;  the  simple 
feelings,  the  worth,  the  nobleness,  that  dwell 
under  the  straw  roof,  are  dear  and  venerable 
to  his  heart;  and  thus  over  the  lowest  pro- 
vinces of  man's  existence  he  pours  the  glory 
of  his  own  soul;  and  they  rise,  in  shadow  and 
sunshine,  softened  and  brightened  into  a 
beauty  which  other  eyes  discern  not  in  the 
highest.  He  has  a  just  self-consciousness, 
which  too  often  degenerates  into  pride ;  yet  it 
is  a  noble  pride,  for  defence,  not  for  offence, 
no  cold,  suspicious  feeling,  but  a  frank  and 
social  one.  The  peasant  Poet  bears  himself, 
we  might  say,  like  a  King  in  exile :  he  is  cast 
among  the  low,  and  feels  himself  equal  to  the 
highest;  yet  he  claims  no  rank,  that  none  may 
be  disputed  to  him.  The  forward  he  can  re- 
pel, the  supercilious  he  can  subdue ;  preten- 
sions of  wealth  or  ancestry  are  of  no  avail 
with  him ;  there  is  a  fire  in  that  dark  eye,  un- 
der which  the  "insolence  of  condescension" 
cannot  thrive.  In  his  abasement,  in  his  ex- 
treme need,  he  forgets  not  for  a  moment  the 
majesty  of  Poetry  and  Manhood.  And  yet,  far 
as  he  feels  himself  above  common  men,  he 
wanders  not  apart  from  them,  but  mixes 
warmly  in  their  interests ;  nay,  throws  himself 
into  their  arms ;  and,  as  it  were,  entreats  them 
to  love  him.  It  is  moving  to  see  how,  in  his 
darkest  despondency,  this  proud  being  still 
seeks  relief  from  friendship;  unbosoms  him- 
self, often  to  the  unworthy ;  and,  amid  tears, 
strains  to  his  glowing  heart  a  heart  that  knows 
only  the  name  of  friendship.  And  yet  he  was 
"  quick  to  learn  ;"  a  man  of  keen  vision,  before 
whom  common  disguises  afforded  no  conceal- 
ment. His  understanding  saw  through  the 
hoUowness  even  of  accomplished  deceivers; 
but  there  was  a  generous  credulity  in  his 
Heart.  And  so  did  our  Peasant  show  himself 
among  us ;  "a  soul  like  an  ^olian  harp,  in 
whose  strings  the  vulgar  wind,  as  it  passedi 
through  them,  changed  itself  into  articulate- 
melody."  And  this  was  he  for  whom  the 
world  found  no  fitter  business  than  quarrelling 
with  smugglers  and  vintners,  computing  ex- 
cise dues  upon  tallow,  and  gauging  alebarrels  ! 
In  such  toils  was  that  mighty  Spirit  sorrow- 
fully wasted:  and  a  hundred  years  may  pass 
on,  before  another  such  is  given  us  to  waste. 

All  that  remains  of  Burns,  the  Writings  he 
has  left,  seem  to  us,  as  we  hinted  abov^e,  no 
more  than  a  poor  mutilated  fraction  of  what 
was  in  him ;  brief,  broken  glimpses  of  a  genius 
that  could  never  show  itself  complete;  that 
I 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


wanted  all  things  for  completeness:  culture, 
leisure,  true  effort,  nay,  even  length  of  life. 
His  poems  are,  with  scarcely  any  exception, 
mere  occasional  effusions,  poured  forth  with 
little  premeditation,  expressing,  by  such  means 
as  offered,  the  passion,  opinion,  or  humour  of 
the  hour.  Never  in  one  instance  was  it  per- 
mitted him  to  grapple  with  any  subject  with 
the  full  collection  of  his  strength,  to  fuse  and 
mould  it  in  the  concentrated  fire  of  his  genius. 
To  try  by  the  strict  rules  of  Art  such  imperfect 
fragments,  would  be  at  once  unprofitable  and 
unfair.  Nevertheless,  there  is  something  in 
these  poems,  marred  and  defective  as  they  are, 
which  forbids  the  most  fastidious  student  of 
poetry  to  pass  them  by.  Some  sort  of  enduring 
quality  they  must  have;  for,  after  fifty  years 
of  the  wildest  vicissitudes  in  poetic  taste,  they 
still  continue  to  be  read ;  nay,  are  read  more 
and  more  eagerly,  more  and  more  extensively ; 
and  this  not  only  by  literary  virtuosos,  and  that 
class  upon  whom  transitory  causes  operate 
most  strongly,  but  by  all  classes,  down  to  the 
most  hard,  unlettered,  and  truly  natural  class, 
who  read  little,  and  especially  no  poetry,  ex- 
cept because  they  find  pleasure  in  it.  The 
grounds  of  so  singular  and  wide  a  popularity, 
which  extends,  in  a  literal  sense,  from  the 
palace  to  the  hut,  and  over  all  regions  where 
the  English  tongue  is  spoken,  are  well  worth 
inquiring  into.  After  every  just  deduction,  it 
seems  to  imply  some  rare  excellence  in  these 
works.    What  is  that  excellence  1 

To  answer  this  question  will  not  lead  us  far. 
The  excellence  of  Burns  is,  indeed,  among  the 
rarest,  whether  in  poetry  or  prose ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  it  is  plain  and  easily  recognised : 
his    Sincerity,  his    indisputable    air  of  Truth. 
Here  are  no  fabulous  woes  or  joys  ;  no  hollow 
fantastic  sentimentalities;    no  wiredrawn  re- 
finings,  either  in  thought  or  feeling :  the  pas- 
sion that  is  traced  before  us  has  glowed  in  a 
living  heart;  the  opinion  he  utters  has  risen  in 
his  own  understanding,  and  been  a  light  to  his 
own  steps.     He  does  not  write  from  hearsay, 
but  from  sight  and  experience  ;  it  is  the  scenes 
he   has   lived  and  laboured  amidst,  that   he 
describes :  those  scenes,  rude  and  humble  as 
they  are,  have  kindled  beautiful  emotions,  in 
his  soul,  noble  thoughts,  and  definite  resolyes  ; 
and  he  speaks  forth  what  is  in  him,  not  from 
any  outward   call   of  vanity  or  interest,  but 
because  his  heart  is  too  full  to  be  silent.     He 
speaks  it,  too,  with  such  melody  and  modula- 
tion as  he  can  ;  "  in  homely  rustic  jingle ;"  but 
it  is  his  own,  and  genuine.     This  is  the  grand 
secret  for  finding  readers  and  retaining  them: 
let  him  who  would  move  and  convince  others, 
be  first  moved  and  convinced  himself  Horace's 
rule,  Si  vis  me  flere,  is   applicable  in  a  wider 
sense  than  the  literal  one.    To  every  poet,  to 
every  writer,  we  might  say :  Be  true,  if  you 
would  be  believed.    Let  a  man  but  speak  forth 
with  genuine  earnestness  the  thought,  the  emo- 
tion, the  actual  condition,  of  his  own  heart; 
and  other  men,  so  strangely  are  we  all  knit 
together  by  the  tie   of  sympathy,  must  and 
will  give  heed  to  him.     In  culture,  in  extent 
of  view,  we  may  stand  above  the  speaker,  or 
below  him ;  but  in  either  case,  his  words,  if 
they  are  earnest  and  sincere,  will  find  some 


response  uathin  us ;  for  in  spite  of  all  casual 
varieties  in  outward  rank,  or  inward,  as  face 
answers  to  face,  so  does  the  heart  of  man  to 
man. 

This  may  appear  a  very  simple  principle, 
and  one  which  Burns  had  little  merit  in  dis- 
covering.   True,  the  discovery  is  easy  enough : 
but   the   practical   appliance  is   not  easy;  is 
indeed   the   fundamental   difliculty  which   all 
poets  have  to  strive  with,  and  which  scarcely 
one  in  the  hundred  ever  fairly  surmounts.    A 
head  too  dull  to  discriminate  the  true  from  the 
false ;  a  heart  too  dull  to  love  the  one  at  all 
risks,  and  to  hate   the  other  in  spite  of  all 
temptations,  are  alike  fatal  to  a  writer.     With 
either,  or,  as  more  commonly  happens,  with 
both,  of  these  deficiencies,  combine  a  love  of 
distinction,  a  wish  to  be  original,  which  is  sel- 
dom  wanting,  and  we   have  Affectation,  the 
bane  of  literature,  as  Cant,  its  elder  brother,  is 
of  morals.    How  often  does  the  one  and  the 
other  front  us,  in  poetry,  as  in  life !     Great 
poets  themselves  are  not  always  free  of  this 
vice ;  nay,  it  is  precisely  on  a  certain  sort  and 
degree  of  greatness  that  it  is  most  commonly 
ingrafted.    A  strong  effort  after  excellence  will 
sometimes  solace  itself  with  a  mere  shadow 
of  success,  and  he  who  has  much  to  unfold, 
will  sometimes  unfold  it  imperfectly.    Byron, 
for  instance,  was  no  common  man:  yet  if  we 
examine  his  poetry  with  this  view,  we  shall 
find  it  far  enough  from  faultless.     Generally 
speaking,  we  should  say  that  it  is  not  true. 
He  refreshes  us,  not  with  the  divine  fountain, 
but  too  often  with  vulgar  strong  waters,  stimu- 
lating indeed  to  the  taste,  but  soon  ending  in  dis- 
like^or  even  nausea.     Are  his   Harolds   and 
Giaours,  we  would  ask,  real  men,  we  mean, 
poetically  consistent  and  conceivable  men  ?  Do 
not  these  characters,  does  not  the  character  of 
their  author,  which  more  or  less  shines  through 
them  all,  rather  appear  a  thing  put  on  for  the 
occasion ;   no   natural   or   possible   mode    of 
being,  but  something  intended  to  look  much 
grander  than  nature  1     Surely,  all  these  storm- 
ful  agonies,  this  volcanic  heroism,  superhuman 
contempt,   and   moody   desperation,   with   so 
much  scowling,  and  teeth-gnashing,  and  other 
sulphurous  humours,  is  more  like  the  brawling 
of  a  player  in  some  paltry  tragedy,  which  is  to 
last  three  hours,  than  the  bearing  of  a  man  in 
the  business  of  life,  which  is  to  last  three-score 
and  ten  years.     To  our  minds,  there  is  a  taint 
of  this  sort,  something  which  we  should  call 
theatrical,  false,  and  affected,  in  every  one  of 
these  otherwise  powerful  pieces.    Perhaps  Don 
Juan,  especially  the  latter  parts  of  it,  is  the 
only  thing  approaching  to  a  sincere  work,  he 
ever  wrote ;  the  only  work  where  he  showed 
himself,   in   any   measure,   as   he   was;   and 
seemed  so  intent  on  his  subject,  as,  for  mo- 
ments, to  forget   himself.    Yet   Byron   hated 
this  vice;  we  believe,  heartily  detested  it:  nay, 
he  had  declared  formal  war  against  it  in  words. 
So  difficult  is  it  even  for  the  strongest  to  make 
this  primary  attainment,  which  might   seem 
the  simplest  of  all :  to  read  its  own  consciousness 
without  mistakes,  without  errors  involuntary  or 
wilful !     We  recollect  no  poet  of  Burns's  sus- 
ceptibility who  comes  before  us  from  the  first, 
and  abides  with  us  to  the  last,  with  such  a  total 


BURNS. 


99 


want  of  affectation.  He  is  an  honest  man,  and 
an  honest  writer.  In  his  successes  and  his 
failures,  in  his  greatness  and  his  littleness,  he 
is  ever  clear,  simple,  true,  and  glitters  with  no 
lustre  but  his  own.  We  reckon  this  to  be  a 
great  virtue ;  to  be,  in  fact,  the  root  of  most 
other  virtues,  literary  as  well  as  moral. 

It  is  necessary,  however,  to  mention,  that  it 
is  to  the  poetry  of  Burns  that  we  now  allude ; 
to  those  writings  which  he  had  time  to  medi- 
tate, and  where  no  special  reason  existed  to 
warp  his  critical  feeling,  or  obstruct  his  en- 
deavour to  fulfil  it.  Certain  of  his  Letters,  and 
other  fractions  of  prose  composition,  by  no 
means  deserve  this  praise.  Here,  doubtless, 
there  is  not  the  same  natural  truth  of  style  ; 
but  on  the  contrary,  something  not  only  stiff, 
but  strained  and  twisted ;  a  certain  high-flown, 

,  inflated  tone  ;  the  stilting  emphasis  of  which 
contrasts  ill  with  the  firmness  and  rugged 
simplicity  of  even  his  poorest  verses.  Thus 
no  man,  it  would  appear,  is  altogether  un- 
affected. Does  not  Shakspeare  himself  some- 
times premeditate  the  sheerest  bombast !  But 
even  with  regard  to  these  Letters  of  Burns,  it 
is  but  fair  to  state  that  he  had  two  excuses. 
The  first  was  his  comparative  deficiency  in 
language.  Burns,  though  for  most  part  he 
writes  with  singular  force,  and  even  graceful- 
ness, is  not  master  of  English  prose,  as  he  is 
of  Scottish  verse  ;  not  master  of  it,  we  mean, 
in  proportion  to  the  depth  and  vehemence  of 
his  matter.  These  Letters  strike  us  as  the 
effort  of  a  man  to  express  something  which 
he  has  no  organ  fit  for  expressing.  But  a 
second  and  weightier  excuse  is  to  be  found  in 
the  peculiarity  of  Burns's  social  rank.  His 
correspondents  are  often  men  whose  relation 
to  him  he  has  never  accurately  ascertained ; 
whom  therefore  he  is  either  forearming  him- 
self against,  or  else  unconsciously  flattering, 
by  adopting  the  style  he  thinks  will  please 
them.  At  all  events,  we  should  remember  that 
these  faults,  even  in  his  Letters,  are  not  the 
rule,  but  the  exception.  Whenever  he  writes, 
as  one  would  ever  wish  to  do,  to  trusted  friends 
and  on  real  interests,  his  style  becomes  simple, 
vigorous,  expressive,  sometimes  even  beauti- 
ful. His  Letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are  uniform- 
ly excellent. 

But  we  return  to  his  poetry.  In  addition  to 
its  sincerity,  it  has  another  peculiar  merit, 
which  indeed  is  but  a  mode,  or  perhaps  a 
means,  of  the  foregoing.  It  displays  itself  in 
his  choice  of  subjects,  or  rather  in  his  in- 
difference as  to  subjects,  and  the  power  he  has 
of  making  all  subjects  interesting.  The  ordina- 
ry  poet,  like  the  ordinary  man.  :i§   for  ever 

*seeFmg,  in  externarcircumstanceL  the  help 
which  can  b'e  tound  only  in  hims_elf.  In  what 
is  familiar  aiid  near  at  hand,  he  discerns  no 
form  or  comeliness  :  home  is  not  poetical  but 
prosaic ;  it  is  in  some  past,  distant,  conven- 
tional world,  that  poetry  resides  for  him  ; 
were  he  there  and  not  here,  were  he  thus  and 
not  so,  it  would  be  well  with  him.  Hence  our 
innumerable  host  of  rose-coloured  novels  and 
iron-mailed  epics,  with  their  locality  not  on  the 
Earth,  but  somewhere  nearer  to  the  Moon. 
Hence  our  Virgins  of  the  Sun, and  our  Knights 
of  the  Cro§s,  malicious  Saracens  in  turbans. 


and  copper-coloured  Chiefs  in  wampum,  and  so 
many  other  truculent  figures  from  the  heroic 
times  or  the  heroic  climates,  who  on  all  hands 
swarm  in  our  poetry.  Peace  be  with  them ! 
But  yet,  as  a  great  moralist  proposed  preach- 
ing to  the  men  of  this  century,  so  would  we 
fain  preach  to  the  poets,  "  a  sermon  on  the 
duty  of  staying  at  home."  Let  them  be  sure 
that  heroic  ages  and  heroic  climates  can  do 
little  for  them.  That  form  of  life  has  attraction 
for  us,  less  because  it  is  better  or  nobler  than 
our  own,  than  simply  because  it  is  different; 
and  even  this  attraction  must  be  of  the  most 
transient  sort.  For  will  not  our  own  age,  one 
day,  be  an  ancient  one;  and  have  as  quaint 
a  costume  as  the  rest;  not  contrasted  with  the 
rest,  therefore,  but  ranked  along  with  them, 
in  respect  of  quaintness]  Does  Homer  in- 
terest us  now,  because  he  wrote  of  what 
passed  out  of  his  native  Greece,  and  two  cen- 
turies before  he  was  born ;  or  because  he 
wrote  of  what  passed  in  God's  world,  and  in  the 
heart  of  man,  which  is  the  same  after  thirty 
centuries  1  Let  our  poets  look  to  this  :  is  their 
feeling  really  finer,  truer,  and  their  vision 
deeper  than  that  of  other  men,  they  have  no- 
thing to  fear,  even  from  the  humblest  subject ; 
is  it  not  so, — they  have  nothing  to  hope,  but  an 
ephemeral  favour,  even  from  the  highest. 

The  poet,  we  cannot  but  think,  can  never 
have  far  to  seek  for  a  subject:  the  elements 
of  his  art  are  in  him,  and  around  him  on  every 
hand ;  for  him  the  Ideal  world  is  not  remote 
from  the  Actual,  but  under  it  and  within  it: 
nay,  he  is  a  poet,  precisely  because  he  can 
discern  it  there.  Wherever  there  is  a  sky 
above  him,  and  a  world  around  him,  the  poet 
is  in  his  place  ;  for  here  too  is  man's  exist- 
ence, with  its  infinite  longings  and  small 
acquirings ;  its  ever-thwarted,  ever-renewed 
endeavours;  its  unspeakable  aspirations,  its 
fears  and  hopes  that  wander  through  Eternity : 
and  all  the  mysteryof  brightness  and  of  gloom 
that  it  was  ever  made  of,  in  any  age  or  cli- 
mate, since  man  first  began  to  live.  Is  there 
not  the  fifth  act  of  a  Tragedy  in  every  death- 
bed, though  it  were  a  peasant's  and  a  bed  of 
heath  ?  And  are  wooings  and  weddings  ob- 
solete, that  there  can  be  Comedy  no  longer  ? 
Or  are  men  suddenly  grown  wise,  that  Laugh- 
ter must  no  longer  shake  his  sides,  but  be 
cheated  of  his  Farce  ]  Man's  life  and  nature 
is,  as  it  was,  and  as  it  will  ever  be.  But  the 
poet  must  have  an  eye  to  read  these  things, 
and  a  heart  to  understand  them  ;  or  they  come 
and  pass  away  before  him  in  vain.  He  is  a 
vates,  a  seer;  a  gift  of  vision  has  been  given 
him.  Has  life  no  meanings  for  him,  which 
another  cannot  equally  decipher]  then  he  is  no 
poet,  and  Delphi  itself  will  not  make  him  one. 

In  this  respect,  Burns,  though  not  perhaps 
absolutely  a  great  poet,  better  manifests  his 
capability,  better  proves  the  truth  of  his  genius, 
than  if  he  had,  by  his  own  strength,  kept  the 
whole  Minerva  Press  going,  to  the  end  of  his 
literary  course.  He  shows  himself  at  least  a 
poet  of  Nature's  own  making ;  and  Nature, 
after  all,  is  still  the  grand  agent  in  making 
poets.  We  often  hear  of  this  and  the  other 
external  condition  being  requisite  for  the  ex- 
istence of  a  poet.     Sometimes  it  is  a  certain 


100 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sort  of  training ;  he  must  have  studied  certain 
things,  studied  for  instance  "  the  elder  dra- 
matists," and  so  learned  a  poetic  language ; 
as  if  poetry  lay  in  the  tongue,  not  in  the  heart. 
At  other  times  we  are  told,  he  must  be  bred  in 
a  certain  rank,  and  must  be  on  a  confidential 
footing  with  the  higher  classes;  because, 
above  all  other  things,  he  must  see  the  world. 
As  to  seeing  the  world,  we  apprehend  this 
will  cause  him  little  difficulty,  if  he  have  but 
an  eye  to  see  it  with.  Without  eyes,  indeed, 
the  task  might  be  hard.  But  happily  every 
poet  is  born  in  the  world,  and  sees  it,  with  or 
against  his  will,  every  day  and  every  hour  he 
lives.  The  mysterious  workmanship  of  man's 
heart,  the  true  light  and  the  inscrutable  dark- 
ness of  man's  destiny,  reveal  themselves  not 
only  in  capital  cities,  and  crowded  saloons, 
but  in  every  hut  and  hamlet  where  men  have 
their  abode.  Nay,  do  not  the  elements  of  all 
human  virtues,  and  all  human  vices;  the 
passions  at  once  of  a  Borgia  and  of  a  Luther, 
lie  written,  in  stronger  or  fainter  lines,  in  the 
consciousness  of  every  individual  bosom,  that 
has  practised  honest  self-examination  1  Truly, 
this  same  world  may  be  seen  in  Mossgiel  and 
Tarbolton,  if  we  look  well,  as  clearly  as  it 
ever  came  to  light  in  Crockford's,  or  the 
Tuileries  itself. 

But  sometimes  still  harder  requisitions  are 
laid  on  the  poor  aspirant  to  poetry ;  for  it  is 
hinted  that  he  should  have  been  born  two  cen- 
turies ago ;  inasmuch  as  poetry,  soon  after 
that  date,  vanished  from  the  earth,  and  became 
no  longer  attainable  by  men  !  Such  cobweb 
speculations  have,  now  and  then,  overhung 
the  field  of  literature ;  but  they  obstruct  not 
the  growth  of  any  plant  there:  the  Shakspeare 
or  the  Burns,  unconsciously,  and  merely  as 
he  walks  onward,  silently  brushes  them  away. 
Is  not  every  genius  an  Impossibility  till  he  ap- 
pear 1  Why  do  we  call  him  new  and  original, 
if  we  saw  where  his  marble  was  lying,  and 
what  fabric  he  could  rear  from  it  1  It  is  not 
the  material  but  the  workman  that  is  wanting. 
It  is  not  the  dark  place  that  hinders,  but  the 
dim  eye.  A  Scottish  peasant's  life  was  the 
meanest  and  rudest  of  all  lives,  till  Burns  be- 
came a  poet  in  it,  and  a  poet  of  it ;  found  it 
a  wiaw's  life,  and  therefore  significant  to  men. 
A  thousand  battle-fields  remain  unsung ;  but 
the  Wounded  Hare  has  not  perished  without  its 
memorial ;  a  balm  of  mercy  yet  breathes  on 
us  from  its  dumb  agonies,  because  a  poet  was 
there.  Our  Halloween  had  passed  and  repassed, 
in  rude  awe  and  laughter,  since  the  era  of  the 
Druids;  but  no  Theocritus,  till  Burns,  dis- 
cerned in  it  the  materials  of  a  Scottish  Idyl : 
neither  was  the  Holy  Fair  any  Council  of  Trent, 
or  Roman  Jubilee ;  but  nevertheless,  Supersti- 
tion, and  Hypocrisy,  and  Fun  having  been  pro- 
pitious to  him,  in  this  man's  hand  it  became  a 
poem,  instinct  with  satire,  and  genuine  comic 
life.  Let  but  the  true  poet  be  given  us,  we 
repeat  it,  place  him  where  and  how  you  will, 
and  true  poetry  will  not  be  wanting. 

Independently  of  the  essential  gift  of  poetic 
feeling,  as  we  have  now  attempted  to  describe 
it,  a  certain  rugged  sterling  worth  pervades 
whatever  Burns  has  written :  a  virtue,  as  of 
green  fields  and  mountain  breezes,  dwells  in 


his  poetry ;  it  is  redolent  of  natural  life,  and 
hardy,  natural    men.    There    is    a    decisive 
strength   in   him ;    and    yet  a  sweet    native 
gracefulness :    he  is  tender,  and  he   is  vehe- 
ment, yet  without  constraint  or  too  visible  ef- 
fort ;  he  melts  the  heart,  or  inflames  it,  with  a 
power  which  seems  habitual  and  familiar  to 
him.     We  see  in  him  the  gentleness,  the  trem- 
bling pity  of  a  woman,  with  the  deep  earnest- 
ness, the  force   and  passionate  ardour  of  a 
hero.     Tears  lie  in  him,  and  consuming  fire  ; 
as  lightning  lurks  in  the  drops  of  the  summer 
cloud.     He  has  a  resonance  in  his  bosom  for 
every  note  of  human  feeling  :  the  high  and  the 
low,  the  sad,  the  ludicrous,  the  joyful,  are  wel- 
come in  their  turns  to  his  "  lightly-moved  and 
all-conceiving  spirit."    And  observe  with  what 
a  prompt  and  eager  force  he  grasps  his  subject, 
be  it  what  it  may  !     How  he  fixes,  as  it  were, 
the  full  image  of  the  matter  in  his  eye ;  full 
and  clear  in  every  lineament ;  and  catches  the 
real  type  and  essence  of  it,  amid  a  thousand 
accidents   and   superficial  circumstances,  no 
one  of  which  misleads  him  !     Is  it  of  reason ; 
some  truth  to  be  discovered  1    No  sophistry,  no 
vain  surface-logic  detains  him ;   quick,  reso- 
lute, unerring,  he   pierces   through   into   the 
marrow  of  the  question  ;  and  speaks  his  ver- 
dict with  an  emphasis  that  cannot  be  forgot- 
ten.   Is  it  of  description ;  some  visual  object 
to  be  represented  1     No  poet  of  any  age  or 
nation  is  more  graphic  than  Burns :  the  cha- 
racteristic features  disclose  themselves  to  him 
at  a  glance ;  three  lines  from  his  hand,  and 
we  have  a  likeness.     And,  in  that  rough  dia- 
lect, in  that  rude,  often  awkward,  metre,  so 
clear,  and  definite  a  likeness !      It  seems   a 
draughtsman  working  with  a  burnt  stick  ;  and 
yet  the  burin  of  a  Retzsch  is  not  more  expres- 
sive or  exact. 

This  clearness  of  sight  we  may  call  the 
foundation  of  all  talent;  for  in  fact,  unless  we 
see  our  object,  how  shall  we  know  how  to  place 
or  prize  it,  in  our  understanding,  our  imagi- 
nation, our  affections'?  Yet  it  is  not  in  itself 
perhaps  a  very  high  excellence ;  but  capable 
of  being  united  indifferently  with  the  strong- 
est, or  with  ordinary  powers.  Homer  sur- 
passes all  men  in  this  quality:  but  strangely 
enough,  at  no  great  distance  below  him  are 
Richardson  and  Defoe.  It  belongs,  in  truth, 
to  what  is  called  a  lively  mind :  and  gives  no 
sure  indication  of  the  higher  endowments  that 
may  exist  along  with  it.  In  all  the  three  cases 
we  have  mentioned,  it  is  combined  with  great 
garrulity ;  their  descriptions  are  detailed,  am- 
ple, and  lovingly  exact ;  Homer's  fire  bursts 
through,  from  time  to  time,  as  if  by  accident ; 
but  Defoe  and  Richardson  have  no  fire. 
Burns,  again,  is  not  more  distinguished  by 
the  clearness  than  by  the  impetuous  force  of 
his  conceptions.  Of  the  strength,  the  piercing 
emphasis  with  which  he  thought,  his  empha- 
sis of  expression  may  give  an  humble  but  the 
readiest  proof.  Who  ever  uttered  sharper 
sayings  than  his;  words  more  memorable,  now 
by  their  burning  vehemence,  now  by  their  cool 
vigour  and  laconic  pith  1  A  single  phrase  de- 
picts a  whole  subject,  a  whole  scene.  Our 
Scottish  forefathers  in  the  battle-field  struggled 
forward,  he  says,  "  red-wat  shod : "  giving,  in 


BURNS. 


101 


this  one  word,  a  full  vision  of  horror  and  car- 
nage, perhaps  too  frightfully  accurate  for  Art ! 

In  fact,  one  of  the  leading  features  in  the 
mind  of  Burns  is  this  vigour  of  his  strictly 
intellectual  perceptions.  A  resolute  force  is 
ever  visible  in  his  judgments,  as  in  his  feel- 
ings and  volitions.  Professor  Stewart  says  of 
him,  with  some  surprise :  "  All  the  faculties 
of  Burns's  mind  were,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
equally  vigorous  ;  and  his  predilection  for  po- 
etry was  rather  the  result  of  his  own  enthusi- 
astic and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a  genius 
exclusively  adapted  to  that  species  of  compo- 
sition. From  his  conversation  I  should  have 
pronounced  him  to  be  fitted  to  excel  in  what- 
ever walk  of  ambition  he  had  chosen  to  exert 
his  abilities."  But  this,  if  we  mistake  not,  is 
at  all  times  the  very  essence  of  a  truly  poet- 
ical endowment.  Poetry,  except  in  such  cases 
as  that  of  Keats,  where  the  whole  consists  in 
extreme  sensibility,  and  a  certain  vague  per- 
vading tunefulness  of  nature,  is  no  separate 
faculty,  no  organ  which  can  be  superadded  to 
the  rest,  or  disjoined  from  them  ;  but  rather 
the  result  of  their  general  harmony  and  com- 
pletion. The  feelings,  the  gifts,  that  exist  in 
the  Poet,  are  those  that  exist,  with  more  or 
less  development,  in  every  human  soul :  the 
imagination,  which  shudders  at  the  Hell  of 
Dante,  is  the  same  faculty,  weaker  in  degree, 
which  called  that  picture  into  being.  How 
does  the  poet  speak  to  all  men,  with  power,  but 
by  being  still  more  a  man  than  they  1  Shak- 
speare,  it  has  been  well  observed,  in  the  plan- 
ning and  completing  of  his  tragedies,  has 
shown  an  Understanding,  were  it  nothing  more, 
which  might  have  governed  states,  or  indited 
a  Novum  Organum.  What  Burns's  force  of  un- 
derstanding may  have  been,  we  have  less 
means  of  judging :  for  it  dwelt  among  the 
humblest  objects,  never  saw  philosophy,  and 
never  rose,  except  for  short  intervals,  into  the 
region  of  great  ideas.  Nevertheless,  suffi- 
cient indication  remains  for  us  in  his  works: 
we  discern  the  brawny  movements  of  a  gigan- 
tic though  untutored  strength,  and  can  under- 
stand how,  in  conversation,  his  quick,  sure 
insight  into  men  and  things  may,  as  much  as 
aught  else  about  him,  have  amazed  the  best 
thinkers  of  his  time  and  country. 

But,  unless  we  mistake,  the  intellectual  gift 
of  Burns  is  fine  as  well  as  strong.  The  more 
delicate  relations  of  things  could  not  well  have 
escaped  his  eye,  for  they  were  intimately  pre- 
sent to  his  heart.  The  logic  of  the  senate  and 
the  forum  is  indispensable,  but  not  all-suffi- 
cient; nay,  perhaps  the  highest  Truth  is  that 
which  will  the  most  certainly  elude  it.  For 
this  logic  works  by  words,  and  "  the  highest," 
it  has  been  said,  "cannot  be  expressed  in 
words."  We  are  not  without  tokens  of  an 
openness  for  this  higher  truth  also,  of  a  keen 
though  uncultivated  sense  for  it,  having  exist- 
ed in  Burns.  Mr.  Stewart,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, "  wonders,"  in  the  passage  above  quoted, 
that  Burns  had  formed  some  distinct  concep- 
tion of  the  "doctrine  of  association."  We  ra- 
ther think  that  far  subtiler  things  than  the 
doctrine  of  association  had  from  of  old  been  fa- 
miliar to  him.    Here  for  instance  : 


"  We  know  nothing,"  thus  writes  he,  "  or 
next  to  nothing,  of  the  structure  of  our  souls, 
so  we  cannot  account  for  those  seeming  ca- 
prices in  them,  that  one  should  be  particularly 
pleased  with  this  thing,  or  strack  with  that, 
which,  on  minds  of  a  different  cast,  makes  no 
extraordinary  impression.  I  have  some  fa- 
vourite flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are 
the  mountain-daisy,  the  hare-bell,  the  fox-glove, 
the  wild-brier  rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the 
hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang  over 
with  particular  delighf.  I  never  hear  the  loud 
solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a  summer 
noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence  of  a  troop  of 
gray  plover  in  an  autumnal  morning,  without 
feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm 
of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend, 
to  what  can  this  be  owing]  Are  we  a  piece 
of  machinery,  which,  like  the  ^olian  harp, 
passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing 
accident ;  or  do  these  workings  argue  some- 
thing within  us  above  the  trodden  clod  ]  I 
own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those 
awful  and  important  realities :  a  God  that  made 
all  things,  man's  immaterial  and  immortal  na- 
ture, and  a  world  of  weal  or  wo  beyond  death 
and  the  grave." 

Force  and  fineness  of  understanding  are 
often  spoken  of  as  something  different  from 
general  force  and  fineness  of  nature,  as  some- 
thing partly  independent  of  them.  The  neces- 
sities of  language  probably  require  this ;  but 
in  truth  these  qualities  are  not  distinct  and  in- 
dependent :  except  in  special  cases,  and  from 
special  causes,  they  ever  go  together.  A  man 
of  strong  understanding  is  generally  a  man  of 
strong  character;  neither  is  delicacy  in  the 
one  kind  often  divided  from  delicacy  in  the 
other.  No  one,  at  all  events,  is  ignorant  that 
in  the  poetry  of  Burns,  keenness  of  insight 
keeps  pace  with  keenness  of  feeling;  that  his 
light  is  not  more  pervading  than  his  warmth. 
He  is  a  man  of  the  most  impassioned  temper  ; 
with  passions  not  strong  only,  but  noble,  and 
of  the  sort  in  which  great  virtues  and  great 
poems  take  their  rise.  It  is  reverence,  it  is 
Love  towards  all  Nature  that  inspires  him,  that 
opens  his  eyes  to  its  beaut}',  and  makes  heart 
and  voice  eloquent  in  its  praise.  There  is  a 
true  old  saying,  that  "love  furthers  know- 
ledge :"  but  above  all,  it  is  the  living  essence 
of  that  knowledge  which  makes  poets  ;  the  first 
principle  of  its  existence,  increase,  activit)\ 
Of  Burns's  fervid  affection,  his  generous,  all- 
embracing  Love,  we  have  spoken  already,  as 
of  the  grand  distinction  of  his  nature,  seen 
equally  in  word  and  deed,  in  his  Life  and  in 
his  Writings.  It  were  easy  to  multiply  ex- 
amples. Not  man  only,  but  all  that  environs 
man  in  the  material  and  moral  universe,  is 
lovely  in  his  sight:  "  the  hoary  hawthorn,"  the 
"  troop  of  gray  plover,"  the  "  solitary  curlew," 
are  all  dear  to  him  ;  all  live  in  this  Earth  along 
with  him,  and  to  all  he  is  knit  as  in  mysterious 
brotherhood.  How  touching  is  it,  for  instance, 
that,  amidst  the  gloom  of  personal  misery, 
brooding  over  the  wintry  desolation  without 
him  and  within  him,  he  thinks  of  the  "  ourie 
cattle"  and  "silly  sheep,"  and  their  sufferings 
in  the  pitiless  storm ! 

I  2 


102 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


X 


I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  wintry  war; 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scaur. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  month  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  1 
Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 

And  close  thy  ee  ? 

The  tenaDt  of  the  mean  hut,  with  its  "ragged 
roof  and  chinky  walJ,"  has  a  heart  to  pity  even 
these !  This  is  worth  several  homilies  on 
Mercy :  for  it  is  the  voice  of  Mercy  herself. 
Burns,  indeed,  lives  in  sympathy ;  his  soul 
rushes  forth  into  all  realms  ot  being;  nothing 
that  has  existence  can  be  indifferent  to  him. 
The  very  Devil  he  cannot  hate  with  right  or- 
thodoxy ! 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  j 
O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men' ! 
Ye  aihlins  might, — I  dinna  ken, — 

Still  hae  a  stake ; 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Even  for  your  sake  ! 

He  did  not  know,  probably,  that  Sterne  had  "been 
beforehand  with  him.  "  '  He  is  the  father  of 
curses  and  lies,'  said  Dr.  Slop  ;  *  and  is  cursed 
and  damned  already.' — '  I  am  sorry  for  it,' 
quoth  my  uncle  Toby!" — "A  poet  without 
Love,  were  a  physical  and  metaphsyical  im- 
possibility." 

Why  should  we  speak  of  Scots,  wha  hae  un' 
Wallace  bled ;  since  all  know  it,  from  the  king 
to  the  meanest  of  his  subjects  1  This  dithyram- 
bic  was  composed  on  horseback ;  in  riding  in 
the  middle  of  tempests,  over  the  wildest  Gallo- 
way moor,  in  company  with  a  Mr.  Syme,  who, 
observing  the  poet's  looks,  forebore  to  speak, 
— judiciously  enough, — for  a  man  composing 
Bruce's  Address  might  be  unsafe  to  trifle  with 
Doubtless  this  stern  hymn  was  singing  itself, 
as  he  formed  it,  through  the  soul  of  Burns  ; 
but  to  the  external  ear,  it  should  be  sung  with 
the  throat  of  the  whirlwind.  So  long  as  there 
is  warm  blood  in  the  heart  of  Scotchman  or 
man,  it  will  move  in  fierce  thrills  under  this 
war-ode,  the  best,  we  believe,  that  was  ever 
written  by  any  pen. 

Another  wild  stormful  song,  that  dwells  in 
our  ear  and  mind  with  a  strange  tenacity,  is 
MarphersorCs  Farewell.  Perhaps  there  is  some- 
thingin  the  tradition  itself  that  co-operates.  For 
was  not  this  grim  Celt,  this  shaggy  Northland 
Cacus,  that  "  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife,  and 
died  by  treacherie,"  was  not  he  too  one  of  the 
Nimrods  and  Napoleons  of  the  earth,  in  the 
arena  of  his  own  remote  misty  glens,  for  want 
of  a  clearer  and  wider  one  ?  Nay,  was  there 
not  a  touch  of  grace  given  him  7  A  fibre  of 
love  and  softnejfes,  of  poetry  itself,  must  have 
lived  in  his  savage  heart ;  for  he  composed 
that  air  the  night  before  his  execution  ;  on  the 
wings  of  that  poor  melody,  his  better  soul 
would  soar  away  above  oblivion,  pain,  and  all 
the  ignominy  and  despair,  which,  like  an  ava- 
lanche, was  hurling  him  to  the  abyss  !  Here 
also,  as  at  Thebes,  and  in  Pelops'  line,  was 
material  Fate  matched  against  man's  Free- 
will ;  matched  in  bitterest  though  obscure  duel ; 


and  the  ethereal  soul  sunk  not,  even  in  its 
blindness,  without  a  cry  which  has  survived  it. 
But  who,  except  Burns,  could  have  given 
words  to  such  a  soul;  words  that  we  never 
listen  to  without  a  strange  half-barbarous,  half- 
poetic  fellow-feeling  1 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 
Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he ; 
""  He  plai/d  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round. 

Below  the  gallows  tree. 

Under  a  lighter  and  thinner  disguise,  the 
same  principle  of  Love,  which  we  have  re- 
cognised as  the  great  characteristic  of  Burns, 
and  of  all  true  poets,  occasionally  manifests 
itself  in  the  shape  of  Humour.  Everywhere, 
indeed,  in  his  sunny  moods,  a  full  buoyant 
flood  of  mirth  rolls  through  the  mind  of  Burns ; 
he  rises  to  the  high,  and  stoops  to  the  low,  and 
is  brother  and  playmate  to  all  Nature.  We 
speak  not  of  his  bold  and  often  irresistible 
faculty  of  caricature;  for  this  is  Drollery 
rather  than  Humour:  but  a  much  tenderer 
sportfulness  dwells  in  him ;  and  comes  forth 
here  and  there,  in  evanescent  and  beautiful 
touches ;  as  in  his  Address  to  the  Mouse,  or  the 
Farmcrh  Mure,  or  in  his  Ele^y  on  Poor  Mailie, 
which  last  may  be  reckoned  his  happiest  eflJbrt 
of  this  kind.  In  these  pieces,  there  are  traits 
of  a  Humour  as  fine  as  that  of  Sterne ;  yet 
altogether  difl^^rent,  original,  peculiar, — the 
Humour  of  Burns.    \ 

Of  the  tenderness,  the  playful  pathos,  and 
many  other  kindred  qualities  of  Burns's  poetry, 
much  more  might  be  said  ;  but  now,  with  these 
poor  outlines  of  a  sketch,  we  must  prepare  to 
quit  this  part  of  our  subject.  To  speak  of  his 
individual  writings,  adequately,  and  with  any 
detail,  would  lead  us  far  beyond  our  limits.  As 
already  hinted,  we  can  look  on  but  few  of  these 
pieces  as,  in  strict  critical  language,  deserving 
the  name  of  Poems;  they  are  rhymed  elo- 
quence, rhymed  pathos,  rhymed  sense ;  yet 
seldom  essentially  melodious,  aerial,  poetical. 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  itself,  which  enjoys  so  high  a 
favour,  does  not  appear  to  us,  at  all  decisively, 
to  come  under  this  last  category.  It  is  not  ^o 
much  a  poem,  as  a  piece  of  sparkling  rhetoric ; 
the  heart  and  body  of  the  story  still  lies  hard 
and  dead.  He  has  not  gone  back,  much  less 
carried  us  back,  into  that  dark,  earnest  won- 
dering age,  when  the  tradition  Avas  believed, 
and  when  it  took  its  rise  ;  he  does  not  attempt, 
by  any  new  modelling  of  his  supernatural 
ware,  to.  strike  anew  that  deep  mysterious 
chord  of  human  nature,  which  once  responded 
to  such  things  ;  and  which  lives  in  us  too,  and 
will  for  ever  live,  though  silent,  or  vibrating 
with  far  other  notes,  and  to  far  difl^erent  issues. 
Our  German  readers  will  understand  us,  when 
we  say,  that  he  is  not  the  Tieck  but  the 
Musaus  of  this  tale.  Externally  it  is  all  green 
and  living ;  yet  look  closer,  it  is  no  firm  growth, 
but  only  ivy  on  a  rock.  The  piece  does  not 
properly  cohere ;  the  strange  chasm  which 
yawns  in  our  incredulous  imaginations  be- 
tween the  Ayr  public-house  and  the  gate  of 
Tophet,  is  nowhere  bridged  over,  nay,  the  idea 
of  such  a  bridge  is  laughed  at;  and  thus  the 
Tragedy  of  the  adventure  becomes  a  mere 
drunken  phantasmagoria,  painted  on  ale- 
vaporus,  and  the  farce  alone  has  any  reality 


BURNS. 


103 


V 


Y" 


We  do  not  say  that  Burns  should  have  made 
much  more  of  this  tradition;  we  rather  think 
that,  for  strictly  poetical  purposes,  not  much 
toas  to  be  made  of  it.  Neither  are  we  blind  to 
the  deep,  varied,  genial  power  displayed  in 
what  he  has  actually  accomplished ;  but  we 
find  far  more  "  Shakspearian"  qualities,  as 
these  of  Tamo'  SAaw^cr  have  been  fondly  named, 
in  many  of  his  other  pieces ;  nay,  we  incline 
to  believe,  that  this  latter  might  have  been 
written,  all  but  quite  as  well,  by  a  man  who, 
in  place  of  genius,  had  only  possessed  talent. 

Perhaps  we  may  venture  to  say,  that  the 
most  strictly  poetical  of  all  his  "poems"  is 
one,  which  does  not  appear  in  Currie's  Edi- 
tion ;  but  has  been  often  printed  before  and 
since,  under  the  humble  title  of  The  Jolly_Beg- 
gars.  The  subject  truly  is  among  the  lowest 
in  nature ;  but  it  only  the  more  shows  our 
poet's  gift  in  raising  it  into  the  domain  of  Art. 
To  our  minds,  this  piece  seems  thoroughly 
compacted ;  melted  together,  refined ;  and 
poured  forth  in  one  flood  of  true  liquid  har- 
mony. It  is  light,  airy,  and  soft  of  movement; 
yet  sharp  and  precise  in  its  details  ;  every  face 
is  a  portrait :  that  raucle  carlin,  that  wee  Jpollo, 
that  Son  of  Mars,  are  Scottish,  yet  ideal ;  the 
scene  is  at  once  a  dream,  and  the  very  Rag- 
castle  of  "  Poosie-Nansie."  Farther,  it  seems 
in  a  considerable  degree  complete,  a  real  self- 
supporting  Whole,  which  is  the  highest  merit 
in  a  poem;  The  blanket  of  the  night  is  drawn 
asunder  for  a  moment;  in  full,  ruddy,  and 
flaming  light,  these  rough  tatterdemalions  are 
seen  in  their  boisterous  revel ;  for  the  strong 
pulse  of  Life  vindicates  its  right  to  gladness 
even  here;  and  when  the  curtain  closes,  we 
prolong  the  action  without  efibrt;  the  next  day 
as  the  last,  our  Caird  and  our  Balladmonger  are 
singing  and  soldiering;  their  "brats  and  cal- 
lets"  are  hawking,  begging,  cheating;  and 
some  other  night,  in  new  combinations,  they 
will  wring  from  Fate  another  hour  of  wassail 
and  good  cheer.  It  would  be  strange,  doubt- 
less, to  call  this  the  best  of  Burns's  writings  ; 
we  mean  to  say  only,  that  it  seems  to  us  the 
most  perfect  of  its  kind,  as  a  piece  of  poetical 
composition,  strictly  so  called.  In  the  Beggor^s 
Opera,  in  the  Beggar^s  Bush,  as  other  critics 
have  already  remarked,  there  is  nothing  which, 
in  real  poetic  vigour,  equals  this  Cantata:  no- 
thing, as  we  think,  which  comes  within  many 
\egrees  of  it. 

But  by  far  the  most  finished,  complete,  and 
truly  inspired  pieces  of  Burns  are,  without  dis- 
pute, to  be  found  among  his  SongsJ  It  is  here 
that,  although  through  a  small  ajerture,  his 
light  shines  with  the  least  obstruction ;  in  its 
highest  beauty,  and  pure  sunny  clearness.  The 
reason  may  be,  that  Song  is  a  brief  and  simple 
species  of  composition  :  and  requires  nothingso 
much  for  its  perfection  as  genuine  poetic  feel- 
ing, genuine  music  of  heart.  The  song  has  its 
rules  equally  with  the  Tragedy;  rules  which  in 
most  cases  are  poorly  fulfilled,  in  many  cases 
are  not  so  much  as  felt.  We  might  write  a  long 
essay  on  the  Songs  of  Burns ;  which  we  reckon 
by  far  the  best  that  Britain  has  yet  produced ;  for, 
indeed,  since  the  era  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  we 
know  not  that,  by  any  other  hand,  aught  truly 
worth  attention  has  been  accomplished  in  this 


V 


department.  True,  we  have  songs  enough 
"by  persons  of  quality;"  we  have  tawdry, 
hollow,  wine-bred,  madrigals  ;  many  a  rhymed 
"  speech"  in  the  flowing  and  watery  vein  of 
Ossorius  the  Portugal  Bishop,  rich  in  sonor- 
ous words,  and,  for  moral,  dashed  p&rhaps 
with  some  tint  of  a  sentimental  sensuality; 
all  which  many  persons  cease  not  from  en- 
deavouring to  sing:  though  for  most  part, 
we  fear,  the  music  is  but  from  the  throat  out- 
ward, or  at  best  from  some  region  far  enough 
short  of  the  Soul :  not  in  which,  but  in  a  certain 
inane  Limbo  of  the  Fancy,  or  even  in  some 
vaporous  debatable  land  on  the  outside  of  the 
Nervous  System,  most  of  such  madrigals  and 
rhymed  speeches  seem  to  have  originated. 
With  the  ^ongs  of  Burns  we  must  not  name 
these  thin^si  Independently  of  the  clear,  manly, 
heartfelt  sentiment  that  ever  pervades  his 
poetry,  his  Songs  are  honest  in  another  point 
of  view :  in  form,  as  well  as  in  spirit.  They 
do  not  affect  to  be  set  to  music,  but  they  actually 
and  in  themselves  are  music  ;  they  have  re- 
ceived their  life,  and  fashioned  themselves 
together,  in  the  medium  of  Harmony,  as 
V^nus  rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  The 
story,  the  feeling,  is  not  detailed,  but  suggested  ; 
not  said,  or  spouted,  in  rhetorical  completeness 
and  coherence ;  but  sung,  in  fitful  gushes,  in 
glowing  hints,  in  fantastic  breaks,  in  warblings 

not  of  the  voice  only,  but  of  the  whole  min(L 

We  consider  this  to  be  the  essence  of  a  song; 
and  that  no  songs  since  the  little  careless 
catches,  and,  as  it  were,  drops  of  song,  which 
Shakspeare  has  here  and  there  sprinkled  over 
his  plays,  fulfil  this  condition  in  nearly  the 
same  degree  as  most  of  Burns's  do.  Such  grace 
and  truth  of  external  movement,  too,  presup- 
poses in  general  a  corresponding  force  and 
truth  of  sentiment,  and  inward  meaning.  The 
Songs  of  Burns  are  not  more  perfect  in  the 
former  quality  than  in  the  latter.  With  what 
tenderness  he  sings,  yet  with  what  vehemence 
and  entireness !  There  is  a  piercing  wail  in 
his  sorrow,  the  purest  rapture  in  his  joy :  he 
burns  with  the  sternest  ire,  or  laughs  with  the 
loudest  or  slyest  mirth ;  and  yet  he  is  sweet 
and  soft, "sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers 
meet,  and  soft  as  their  parting  tear!'^  If  we 
farther  take  into  account  the  immense' variety 
of  his  subjects ;  how,  from  the  loud  flowing 
revel  in  Willie  breui'd  a  peck  o'  Maut,  to  the  still, 
rapt  enthusiasm  of  sadness  for  Mary  in  Heaven  ; 
from  the  glad  kind  greeting  of  Jluld  Langsyne, 
or  the  comic  archness  of  Duncan  Gi-ay,  to  the. 
fire-eyed  fury  of  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bledy 
he  has  found  a  tone  and  words  for  every  mood 
of  man's  heart, — it  will  seem  a  small  praise 
if  we  rank  him  as  the  first  of  all  our  song- 
writers ;  for  we  know  not  where  to  find  one 
jWorthy  of  being  second  to  him.  ,„^^-^^^ 

/;  It  is  on  his  Songs,  as  we  believe,  that  BuJ^s's  ^ 
chief  influence  as  an  author  will  ultimately  be 
found  to  depend:  nor,  if  our  Fletcher's  aphor- 
ism is  true,  shall  we  account  this  a  small  in- 
fluence. "  Let  me  make  the  songs  of  a  people," 
said  he, "  and  you  shall  make  its  laws."  Surely, 
if  ever  any  Poet  might  have  equalled  himself 
with  Legislators,  on  this  ground,  it  was  Burns. 
His  songs  are  already  part  of  the  mother 
tongue,  not  of  Scotland  only  but  of  Britain,  and 


104 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  the  millions  that  in  all  the  ends  of  the  earth 
speak  a  British  language.  In  hut  and  hall,  as 
the  heart  unfolds  itself  in  the  joy  and  wo  of 
existence,  the  name,  the  voice  of  that  joy  and 
that  wo,  is  the  name  and  voice  which  Burns 
has  given  them.  Strictly  speaking,  perhaps, 
no  British  man  has  so  deeply  affected  the 
thoughts  and  feehngs  of  so  many  men  as  this 
solitary  and  altogether  private  individual,  with 
means  apparentl)-^  the  humblest. 

In  another  point  of  view,  moreover,  we  in- 
cline to  think  that  Burns's  influence  may  have 
been  considerable :  we  mean,  as  exerted  spe- 
cially on  the  Literature  of  his  country,  at  least 
on  the  Literature  of  Scotland.  Among  the 
great  changes  which  British,  particularly  Scot- 
tish literature,  has  undergone  since  that  period, 
one  of  the  greatest  will  be  found  to  consist  in 
its  remarkable  increase  of  nationality.  Even 
the  English  writers,  most  popular  in  Burns's 
time,  were  little  distinguished  for  their  literary 
patriotism,  in  this  its  best  sense.  A  certain 
attenuated  cosmopolitanism  had,  in  good  mea- 
sure, taken  place  of  the  old  insular  home- 
feeling;  literature  was,  as  it  were,  without  any 
local  environment;  was  not  nourished  by  the 
affections  which  spring  from  a  native  soil. 
Our  Grays  and  Glovers  seemed  to  write  almost 
as  if  in  vacuo;  the  thing  written  bears  no  mark 
of  place  ;  it  is  not  written  so  much  for  English- 
men, as  for  men  ;  or  rather,  which  is  the  inev- 
itable r(?suU  of  this,  for  certain  Generalizations 
which  philosophy  termed  men.  Goldsmith  is 
an  exception;  not  so  Johnson;  the  scene  of 
his  Rambler  is  little  more  English  than  that  of 
his  Rasselas.  But  if  such  was,  in  some  degree, 
the  case  with  England,  it  was,  in  the  highest 
degree,  the  case  with  Scotland.  In  fact,  our 
Scottish  literature  had,  at  that  period,  a  very 
singular  aspect ;  unexampled,  so  far  as  we 
know,  except  perhaps  at  Geneva,  where  the 
same  state  of  matters  appears  still  to  continue. 
For  a  long  period  after  Scotland  became  Bri- 
tish, we  had  no  literature :  at  the  date  when 
Addison  and  Steele  were  writing  their  Specta- 
tors, our  good  Thomas  Boston  was  writing,  with 
the  noblest  intent,  but  alike  in  defiance  of 
grammar  and  philosophy,  his  Fourfold  State  of 
Man.  Then  came  the  schisms  in  our  National 
Church,  and  the  fiercer  schisms  in  our  Body 
Politic:  Theologic  ink,  and  Jacobite  blood, 
with  gall  enough  in  both  cases,  seemed  to  have 
blotted  out  the  intellect  of  the  country;  how- 
ever, it  was  only  obscured,  not  obliterated. 
Lord  Kames  made  nearly  the  first  attempt,  and 
a  tolerably  clumsy  one,  at  writing  English ; 
and  ere  long,  Hume,  Robertson,  Smith,  and  a 
whole  host  of  followers,  attracted  hither  the  / 
eyes  of  all  Europe.  And  yet  in  this  brilliant 
resuscitation  of  our  "  fervid  genius,"  there  was 
nothing  truly  Scottish,  nothing  indigenous ; 
except,  perhaps,  the  natural  impetuosity  of  in- 
tellect, which  we  sometimes  claim,  and  are 
sometimes  upbraided  with,  as  a  characteristic 
of  our  nation.  It  is  curious  to  remark  that 
Scotland,  so  full  of  writers,  had  no  Scottish 
culture,  nor  indeed  any  English;  our  culture 
was  almost  exclusively  French.  It  was  by 
studying  Racine  and  Voltaire,  Batteux  and 
Boileau,  that  Kames  had  trained  himself  to  be 
-a  critic  and  philosopher :  it  was  the  light  of 


Montesquieu  and  Mably  that  guided  Robert- 
son in  his  political  speculations;  Quesnay's 
lamp  that  kindled  the  lamp  of  Adam  Smith. 
Hume  was  too  rich  a  man  to  borrow ;  and  per- 
haps he  reached  on  the  French  more  than  he 
was  acted  on  by  them:  but  neither  had  he 
aught  to  do  with  Scotland ;  Edinburgh,  equally 
with  La  Fleche,  was  but  the  lodging  and  labor- 
atory, in  which  he  not  so  much  morally  lived, 
as  metaphysicaWy  investigated.  Never,  perhaps, 
was  there  a  class  of  writers,  so  clear  and  well- 
ordered,  yet  so  totally  destitute,  to  all  appear- 
ance, of  any  patriotic  affection,  nay,  of  any 
human  affection  whatever.  The  French  wits 
of  the  period  were  as  unpatriotic :  but  their 
general  deficiency  in  moral  principle,  not  to 
say  their  avowed  sensuality  and  unbelief  in  all 
virtue,  strictly  so  called,  render  this  account- 
able enough.  We  hope  there  is  a  patriotism 
founded  on  something  better  than  prejudice; 
that  our  country  may  be  dear  to  us,  without 
injury  to  our  philosophy;  that  in  loving  and 
justly  prizing  all  other  lands,  we  may  prize 
justly,  and  yet  love  before  all  others,  our  ov/n 
stern  Motherland,  and  the  venerable  structure 
of  social  and  moral  Life,  which  Mind  has 
through  long  ages  been  building  up  for  us 
there.  Surely  there  is  nourishment  for  the 
better  part  of  man's  heart  in  all  this:  surely 
the  roots,  that  have  fixed  themselves  in  the 
very  core  of  man's  being,  may  be  so  cultivated 
as  to  grow  up  not  into  briers,  but  into  roses,  in 
the  field  of  his  life  !  Our  Scottish  sages  have  no 
such  propensities:  the  field  of  their  life  shows 
neither  briers  nor  roses  ;  but  only  a  flat,  con- 
tinuous thrashing-floor  for  Logic,  whereon  all 
questions,  from  the  "Doctrine  of  Rent,"  to  the 
"  Natural  History  of  Religion,  are  thrashed  and 
sifted  with  the  same  mechanical  impartiality! 
With  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  the  head  of  our 
literature,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  much  of 
this  evil  is  past,  or  rapidly  passing  away :  our 
chief  literary  men,  whatever  other  faults  they 
may  have,  no  longer  live  among  us  like  a 
French  Colony,  or  some  knot  of  Propaganda 
Missionaries ;  but  like  natural-born  subjects 
of  the  soil,  partaking  and  sympathizing  in  all 
our  attachments,  humours,  and  habits.  Our 
literature  no  longer  grows  in  water,  but  in 
mould,  and  with  the  true  racy  virtues  of  the 
soil  and  climate.  How  much  of  this  change 
may  be  due  to  Burns,  or  to  any  other  individual, 
it  might  be  difficult  to  estimate.  Direct  literary 
imitation  of  Burns  was  not  to  be  looked  for. 
But  his  example,  in  the  fearless  adoption  of 
domestic  subjects,  could  not  but  operate  from 
/afar;  and  certainly  in  no  heart  did  the  love  of 
country  ever  burn  with  a  warmer  glow  than  in 
that  of  Burns:  "a  tide  of  Scottish  prejudice," 
as  he  modestly  calls  this  deep  and  generous 
feeling,  "had  been  poured  along  his  veins; 
and  he  felt  that  it  would  boil  there  till  the  flood- 
gates shut  in  eternal  rest."  It  seemed  to  him, 
as  if  he  could  do  so  little  for  his  country,  and 
and  yet  would  so  gladly  have  done  all.  One 
small  province  stood  open  for  him  ;  that  of 
Scottish  song,  and  how  eagerly  he  entered  on 
it;  how  devotedly  he  laboured  there!  In  his 
most  toilsome  journeyings,  this  object  never 
quits  him;  it  is  the  little  happy- valley  of  his 
careworn   heart.    In  the  gloom  of  his  own 


BURNS. 


105 


affliction,  he  eagerly  searches  after  some  lonely 
brother  of  the  muse,  and  rejoices  to  snatch  one 
other  name  from  the  oblivion  that  was  cover- 
ing it !  These  were  early  feelings,  and  they 
abode  with  him  to  the  end. 


-a  wish,  (I  mind  its  power,) 


A  wish,  that  to  my  latest  hour 
Will  strongly  heave  my  breast ; 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make, 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  bur  Thistle  spreading  wide 

Aniang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  lurn'd  my  weeding-clips  aside, 
,  j|-  And  spared  the  symbol  dear. 

>'  But  to  leave  the  mere  literary  character  of 
Burns,  which  has  already  detained  us  too  long, 
we  cannot  but  think  that  the  Life  he  willed, 
and  was  fated  to  lead  among  his  fellow-men, 
is  both  more  interesting  and  instructive  than 
any  of  his  written  works.  These  Poems  are  but 
like  little  rhymed  fragments  scattered  here  and 
there  in  the  grand  unrhymed  Romance  of  his 
earthly  existence ;  and  it  is  only  when  inter- 
calated in  this  at  their  proper  places,  that  they 
attain  their  full  measure  of  significance.  And 
this  too,  alas,  was  but  a  fragment !  The  plan 
of  a  mighty  edifice  had  been  sketched;  some 
columns,  porticoes,  firm  masses  of  building, 
stand  completed  ;  the  rest  more  or  less  clearly 
indicated;  with  many  afar-stretching  tendency, 
which  only  studious  and  friendly  eyes  can  now 
trace  towards  the  purposed  termination.  For 
the  work  is  broken  off  in  the  middle,  almost  in 
the  beginning;  and  rises  among  us,  beautiful 
and  sad,  at  once  unfinished  and  a  ruin !  If 
chariiable  jujigjjjj^nt  was  necessary  in  esti- 
mating his  poems,  and  justice  required  that 
the  aim  and  the  manifest  power  to  fulfil  it 
must  often  be  accepted  for  the  fulfilment; 
much  more  is  this  the  case  in  regard  to  his 
life,  the  sum  and  result  of  all  his  endeavours, 
where  his  difficulties  came  upon  him  not  in 
detail  only,  but  in  mass;  and  so  much  has 
been  left  unaccomplished,  nay,  was  mistaken, 
and  altogether  marred. 

Properly  speaking,  there  is  but  one  era  in 
the  life  of  Burns,  and  that  the  earliest.  We 
have  not  youth  and  manhood  ;  but  only  youth: 
For,  to  the  end,  we  discern  no  decisive  change 
in  the  complexion  of  his  character;  in  his 
thirty-seventh  year,  he  is  still,  as  it  were,  in 
youth.  With  all  that  resoluteness  of  judg- 
ment, that  penetrating  insight,  and  singular 
maturity  of  intellectual  power,  exhibited  in  his 
writings,  he  never  attains  to  any  clearness  re- 
garding himself;  to  the  last  he  never  ascertains 
his  peculiar  aim,  even  with  such  distinctness 
as  is  common  among  ordinary  men  ;  and  there- 
fore never  can  pursue  it  with  that  singleness 
of  will,  which 'insures  success  and  some  con- 
tentment to  such  men.  To  the  last,  he  wavers 
between  two  purposes :  glorying  in  his  talent, 
like  a  true  poet,  he  yet  cannot  consent  to  make 
this  his  chief  and  sole  glory,  and  to  follow  it  as 
the  one  thing  needful,  through  poverty  or 
riches,  through  good  or  evil  report.  Another 
far  meaner  ambition  still  cleaves  to  him ;  he 
must  dream  and  struggle  about  a  certain  "  Rock 
of  Independence  ;"  which,  natural  and  even  ad- 
mirable as  it  might  be,  was  still  but  a  warring 
14 


with  the  world,  on  the  comparatively  insignifi- 
cant ground  of  his  being  more  or  less  com- 
pletely supplied  with  money,  than  others ;  of 
his  standing  at  a  higher,  or  at  a  lower  altitude 
in  general  estimation,  than  others.  For  the 
world  still  appears  to  him,  as  to  the  young,  in 
borrowed  colours :  he  expects  from  it  what  it 
cannot  give  to  any  man ;  seeks  for  content- 
ment, not  within  himself,  in  action  and  wise 
effort,  but  from  without,  in  the  kindness  of  cir- 
cumstances, in  love,  friendship,  honour,  pe- 
cuniary ease.  He  would  be  happy,  not  actively 
and  in  himself,  but  passively,  and  from  some 
ideal  cornucopia  of  Enjoyments,  not  earned 
by  his  own  labour,  but  showered  on  him  by 
the  beneficence  of  Destiny.  Thus,  like  a  young 
man,  he  cannot  steady  himself  for  any  fixed  or 
systematic  pursuit,  but  swerves  to  and  fro, 
between  passionate  hope,  and  remorseful  dis- 
appointment: rushingr  onwards  with  a  deep 
tempestuous  force,  he'  surmounts  or  breaks 
asunder  manj-  a  barriej;  travels,  nay,  advances 
far,  but  advancing  only  under  uncertain  guid- 
ance, is  ever  and  anon  turned  from  his  path : 
and  to  the  last,  cannot  reach  the  only  true 
happiness  of  a  man,  that  of  clear,  decided  Ac- 
tivity in  the  sphere  for  which  by  nature  and 
circumstances  he  has  been  fitted  and  ap- 
pointed. 

We  do  not  say  these  things  in  dispraise  of 
Burns  :  nay,  perhaps,  they  but  interest  us  the 
more  in  his  favour.  This  blessing  is  not  given 
soonest  to  the  best;  but  rather,  it  is  often  the 
greatest  minds  that  are  latest  in  obtaining  it ; 
for  where  most  is  to  be  developed,  most  time 
may  be  required  to  develope  it.  A  complex 
condition  had  been  assigned  him  from  without, 
as  complex  a  condition  from  within:  "no 
"pre-established  harmony"  existed  between 
the  clay  soil  of  Mossgiel  and  the  empyrean 
soul  of  Robert  Burns;  it  was  not  wonderful, 
therefore,  that  the  adjustment  between  them 
should  have  been  long  postponed,  and  his  arm 
long  cumbered,  and  his  sight  confused,  in  so 
vast  and  discordant  an  economy,  as  he  had 
been  appointed  steward  over.  Byron  was,  at 
his  death,  but  a  year  younger  than  Burns ; 
and  through  life,  as  it  might  have  appeared, 
far  more  simply  situated ;  yet  in  him,  too,  we 
can  trace  no  such  adjustment,  no  such  moral 
manhood ;  but  at  best,  and  only  a  little  before 
his  end,  the  beginning  of  what  seemed  such. 

By  much  the  most  striking  incident  in 
Burns's  Life  is  his  journey  to  Edinburgh;  but 
perhaps  a  still  more  important  one  is  his  resi- 
dence at  Irvine,  so  early  as  in  his  twenty-third 
year.  Hitherto  his  life  had  been  poor  and  toil- 
worn  ;  but  otherwise  not  ungenial,  and,  with 
all  its  distresses,  by  no  means  unhappy.  In  his 
parentage,  deducting  outward  circumstances, 
he  had  every  reason  to  reckon  himself  for- 
tunate: his  father  was  a  man  of  thoughtful, 
intense,  earnest  character,  as  the  best  of  our 
peasants  are ;  valuing  knowledge,  possessing 
some,  and,  what  is  far  better  and  rarer,  open- 
minded  for  more ;  a  man  with  a  keen  insight, 
and  devout  heart:  reverent  towards  God, 
friendly  therefore  at  once,  and  fearless  towards 
all  that  God  has  made ;  in  one  word,  though 
but  a  hard-handed  peasant,  a  complete  and  fully 
unfolded  Man.    Such  a  father  is  seldom  found 


106 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


in  any  rank  in  society;  and  was  worth  de- 
scending far  in  society  to  seek.  Unfortunately, 
he  was  very  poor;  had  he  been  even  a  little 
richer,  almost  ever  so  little,  the  whole  might 
nave  issued  far  otherwise.  Mighty  events  turn 
on  a  straw ;  the  crossing  of  a  brook  decides 
the  conquest  of  the  world.  Had  this  William 
Burns's  small  seven  acres  of  nursery  ground 
anywise  prospered,  the  boy  Robert  had  been 
sent  to  school;  had  struggled  forward,  as  so 
many  weaker  men  do,  to  some  university; 
come  forth  not  as  a  rustic  wonder,  but  as  a 
regular  well-trained  intellectual  workman,  and 
changed  the  whole  course  of  British  Literature, 
— for  it  lay  in  him  to  have  done  this !  But 
the  nursery  did  not  prosper;  poverty  sank  his 
whole  family  below  the  help  of  even  our  cheap 
school-system  :  Burns  remained  a  hard-worked 
plough-boy,  and  British  literature  took  its  own 
course.  Nevertheless,  even  in  this  rugged 
scene,  there  is  much  to  nourish  him.  If  he 
drudges,  it  is  with  his  brother,  and  for  his 
father  and  mother,  whom  he  loves,  and  would 
fain  shield  from  want.  Wisdom  is  not  ban- 
ished from  their  poor  hearth,  nor  the  balm  of 
natural  feeling:  the  solemn  words,  Let  us  wor- 
ship God,  are  heard  there  from  a  "  priest-like 
father;"  if  threatenings  of  unjust  men  throw 
mother  and  children  into  tears,  these  are  tears 
not  of  grief  only,  but  of  holiest  affection  ;  every 
heart  in  that  humble  group  feels  itself  the 
closer  knit  to  every  other ;  in  their  hard  war- 
fare they  are  there  together,  a  "  little  band  of 
brethren."  Neither  are  such  tears,  and  the 
deep  beauty  that  dwells  in  them,  their  only 
portion.  Light  visits  the  hearts  as  it  does  the 
eyes  of  all  living:  there  is  a  force,  too,  in  this 
vouth,  that  enables  him  to  trample  on  misfor- 
tune; nay,  to  bind  it  under  his  feet  to  make 
him  sport.  For  a  bold,  warm,  buoyant  humour 
of  character  has  been  given  him;  and  so  the 
thick-coming  shapes  of  evil  are  welcomed 
with  a  gay,  friendly  irony,  and  in  their  closest 
pressure  he  bates  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope. 
Vague  yearnings  of  ambition  fail  not,  as  he 
grows  up;  dreamy  fancies  hang  like  cloud- 
cities  around  him  ;  the  curtain  of  Existence  is 
slowly  rising,  in  many-coloured  splendour  and 
gloom :  and  the  auroral  light  of  first  love  is 
gilding  his  horizon,  and  the  music  of  song  is 
on  his  path  ;  and  so  he  walks 

in  glory  and  in  joy. 

Behind  his  plough,  upon  the  mountain  side  ! 

We  know,  from  the  best  evidence,  that  up  to 
this  date,  Burns  was  happy;  nay,  that  he  was 
the  gayest,  brightest,  most  fantastic,  fascinating 
being  to  be  found  in  the  world;  more  so  even 
than  he  ever  afterM^ards  appeared.  But  now, 
at  this  early  age,  he  quits  the  paternal  roof; 
goes  forth  into  looser,  louder,  more  exciting 
society  ;  and  becomes  initiated  in  those  dissi- 
pations, those  vices,  which  a  certain  class  of 
philosophers  have  asserted  to  be  a  natural 
preparative  for  entering  on  active  life ;  a  kind 
of  mud-bath,  in  which  the  youth  is,  as  it  were, 
necessitated  to  steep,  and,  we  suppose,  cleanse 
himself,  before  the  real  toga  of  Manhood  can 
be  laid  on  him.  We  shall  not  dispute  much 
with  this  class  of  philosophers  ;  we  hope  they 
are  mistaken ;  for  Sin  aad  Remorse  so  easily 


beset  us  at  all  stages  of  life,  and  are  always 
such  indifferent  company,  that  it  seems  hard 
we  should,  at  any  stage,  be  forced  and  fated 
not  only  to  meet,  but  to  yield  to  them  ;  and  even 
serve  for  a  term  in  their  leprous  armada.  We 
hope  it  is  not  so.  Clear  we  are,  at  all  events, 
it  cannot  be  the  training  one  receives  in  this 
service,  but  only  our  determining  to  desert 
from  it,  that  fits  us  for  true  manly  Action.  We, 
become  men,  not  after  we  have  been  dissipated,] 
and  disappointed  in  the  chase  of  false  pleasure  |f 
but  after  we  have  ascertained,  in  any  way^ 
what  impassable  barriers  hem  us  in  through 
this  life  ;  how  mad  it  is  to  hope  for  content- 
ment to  our  infinite  soul  from  the  gifts  of  this 
extremely  finite  world !  that  a  man  must  be 
sufficient  for  himself;  and  that  "for  suffering 
and  enduring  there  is  no  remedy  but  striving 
and  doing."  Manhood  begins  when  we  have 
in  any  way  made  truce  with  Necessity ;  begins, 
at  all  events,  when  we  have  surrendered  to 
Necessity,  as  the  most  part  only  do  ;  but  begins 
joyfully  and  hopefully  only  when  we  have 
reconciled  ourselves  to  Necessity  ;  and  thus,  in 
reality,  triumphed  over  it,  and  felt  that  in 
Necessity  we  are  free.  Surely,  such  lessons 
as  this  last,  which,  in  one  shape  or  other,  is 
the  grand  lesson  for  every  mortal  man,  are 
better  learned  from  the  lips  of  a  devout  mother, 
in  the  looks  and  actions  of  a  devout  father, 
while  the  heart  is  yet  soft  and  pliant,  than  in 
collision  with  the  sharp  adamant  of  Fate,  at- 
tracting us  to  shipwreck  us,  when  the  heart  is 
grown  hard,  and  may  be  broken  before  it  will 
become  contrite !  Had  Burns  continued  to 
learn  this,  as  he  was  already  learning  it,  in  his 
father's  cottage,  he  would  have  learned  it  fully, 
which  he  never  did, — and  been  &aved  many  a 
lasting  aberration,  many  a  bitter  hour  and  year 
of  remorseful  sorrow. 

It  seems  to  us  another  circumstance  of  fatal 
import  in  Burns's  history,  that  at  this  time  too 
he  became  involved  in  the  religious  quarrels 
of  his  district;  that  he  was  enlisted  and  feasted, 
as  the  fighting  man  of  the  New-Light  Priest- 
hood, in  their  highly  unprofitable  warfare.  At 
the  tables  of  these  free-minded  clergy,  he 
learned  much  more  than  was  needful  for  him. 
Such  liberal  ridicule  of  fanaticism  awakened 
in  his  mind  scruples  about  Religion  itself;  and 
a  whole  world  of  Doubts,  which  it  required 
quite  another  set  of  conjurors  than  these  men 
to  exorcise.  We  do  not  say  that  such  an  in- 
tellect as  his  could  have  escaped  similar  doubts, 
at  some  period  of  his  history ;  or  even  that  he 
could,  at  a  later  period,  have  come  through 
them  altogether  victorious  and  unharmed:  but 
it  seems  peculiarly  unfortunate  that  this  time, 
above  all  others,  should  have  been  fixed  for  the 
encounter.  For  now,  with  principles  assailed 
by  evil  example  from  without,  by  "passions 
raging  like  demons"  from  within,  he  had  little 
need  of  skeptical  misgivings  to  whisper  trea- 
son in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  or  to  cut  off  his 
retreat  if  he  were  already  defeated.  He  loses 
his  feeling  of  innocence  ;  his  mind  is  at  vari- 
ance with  itself;  the  old  divinity  no  longer  pre- 
sides there  ;  but  wild  Desires  and  wild  Repent- 
ance alternately  oppress  him.  Ere  long,  too, 
he  has  committed  himself  before  the  world; 
his  character  for  sobriety,  dear  to  a  Scottish 


BURNS. 


107 


peasant,  as  few  corrupted  worldlings  can  even 
conceive,  is  destroyed  in  the  eyes  of  men  ;  and 
his  only  refuge  consists  in  trying  to  disbelieve 
his  guiltiness,  and  is  but  a  refuge  of  lies.  The 
blackest  desperation  now  gathers  over  him, 
broken  only  by  the  red  lightnings  of  remorse. 
The  whole  fabric  of  his  life  is  blasted  asunder; 
for  now  not  only  his  character,  but  his  per- 
sonal liberty,  is  to  be  lost;  men  and  Fortune 
are  leagued  for  his  hurt;  "hungry  Ruin  has 
him  in  the  wind."  He  sees  no  escape  but  the 
saddest  of  all :  exile  from  his  loved  country,  to 
a  country  in  every  sense  inhospitable  and  ab- 
horrent to  him.  While  the  "gloomy  night  is 
gathering  fast,"  in  mental  storm  and  solitude, 
as  well  as  in  physical,  he  sings  his  wild  fare- 
well to  Scotland : 

Farewell,  my  friends,  farewell  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those  : 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare; 
Adieu,  my  native  banks  of  Ayr  ! 

Light  breaks  suddenly  in  on  him  in  floods  ; 
but  still  a  false  transitory  light,  and  no  real 
sunshine.  He  is  invited  to  Edinburgh  ;  hastens 
thither  with  anticipating  heart;  is  welcomed 
as  in  triumph,  and  with  universal  blandish- 
ment and  acclamation;  whatever  is  wisest, 
whatever  is  greatest,  or  loveliest  there,  gathers 
round  him,  to  gaze  on  his  face,  to  show  him 
honour,  sympathy,  affection.  Burns's  appear- 
ance among  the  sages  and  nobles  of  Edinburgh, 
must  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  singular 
phenomena  in  modern  Literature;  almost  like 
the  appearance  of  some  Napoleon  among  the 
crowned  sovereigns  of  modern  Politics.  For 
it  is  nowise  as  a  "mockery  king,"  set  there  by 
favour,  transiently,  and  for  a  purpose,  that  he 
will  let  himself  be  treated;  still  less  is  he  a 
mad  Rienzi,  whose  sudden  elevation  turns  his 
too  weak  head :  but  he  stands  there  on  his  own 
basis;  cool,  unastonished,  holding  his  equal 
rank  from  Nature  herself;  putting  forth  no 
claim  which  there  is  not  strength  in  him,  as 
well  as  about  him,  to  vindicate.  Mr.  Lock- 
hart  has  some  forcible  observations  on  this 
point: 

"It  needs  no  eflfort  of  imagination,"  srays  he, 
"  to  conceive  what  the  sensations  of  an  isolated 
set  of  scholars  (almost  all  either  clergymen  or 
professors)  must  have  been,  in  the  presence 
of  this  big-boned,  black-browed,  brawny 
stranger,  with  his  great  flashing  eyes,  who, 
having  forced  his  way  among  them  from  the 
plough-tail,  at  a  single  stride,  manifested  in 
the  whole  strain  of  his  bearing  and  conversa- 
tion, a  most  thorough  conviction  that  in  the 
society  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his  nation, 
he  was  exactly  where  he  was  entitled  to  be ; 
hardly  deigned  to  flatter  them  by  exhibiting 
even  an  occasional  symptom  of  being  flattered 
by  their  notice;  by  turns  calmly  measured 
himself  against  the  most  cultivated  understand- 
ings of  his  time  in  discussion  ;  overpowered 
the  hon  mots  of  the  most  celebrated  convivialists 
by  broad  floods  of  merriment,  impregnated 
with  all  the  burning  life  of  genius;  astounded 
bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in  the  thrice-piled 
folds  of  social  reserve,  by  compelling  them  to 
tremble, — nay,  to  tremble  visibly, — beneath  the 
feaxless  touch  of  natural  pathos ;  and  all  this 


without  indicating  the  smallest  willingness  to 
be  ranked  among  those  professional  ministers 
of  excitement,  who  are  content  to  be  paid  in 
money  and  smiles  for  doing  what  the  spectators 
and  auditors  would  be  ashamed  of  doing  in 
their  own  persons,  even  if  they  had  the  power 
of  doing  it;  and  last,  a^d  probably  worst  of  all, 
who  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of  enliven- 
ing societies  which  they  would  have  scorned 
to  approach,  still  more  frequently  than  their 
own,  with  eloquence  no  less  magnificent;  with 
wit,  in  all  likelihood  still  more  daring;  often 
enough  as  the  superiors  whom  he  fronted 
without  alarm  might  have  guessed  from  the 
beginning,  and  had,  ere  long,  no  occasion  to 
guess,  with  wit  pointed  at  themselves." — p.  131. 

The  farther  we  remove  from  this  scene,  the  >•' 
more  singular  will  it  seem  to  us :  details  of  the 
exterior  aspect  of  it  are  already  full  of  inte- 
rest. Most  readers  recollect  Mr.  Walker's  per- 
sonal interviews  with  Burns  as  among  the 
best  passages  of  his  Narrative ;  a  time  will 
come  when  this  reminiscence  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott's,  slight  though  it  is,  will  also  be  pre- 
cious. 

"As  for  Burns,"  writes  Sir  Walter,  "I  may 
truly  say  VirgiUum  vidi  tantum.  I  was  a  lad 
of  fifteen  in  1786 — 7,  when  he  came  first  to 
Edinburgh,  but  had  sense  and  feeling  enough 
to  be  much  interested  in  his  poetry,  and  would 
have  given  the  world  to  knov/  him  :  but  I  had 
very  little  acquaintance  with  any  literary  peo- 
ple ;  and  still  less  with  the  gentry  of  the  west 
country,  the  two  sets  that  he  most  frequented. 
Mr.  Thomas  Grierson  was  at  that  time  a  clerk 
of  my  father's.  He  knew  Burns,  and  pro- 
mised to  ask  him  to  his  lodgings  to  dinner,  but 
had  no  opportunity  to  keep  his  word ;  otherwise 
I  might  have  seen  more  of  this  distinguished 
man.  As  it  was,  I  saw  him  one  day  at  the  late 
venerable  Professor  Ferguson's,  where  there 
were  several  gentlemen  of  literary  reputation, 
among  whom  I  remember  the  celebrated  Mr. 
Dugald  Stewart.  Of  course,  we  youngsters 
sat  silent,  looked  and  listened.  The  only  thing 
I  remember,  which  was  remarkable  in  Burns's 
manner,  was  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by 
a  print  of  Bunbury's,  representing  a  soldier 
lying  dead  on  the  snow,  his  dog  sitting  in  mi- 
sery on  one  side, — on  the  other,  his  widow, 
with  a  child  in  her  arms.  These  lines  were 
written  beneath : 

"Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden's  plain. 
Perhaps  that  mother  wept  her  soldier  slain  : 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, 
The  bi}j  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery  baptized  in  tears." 

"Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print, 
or  rather  by  the  ideas  which  it  suggested  to  his 
mind.  He  actually  shed  tears.  He  asked 
whose  the  lines  were,  and  it  chanced  that  no- 
body but  myself  remembered  that  they  occur 
in  a  half-forgotten  poem  of  Langhorne's,  called 
by  the  unpromising  title  of  "  The  Justice  of 
Peace."  I  whispered  my  information  to  a 
friend  present,  he  mentioned  it  to  Burns,  who 
rewarded  me  with  a  look  and  a  word,  which, 
though  of  mere  civility,  I  then  received  and 
still  recollect  with  very  great  pleasure. 


108 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


"His  person  was  strong  and  robust;  his 
manners  rustic,  not  clownish  ;  a  sort  of  digni- 
fied plainness  and  simplicity,  which  received 
part  of  its  effect  perhaps  from  one's  knowledge 
of  his  extraordinary  talents.  His  features  are 
represented  in  Mr.  Nasmyth's  picture  :  but  to 
me  it  conveys  the  idea  that  they  are  dimi- 
nished, as  if  seen  in  perspective.  I  think  his 
countenance  was  more  massive  than  it  looks 
in  any  of  the  portraits.  I  should  have  taken 
the  poet,  had  I  not  known  what  he  was,  for  a 
very  sagacious  country  farmer  of  the  old 
Scotch  school,  1.  e.  none  of  your  modern  agri- 
culturists who  keep  labourers  for  their  drudg- 
ery, but  the  douce  gudeman  who  held  his  own 
plough.  There  was  a  strong  expression  of 
sense  and  shrewdness  in  all  his  lineaments  ; 
the  eye  alone,  I  think,  indicated  the  poetical 
character  and  temperament.  It  was  large, 
and 'of  a  dark  cast,  which  glowed  (I  say  lite- 
rally glowed)  when  he  spoke  with  feeling  or 
interest.  I  never  saw  such  another  eye  in  a 
human  head,  though  I  have  seen  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  of  my  time.  His  conversa^ 
tion  expressed  perfect  self-confidence,  without 
the  slightest  presumption.  Among  the  men 
who  were  the  most  learned  of  their  time  and 
country,  he  expressed  himself  with  perfect 
firmness,  but  without  the  least  intrusive  for- 
wardness ;  and  when  he  differed  in  opinion, 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  it  firmly,  yet  at 
the  same  time  with  modesty.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber any  part  of  his  conversation  distinctly 
enough  to  be  quoted ;  nor  did  I  ever  see  him 
again,  except  in  the  street,  where  he  did  not 
recognise  me,  as  I  could  not  expect  he  should. 
He  was  much  caressed  in  Edinburgh :  but 
(considering  what  literary  emoluments  have 
been  since  his  day)  the  efforts  made  for  his 
relief  were  extremely  trifling. 

"  I  remember,  on  this  occasion  I  mention,  I 
thought  Burns's  acquaintance  with  English 
poetry  was  rather  limited ;  and  also,  that  hav- 
ing twenty  limes  the  abilities  of  Allan  Ramsay 
and  of  Ferguson,  he  talked  of  them  with  too 
much  humility  as  his  models :  there  was 
doubtless  national  predilection  in  his  estimate. 

"This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  about  Burns.  I 
have  only  to  add,  that  his  dress  corresponded 
with  his  manner.  He  was  like  a  farmer 
dressed  in  his  best  to  dine  with  the  laird.  I 
do  not  speak  in  malam  partem,  when  I  say,  I 
never  saw  a  man  in  company  with  his  supe- 
riors in  station  or  information  more  perfectly 
free  from  either  the  reality  or  the  affectation  of 
embarrassment.  I  was  told,  but  did  not  observe 
it,  that  his  address  to  females  was  extremely 
deferential,  and  always  with  a  turn  either  to 
the  pathetic  or  humorous,  which  engaged  their 
attention  particularly.  I  have  heard  the  late 
Duchess  of  Gordon  remark  this. — I  do  not 
know  any  thing  I  can  add  to  these  recollections 
of  forty  years  since." — pp.  112 — 115. 

The  conduct  of  Burns  under  this  dazzling 
blaze  of  favour;  the  calm,  unaffected,  manly 
manner,  in  which  he  not  only  bore  it,  but  esti- 
mated its  value,  has  justly  been  regarded  as 
the  best  proof  that  could  be  given  of  his  real 
vigour  and  integrity  of  mind.  A  little  natural 
vanity,  some  touches  of  hypocritical  modesty, 
some  glimmerings  of  afiectation,  at  least  some 


fear  of  being  thought  affected,  we  could  have 
pardoned  in  almost  any  man  ;  but  no  such  in- 
dication is  to  be  traced  here.  In  his  unexam- 
pled situation  the  young  peasant  is  not  a 
moment  perplexed ;  so  many  strange  lights 
do  not  confuse  him,  do  not  lead  him  astray. 
Nevertheless,  we  cannot  but  perceive  that  this 
winter  did  him  great  and  lasting  injury.  A 
somewhat  clearer  knowledge  of  men's  affairs, 
scarcely  of  their  characters,  it  did  afford  him  : 
but  a  sharper  feeling  of  Fortune's  unequal  ar- 
rangements in  their  social  destiny  it  also  left 
with  him.  He  had  seen  the  gay  and  gorgeous 
arena,  in  which  the  powerful  are  born  to  play 
their  parts ;  nay,  had  himself  stood  in  the 
midst  of  it;  and  he  felt  more  bitterly  than 
ever,  that  here  he  was  but  a  looker-on,  and 
had  no  part  or  lot  in  that  splendid  game.  From 
this  time  a  jealous  indignant  fear  of  social 
degradation  takes  possession  of  him ;  and 
perverts,  so  far  as  aught  could  pervert,  his 
private  contentment,  and  his  feelings  towards 
his  richer  fellows.  It  was  clear  enough  to 
Burns  that  he  had  talent  enough  to  make  a 
fortune,  or  a  hundred  fortunes,  could  he  but 
have  rightly  willed  this  ;  it  was  clear  also  that 
he  willed  something  far  different,  and  there- 
fore could  not  make  one.  Unhappy  it  was 
that  he  had  not  power  to  choose  the  one,  and 
reject  the  other;  but  must  halt  for  ever  be- 
tween two  opinions,  two  objects ;  making 
hampered  advancement  towards  either.  But 
so  is  it  with  many  men:  we  "long  for  the 
merchandise,  yet  would  fain  keep  the  price  ;" 
and  so  stand  chaffering  with  Fate  in  vexatious 
altercation,  till  the  Night  come,  and  our  fair  is 
over! 

The  Edinburgh  learned  of  that  period  were 
in  general  more  noted  for  clearness  of  head 
than  for  warmth  of  heart:  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  good  old  Blacklock,  whose  help 
was  too  ineffectual,  scarcely  one  among  them 
seems  to  have  looked  at  Burns  with  any 
true  sympathy,  or  indeed  much  otherwise  than 
as  at  a  highly  curious  thing.  By  the  great, 
also,  he  is  treated  in  the  customary  fashion ; 
entertained  at  their  tables,  and  dismissed: 
certain  modica  of  pudding  and  praise  are, 
from  time  to  time,  gladly  exchanged  for  the 
fascination  of  his  presence ;  which  exchange 
once  effected,  the  bargain  is  finished,  and  each 
party  goes  his  several  way.  At  the  end  of  this 
strange  season.  Burns  gloomily  sums  up  his 
gains  and  losses,  and  meditates  on  the  chaotic 
future.  In  money  he  is  somewhat  richer;  in 
fame  and  the  show  of  happiness,  infinitely 
richer ;  but  in  the  substance  of  it,  as  poor  as 
ever.  Nay  poorer,  for  his  heart  is  now  mad- 
dened still  more  with  the  fever  of  mere  world- 
ly Ambition  ;  and  through  long  years  the  dis- 
ease will  rack  him  with  unprofitable  sufferings 
and  weaken  his  strength  for  all  true  and  nobler 
aims. 

What  Burns  was  next  to  do  or  avoid ;  how 
a  man  so  circumstanced  was  now  to  guide 
himself  towards  his  true  advantage,  might  at 
this  point  of  time  have  been  a  question  for  the 
wisest :  and  it  was  a  question  which  he  was 
left  altogether  to  answer  for  himself:  of  his 
learned  or  rich  patrons  it  had  not  struck  any 
individual  to  turn  a  thought  on  this  so  trivial 


BURNS. 


10» 


matter.  Without  claiming  for  Burns  the  praise 
of  perfect  sagacity,  we  must  say,  that  his 
Excise  and  Farm  scheme  does  not  seem  to  us 
a  very  unreasonable  one  ;  and  that  we  should 
be  at  a  loss,  even  now,  to  suggest  one  decided- 
ly better.  Some  of  his  admirers,  indeed,  are 
scandalized  at  his  ever  resolving  to  gauge;  and 
would  have  had  him  apparently  lie  still  at  the 
pool,  till  the  spirit  of  Patronage  should  stir  the 
waters,  and  then  heal  with  one  plunge  all  his 
worldly  sorrows  !  We  fear  such  counsellors 
knew  but  little  of  Burns  ;  and  did  not  consider 
that  happiness  might  in  all  cases  be  cheaply 
had  by  waiting  for  the  fulfilment  of  golden 
dreams,  were  it  not  that  in  the  interim  the 
dreamer  must  die  of  hunger.  It  reflects  credit 
on  the  manliness  and  sound  sense  of  Burns, 
that  he  felt  so  early  on  what  ground  he  was 
standing;  and  preferred  self-help, on  the  hum- 
blest scale,  to  dependence  and  inaction,  though 
with  hope  of  far  more  splendid  possibilities. 
But  even  these  possibilities  were  not  rejected 
in  his  scheme:  he  might  expect,  if  it  chanced 
that  he  had  any  friend,  to  rise,  in  no  long 
period,  into  something  even  like  opulence  and 
leisure ;  while  again,  if  it  chanced  that  he  had 
no  friend,  he  could  still  live  in  security;  and 
for  the  rest,  he  "  did  not  intend  to  borrow 
honour  from  any  profession."  We  think  then 
that  his  plan  was  honest  and  well-calculated  : 
all  turned  on  the  execution  of  it.  Doubtless  it 
failed;  yet  not,  we  believe,  from  any  vice  in- 
herent in  itself.  Nay  after  all,  it  was  no  failure 
of  external  means,  but  of  internal  that  over- 
took Burns.  His  was  no  bankruptcy  of  the 
purse,  but  of  the  soul;  to  his  last  day,  he 
owed  no  man  any  thing. 

Meanwhile  he  begins  well :  with  two  good 
and  wise  actions.  His  donation  to  his  mother, 
munificent  from  a  man  whose  income  had 
lately  been  seven  pounds  a-year,  was  worthy 
of  him,  and  not  more  than  worthy.  Generous 
also,  and  worthy  of  him,  was  his  treatment  of 
the  woman  Whose  life's  welfare  now  depended 
on  his  pleasure.  A  friendly  observer  might 
have  hoped  serene  days  for  him:  his  mind 
is  on  the  true  road  to  peace  with  itself:  what 
clearness  he  still  wants  will  be  given  as  he 
proceeds;  for  the  best  teacher  of  duties,  that 
still  lie  dim  to  us,  is  the  Practice  of  those  we 
see,  and  have  at  hand.  Had  the  «  patrons  of 
genius,"  who  could  give  him  nothing,  but  taken 
nothing  from  him,  at  least  nothing  more  ! — the 
wounds  of  his  heart  would  have  healed,  vulgar 
ambition  would  have  died  away.  Toil  and 
Frugality  would  have  been  welcome,  since 
Virtue  dwelt  with  them,  and  poetry.would  have 
shone  through  them  as  of  old  ;  and  in  her  clear 
ethereal  light,  which  was  his  own  by  birth- 
right, he  might  have  looked  down  on  his  earth- 
ly destiny,  and  all  its  obstructions,  not  with 
patience  only,  but  with  love. 

But  the  patrons  of  genius  would  not  have  it 
so.    Picturesque  tourists,*  all  manner  of  fash- 


♦  There  is  one  little  sketch  by  certain  "  English  gentle- 
men" of  this  class,  which  though  adopted  in  Currie's 
Narrative,  and  since  then  repeated  in  most  others,  we 
have  all  along  felt  an  invincible  disposition  to  regard  as 
imaginary  :  "  On  a  rock  that  projected  into  the  stream 
they  saw  a  man  employed  in  angling,  of  a  singular  ap- 
pearance. He  had  a  cap  made  of  fox-skin  on  his  head, 
a  loose  great-coat  fixed  round  biin  by  a  belt,  from  wbich 


ionable  danglers  after  literature,  and, far  worse, 
all  manner  of  convivial  Mecaenases,  hovered 
round  him  in  his  retreat ;  and  his  good  as 
well  as  his  weak  qualities  secured  them  in- 
fluence over  him.  He  was  flattered  by  their 
notice ;  and  his  warm  social  nature  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  shake  them  off",  and  hold 
on  his  way  apart  from  them.  These  men,  as 
we  believe,  were  proximately  the  means  of 
his  ruin.  Not  that  they  meant  him  any  ill; 
they  only  meant  themselves  a  little  good ;  if 
he  suffered  harm,  let  him  look  to  it !  But  they 
wasted  his  precious  time  and  his  precious 
talent ;  they  disturbed  his  composure,  broke 
down  his  returning  habits  of  temperance  and 
assiduous  contented  exertion.  Their  pamper- 
ing was  baneful  to  him ;  their  cruelty,  which 
soon  followed,  was  equally  baneful.  The  old 
grudge  against  Fortune's  inequality  awoke 
with  new  bitterness  in  their  neighbourhood, 
and  Burns  had  no  retreat  but  to  the  "Rock  of 
Independence,"  which  is  but  an  air-castle,  after 
all,  that  looks  well  at  a  distance,  but  will 
screen  no  one  from  real  wind  and  wet. 
Flushed  with  irregular  excitement,  exasper- 
ated alternately  by  contempt  of  others,  and 
contempt  of  himself,  Burns  was  no  longer 
regaining  his  peace  of  mind,  but  fast  losing  it 
for  ever.  There  was  a  hollowness  at  the  heart 
of  his  life,  for  his  conscience  did  not  now  ap- 
prove what  he  was  doing. 

Amid  the  vapours  of  unwise  enjoyment,  of 
bootless  remorse,  and  angry  discontent  with 
Fate,  his  true  loadstar,  a  life  of  Poetry,  with 
Poverty,  nay,  with  Famine  if  it  must  be  so, 
was  too  often  altogether  hidden  from  his  eyes. 
And  yet  he  sailed  a  sea,  where,  without  some 
such  guide,  there  was  no  right  steering. 
Meteors  of  French  Politics  rise  before  him, 
but  these  were  not  his  stars.  An  accident  this, 
which  hastened,  but  did  not  originate,  his 
worst  distresses.  In  the  mad  contentions  of 
that  time,  he  comes  in  collision  with  certain 
oflicial  Superiors  ;  is  wounded  by  them ;  cruel- 
ly lacerated,  we  should  say,  could  a  dead 
mechanical  implement,  in  any  case,  be  called 
cruel:  and  shrinks,  in  indignant  pain,  into 
deeper  self-seclusion,  into  gloomier  moodiness 
than  ever.  His  life  has  now  lost  its  unity:  it 
is  a  life  of  fragments ;  led  with  little  aim,  be- 
yond the  melancholy  one  of  securing  its  own 
continuance, — in  fits  of  wild  false  joy,  when 
such  offered,  and  of  black  despondency  when 
they  passed  away.  His  character  before  the 
world  begins  to  suffer :  calumny  is  busy  with 
him ;  for  a  miserable  man  makes  more  ene- 
mies than  friends.  Some  faults  he  has  fallen 
into,  and  a  thousand  misfortunes;  but  deep 
criminality  is  what  he  stands  accused  of,  and 
they  that  are  not  without  sin,  cast  the  first 
stone  at  him !  For  is  he  not  a  well-wisher  of 
the  French  Revolution,  a  Jacobin,  and  there- 
depended  an  enormous  Highland  broad-«word.  It  was 
Burns."  Now,  we  rather  think,  it  was  not  Bums.  For 
to  say  nothing  of  the  fox-skin  cap,  loose  and  quite 
Hibernian  watch-coat  with  the  belt,  what  are  we  to 
make  of  this  "enormous  Highland  broad-sword"  de- 
pending from  himl  More  especially,  as  there  is  no 
word  of  parish  constables  on  the  outlook  to  sec  whether, 
as  Dennis  phrases  it,  he  had  an  eye  to  his  own  midriflQ 
or  that  of  the  public  1  Burns,  of  all  men,  had  the  least 
tendency,  to  seek  for  distinction,  either  in  his  own  eyes, 
or  those  .of  others,  by  such  poor  mummeries. 


no 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


fore  in  that  one  act  guilty  of  all?  These 
accusations,  political  and  moral,  it  has  since 
appeared,  were  false  enough:  but  the  world 
hesitated  little  to  credit  them.  Nay,  his  convivial 
Mecanases  themselves  were  not  the  last  to  do 
it.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that,  in  his  later 
years,  the  Dumfries  Aristocracy  had  partly 
withdrawn  themselves  from  Burns,  as  from  a 
tainted  person,  no  longer  worthy  of  their  ac- 
quaintance. That  painful  class,  stationed,  in 
all  provincial  cities,  behind  the  outmost  breast- 
work of  Gentility,  there  to  stand  siege  and  do 
battle  against  the  intrusion  of  Grocerdom,  and 
Grazierdom,  had  actually  seen  dishonour  in 
the  society  of  Burns,  and  branded  him  with 
their  veto;  had,  as  we  vulgarly  say,  cut  him  ! 
We  find .  one  passage  in  this  work  of  Mr. 
Lockhart's,  which  will  not  out  of  our  thoughts  : 
"A  gentleman  of  that  country,  whose  name 
I  have  already  more  than  once  had  occasion 
to  refer  to,  has  often  told  me  that  he  was  sel- 
dom more  grieved,  than  when,  riding  into 
Dumfries  one  fine  summer  evening  about  this 
time  to  attend  a  country  ball,  he  saw  Burns 
walking  alone,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  prin- 
cipal street  of  the  town,  while  the  opposite 
side  was  gay  with  successive  groups  of  gen- 
tlemen and  ladies,  all  drawn  together  for  the 
festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom  ap- 
peared willing  to  recognise  him.  The  horse- 
man dismaunted,  and  joined  Burns,  who  on 
his  proposing  to  cross  the  street  said:  "Nay, 
nay,  ray  young  friend,  that's  all  over  now;" 
and  quoted,  after  a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady 
Grizzel  Baillie's  pathetic  ballad : 

*'His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  ane  looked  better  than  niony  ane's  new; 
But  now  he  lets't  wear  ony  way  it  will  hing, 
And  casts  himsell  dowie  upon  the  corn-bing. 

**  O  were  we  young,  as  we  ance  hae  been, 
We  sud  hae  been  galloping  down  on  yon  green. 
And  linking  It  ower  the  lily-white  lea! 
And  werena  my  heart  light  I  wad  die." 

It  was  little  in  Burns's  character  to  let  his 
feelings  on  certain  subjects  escape  in  this 
fashion.  He  immediately  after  reciting  these 
verses,  assumed  the  sprightliness  of  his  most 
pleasing  manner  ;  and,  taking  his  young  friend 
home  with  him,  entertained  him  very  agreeably 
till  the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived." 

Alas  !  when  we  think  that  Burns  now  sleeps 
**  where  bitter  indignation  can  no  longer  lace- 
rate his  heart,"*  and  that  most  of  these  fair 
dames  and  frizzled  gentlemen  already  lie  at  his 
side,  where  the  breastwork  of  gentility  is  quite 
thrown  down, — who  would  not  sigh  over  the 
thin  delusions  and  foolish  toys  that  divide 
heart  from  heart,  and  make  man  unmerciful 
to  his  brother ! 

It  was  not  now  to  be  hoped  that  the  genius 
of  Burns  would  ever  reach  maturity,  or  ac- 
complish ought  worthy  of  itself.  His  spirit 
w'as  jarred  in  its  melody ;  not  the  soft  breath 
of  natural  feeling,  but  the  rude  hand  of  Fate, 
was  now  sweeping  over  the  strings.  And  yet 
what  harmony  was  in  him,  what  music  even 
in  his  discords !     How  the  wild  tones  had  a 


*  Uhi  smva  indignatio  cor  ulterius  lacerare  nequit. 
Swift's  Epitaph, 


charm  for  the  simplest  and  the  wisest;  and 
all  men  felt  and  knew  that  here  also  was  one 
of  the  Gifted !  "If  he  entered  an  inn  at  mid- 
night, after  all  the  inmates  were  in  bed,  the 
news  of  his  arrival  circulated  from  the  cellar 
to  the  garret;  and  ere  ten  minutes  had  elapsed, 
the  landlord  and  all  his  guests  were  assem- 
bled !"  Some  brief,  pure  moments  of  poetic 
life  were  yet  appointed  him,  in  the  composi- 
tion of  his  Songs.  We  can  understand  how 
he  grasped  at  this  employment;  and  how,  too, 
he  spurned  at  all  other  reward  for  it  but  what 
the  labour  itself  brought  him.  For  the  soul 
of  Burns,  though  scathed  and  marred,  was  yet 
living  in  its  full  moral  strength,  though  sharply 
conscious  of  its  errors  and  abasement:  and 
here,  in  his  destitution  and  degradation,  was 
one  act  of  seeming  nobleness  and  self-devoted- 
ness  left  even  for  him  to  perform.  He  felt, 
too,  that  with  all  the  "thoughtless  follies"  that 
had  "  laid  him  low,"  the  world  was  unjust  and 
cruel  to  him;  and  he  silently  appealed  to 
another  and  calmer  time.  Not  as  a  hired  sol- 
dier, but  as  a  patriot,  would  he  strive  for  the 
glory  of  his  country;  so  he  cast  from  him  the 
poor  sixpence  a-day,  and  served  zealously  as 
a  volunteer.  Let  us  not  grudge  him  this  last 
luxury  of  his  existence  ;  let  him  not  have  ap- 
pealed to  us  in  vain!  The  money  was  not 
necessary  to  him ;  he  struggled  through  with- 
out it;  long  since,  these  guineas  would  have 
been  gone,  and  now  the  high-mindedness  of 
refusing  them  will  plead  for  him  in  all  hearts 
for  ever. 

We  are  here  arrived  at  the  crisis  of  Burns's 
life;  for  matters  had  now  taken  such  a  shape 
with  him  as  could  not  long  continue.  If  im- 
provement was  not  to  be  looked  for,  Nature 
could  only  for  a  limited  time  maintain  this 
dark  and  maddening  warfare  against  the  world 
and  itself.  We  are  not  medically  informed 
whether  any  continuance  of  years  was,  at  this 
period,  probable  for  Burns;  whether  his  death 
is  to  be  looked  on  as  in  some  sehse  an  acci- 
dental event,  or  only  as  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  the  long  series  of  events  that  had 
preceded.  The  latter  seems  to  be  the  likelier 
opinion ;  and  yet  it  is  by  no  means  a  certain 
one.  At  all  events,  as  we  have  said,  some 
change  could  not  be  very  distant.  Three  gates 
of  deliverance,  it  seems  to  us,  were  open  for 
Burns:  clear  poetical  activity;  madness;  or 
death.  The  first,  with  longer  life,  was  still 
possible,  though  not  probable ;  for  physical 
causes  were  beginning  to  be  concerned  in  it: 
and  yet  Burns  had  an  iron  resolution ;  could 
he  but  have  seen  and  felt,  that  not  only  his 
highest  glory,  but  his  first  duty,  and  the  true 
medicine  for  all  his  woes,  lay  here.  The 
second  was  still  less  probable;  for  his  mind 
was  ever  among  the  clearest  and  firmest.  So 
the  milder  third  gate  was  opened  for  him :  and 
he  passed,  not  softly,  yet  speedily,  into  that 
still  country,  where  the  hail-storms  and  fire- 
showers  do  not  reach,  and  the  heaviest-ladeu 
way-farer  at  length  lays  down  his  load ! 

'  Contemplating  this  sad  end  of  Burns,  and 
how  he  sank  unaided  by  any  real  help,  un- 
cheered  by  any  wise  sympathy,  generous 
minds  have  sometimes  figured  to  themselves, 


BURNS. 


Ill 


with  a  reproachful  sorrow,  that  much  might 
have  been  done  for  him  ;  that  by  counsel,  true 
affection,  and  friendly  ministrations,  he  might 
have  been  saved  to  himself  and  the  world. 
We  question  whether  there  is  not  more  tender- 
ness of  heart  than  soundness  of  judgment  in 
these  suggestions.  It  seems  dubious  to  us 
whether  the  richest,  wisest,  most  benevolent 
individual,  could  have  lent  Burns  any  effec- 
tual help.  Counsel,  which  seldom  profits  any 
one,  he  did  not  need  ;  in'his  understanding,  he 
knew  the  right  from  the  wrong,  as  well  per- 
haps as  any  man  ever  did ;  but  the  persuasion, 
which  would  have  availed  him,  lies  not  so 
much  in  the  head,  as  in  the  heart,  where  no 
argument  or  expostulation  could  have  assisted 
much  to  implant  it.  As  to  money  again,  we 
do  not  really  believe  that  this  was  his  essen- 
tial want ;  or  well  see  how  any  private  man 
could,  even  presupposing  Burns's  consent,  have 
bestowed  on  him  an  independent  fortune,  with 
much  prospect  of  decisive  advantage.  It  is  a 
mortifying  truth,  that  two  men  in  any  rank  of 
society  could  hardly  be  found  virtuous  enough 
to  give  money,  and  to  take  it,  as  a  necessary 
gift,  without  injury  to  the  moral  entireness  of 
one  or  both.  But  so  stands  the  fact:  Friend- 
ship, in  the  old  heroic  sense  of  that  term,  no 
longer  exists ;  except  in  the  cases  of  kindred 
or  other  legal  affinity ;  it  is  in  reality  no  longer 
expected,  or  recognised  as  a  virtue  among 
men.  A  close  observer  of  manners  has  pro- 
nounced "  Patronage,"  that  is,  pecuniary  or 
other  economic  furtherance,  to  be  "twice 
cursed;"  cursing  him  that  gives,  and  him  that 
takes  !  And  thus,  in  regard  to  outward  mat- 
ters also,  it  has  become  the  rule,  as  in  regard 
to  inward  it  always  was  and  must  be  the  rule, 
that  no  one  shall  look  for  effectual  help  to 
another;  but  that  each  shall  rest  contented 
with  what  help  he  can  afford  himself.  Such, 
we  say,  is  the  principle  of  modern  Honour; 
naturally  enough  growing  out  of  that  senti- 
ment of  Pride,  which  we  inculcate  and  en- 
courage as  the  basis  of  our  whole  social  mo- 
rality. Many  a  poet  has  been  poorer  than 
Burns  ;  but  no  one  was  ever  prouder :  we  may 
question,  whether,  without  great  precautions, 
even  a  pension  from  Royalty  would  not  have 
galled  and  encumbered,  more  than  actually 
assisted  him. 

Still  less,  therefore,  are  we  disposed  to  join 
with  another  xlass  of  Burns's  admirers,  who 
accuse  the  higher  ranks  among  us  of  having 
ruined  Burns  by  their  selfish  neglect  of  him. 
We  have  already  stated  our  doubts  whether 
direct  pecuniary  help,  had  it  been  offered, 
would  have  been  accepted,  or  could  have 
proved  very  effectual.  We  shall  readily  admit, 
however,  that  much  was  to  be  done  for  Burns ; 
that  many  a  poisoned  arrow  might  have  been 
warded  from  his  bosom;  many  an  entanglement 
in  his  path  cut  asunder  by  the  hand  of  the  pow- 
erful;  and  light  and  heat  shed  on  him  from  high 
places,  would  have  made  his  humble  atmo- 
sphere more  genial ;  and  the  softest  heart  then 
breathing  might  have  lived  and  died  with  some 
fewer  pangs.  Nay,  we  shall  grant  further,  and 
for  Burns  it  is  granting  much,  that  with  all  his 
pride,  he  would  have  thanked,  even  with  ex- 
aggerated gratitude,  any  one  who  had  cordially 


befriended  him :  patronage,  unless  once  cursed, 
needed  not  to  have  been  twice  so.  At  all  events, 
the  poor  promotion  he  desired  in  his  calling 
might  have  been  granted:  it  was  his  own 
scheme,  therefore,  likelier  than  any  other  to  be 
of  service.  All  this  it  might  have  been  a  luxu- 
ry, nay,  it  was  a  duty,  for  our  nobility  to  have 
done.  No  part  of  all  this,  however,  did  any  of 
them  do  ;  or  apparently  attempt,  or  wish  to  do ; 
so  much  is  granted  against  them.  But  what 
then  is  the  amount  of  their  blame  1  Simply 
that  they  were  men  of  the  world,  and  walked 
by  the  principles  of  such  men ;  that  they  treated 
Burns,  as  other  nobles  and  other  commoners 
had  done  other  poets ;  as  the  English  did 
Shakspeare ;  as  King  Charles  and  his  cava- 
liers did  Butler,  as  King  Philip  and  his  Gran- 
dees did  Cervantes.  Do  men  gather  grapes  of 
thorns  ]  or  shall  we  cut  down  our  thorns  for 
yielding  only  a  fence,  and  haws  1  How,  indeed, 
could  the  *'  nobility  and  gentry  of  his  native 
land"  hold  out  any  help  to  this  "  Scottish  Bard, 
proud  of  his  name  and  country?"  Were  the 
nobility  and  gentry  so  much  as  able  rightly  to 
help  themselves  ?  Had  they  not  their  game  to 
preserve ;  their  borough  interests  to  strengthen ; 
dinners,  therefore,  of  various  kinds  to  eat  and 
givel  Were  their  means  more  than  adequate 
to  all  this  business,  or  less  than  adequate  7 
Less  than  adequate  in  general:  few  of  them  in 
reality  were  richer  than  Burns;  many  of  them 
were  poorer ;  for  sometimes  they  had  to  wring 
their  supplies,  as  with  thumbscrews,  from  the 
hard  hand ;  and,  in  their  need  of  guineas,  to 
forget  their  duty  of  mercy;  which  Burns  was 
never  reduced  to  do.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive 
them.  The  game  they  preserved  and  shot,  the 
dinners  they  ate  and  gave,  the  borough  inte- 
rests they  strengthened,  the  little  Babylons  they 
severally  builded  by  the  glory  of  their  might, 
are  all  melted,  or  melting  back  into  the  prime- 
val Chaos,  as  man's  merely  selfish  endeavours 
are  fated  to  do :  and  here  was  an  action  ex- 
tending, in  virtue  of  its  worldly  influence,  we 
may  say,  through  all  time ;  in  virtue  of  its 
moral  nature,  beyond  all  time,  being  immortal 
as  the  Spirit  of  Goodness  itself;  this  action  was 
offered  them  to  do,  and  light  was  not  given 
them  to  do  it.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them. 
But,  better  than  pity,  let  us  go  and  do  otherwise. 
Human  suffering  did  not  end  with  the  life  of 
Burns ;  neither  was  the  solemn  mandate, 
"Love  one  another,  bear  one  another's  bur- 
dens," given  to  the  rich  only,  but  to  all  men. 
True,  we  shall  find  no  Burns  to  relieve,  to  as- 
suage by  our  aid  or  our  pity :  but  celestial  na- 
tures, groaning  under  the  fardels  of  a  weary 
life,  we  shall  still  find;  and  that  wretchedness 
which  Fate  has  rendered  voiceless  and  tuneless,  is 
not  the  least  wretched,  but  the  most. 
,  Still  we  do  not  think  that  the  blame  of  Burns's 
^lure  lies  chiefly  with  the  world.  The  world, 
it  seems  to  us,  treated  him  with  more,  rather 
than  with  less  kindness,  than  it  usually  shows 
to  such  men.  It  has  ever,  we  fear,  shown  but 
small  favour  to  its  Teachers  ;  hunger  and  na- 
kedness, perils  and  reviling,  the  prison,  the 
cross,  the  poison-chalice,  have,  in  most  times 
and  countries,  been  the  market-place  it  has 
offered  for  Wisdom,  the  welcome  with  which 
it  has  greeted  those  who  have  come  to  en- 


112 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


lighten  and  puvify  it.  Homer  and  Socrates,  and 
the  Christian  Apostles,  belong  to  old  days ; 
but  the  world's  Martyrology  was  not  completed 
with  these.  Roger  Bacon  and  Galileo  lan- 
guish in  priestly  dungeons,  Tasso  pines  in  the 
cell  of  a  mad-house,  Camoens  dies  begging  on 
the  streets  of  Lisbon.  So  neglected,  so  "  per- 
secuted they  the  Prophets,"  not  in  Judea  only, 
but  in  all  places  where  men  have  been.  We 
reckon  that  every  poet  of  Burns's  order  is,  or 
should  be,  a  prophet  and  teacher  to  his  age ; 
that  he  has  no  right  therefore  to  expect  great 
kindness  from  it,  but  rather  is  bound  to  do  it 
great  kindness ;  that  Burns,  in  particular,  ex- 
perienced fully  the  usual  proportion  of  the 
world's  goodness ;  and  that  the  blame  of  his 
failure,  as  we  have  said,  lies  not  chiefly  with 
the  world. 

Where  then  does  it  lie  1  We  are  forced  to 
answer :  With  himself;  it  is  his  inward,  not 
his  outward  misfortunes,  that  bring  him  to  the 
dust.  Seldom,  indeed,  is  it  otherwise  ;  seldom 
is  a  life  morally  wrecked,  but  the  grand  cause 
lies  in  some  internal  mal-arrangement,  some 
want  less  of  good  fortune  than  of  good  guidance. 
Nature  fashions  no  creature  without  implant- 
ing in  it  the  strength  needful  for  its  action  and 
duration ;  least  of  all  does  she  so  neglect  her 
masterpiece  and  darling,  the  poetic  soul.  Nei- 
ther can  we  believe  that  it  is  in  the  power  of 
any  external  circumstances  utterly  to  ruin  the 
mind  of  a  man  ;  nay,  if  proper  wisdom  be  given 
him,  even  so  much  as  to  affect  its  essential 
health  and  beauty.  The  sternest  sum-total  of 
all  worldly  misfortunes  is  Death ;  nothing  more 
can  lie  in  the  cup  of  human  wo :  yet  many 
men,  in  all  ages,  have  triumphed  over  Death, 
and  led  it  captive  ;  converting  its  physical  vic- 
tory into  a  moral  victory  for  themselves,  into  a 
seal  and  immortal  consecration  for  all  that 
their  past  life  had  achieved.  What  has  been 
done,  may  be  done  again  ;  nay,  it  is  but  the 
degree  and  not  the  kind  of  such  heroism  that 
differs  in  different  seasons;  for  without  some 
portion  of  this  spirit,  not  of  boisterous  daring, 
but  of  silent  fearlessness,  of  Self-denial,  in  all 
its  forms,  no  good  man,  in  any  scene  or  time, 
has  ever  attained  to  be  good. 

We  have  already  stated  the  error  of  Burns ; 
and  mourned  over  it,  rather  than  blamed  it. 
It  was  the  want  of  unity  in  his  purposes,  of 
consistency  in  his  aims ;  the  hapless  attempt 
to  mingle  in  friendly  union  the  common  spirit 
of  the  world  with  the  spirit  of  poetry,  which  is 
of  a  far  different  and  altogether  irreconcilable 
nature.  Burns  was  nothing  wholly  ;  and  Burns 
could  be  nothing,  no  man  formed  as  he  was 
can  be  any  thing,  by  halves.  The  heart,  not 
of  a  mere  hot-blooded,  popular  verse-monger, 
or  poetical  Restaurateur,  but  of  a  true  Poet  and 
Singer,  worthy  of  the  old  religious  heroic  times, 
had  been  given  him :  and  he  fell  in  an  age,  not 
of  heroism  and  religion,  but  of  skepticism,  sel- 
fishness, and  triviality  when  true  Nobleness 
was  little  understood,  and  its  place  supplied  by 
a  hollow,  dissocial,  altogether  barren  and  un- 
fruitful principle  of  Pride.  The  influences  of 
that  age,  his  open,  kind,  susceptible  nature,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  highly  untoward  situation, 
made  it  more  than  usually  difficult  for  him  to 
repel  or  resist ;  the  better  spirit  that  was  with- 


in him  ever  sternly  demanded  its  rights,  its  su- 
premacy ;  he  spent  his  life  in  endeavouring  to 
reconcile  these  two ;  and  lost  it,  as  he  must 
have  lost  it,  without  reconciling  them  here. 

Burns  was  born  poor;  and  born  also  to  con- 
tinue poor,  for  he  would  not  endeavour  to  be 
otherwise :  this  it  had  been  well  could  he  have 
once  for  all  admitted,  and  considered  as  finally 
settled.  He  was  poor,  truly;  but  hundreds 
even  of  his  own  class  and  order  of  minds  have 
been  poorer,  yet  have  suffered  nothing  deadly 
from  it :  nay,  his  own  Father  had  a  far  sorer 
battle  with  ungrateful  destiny  than  his  was ; 
and  he  did  not  yield  to  it,  but  died  courageously 
warring,  and  to  all  moral  intents  prevailing, 
against  it.  True,  Burns  had  little  means,  had 
even  little  time  for  poetry,  his  only  real  pursuit 
and  vocation  ;  but  so  much  the  more  precious 
was  what  little  he  had.  In  all  these  external 
respects  his  case  was  hard  ;  but  very  far  from 
the  hardest.  Poverty,  incessant  drudgery,  and 
much  worse  evils,  it  has  often  been  the  lot  of 
Poets  and  wise  men  to  strive  with,  and  their 
glory  to  conquer.  Locke  was  banished  as  a 
traitor;  and  wrote  his  Essay  on  the  Human 
Understanding,  sheltering  himself  in  a  Dutch 
garret.  Was  Milton  rich  or  at  his  ease,  when 
he  composed  Pafadise  Lost  ?  Not  only  low,  but 
fallen  from  a  height ;  not  only  poor  but  im- 
poverished ;  in  darkness  and  with  dangers 
compassed  round,  he  sang  his  immortal  song, 
and  found  fit  audience,  though  few.  Did  not 
Cervantes  finish  his  work,  a  maimed  soldier, 
and  in  prison  1  Nay,  was  not  the  Araucana, 
which  Spain  acknowledges  as  its  Epic,  written 
without  even  the  aid  of  paper ;  on  scraps  of 
leather,  as  the  stout  fighter  and  voyager 
snatched  any  moment  from  that  wild  warfare? 

And  what  then  had  these  men,  which  Burns 
wanted  1  Two  things  ;  both  which,  it  seems 
to  us,  are  indispensable  for  such  men.  They 
had  a  true,  religious  principle  of  morals  ;  and 
a  single  not  a  double  aim  in  their  activity. 
They  were  not  self-seekers  and  self-worship- 
pers :  but  seekers  and  worshippers  of  some- 
thing far  better  than  Self.  Not  personal 
enjoyment  was  their  object ;  but  a  high,  heroic 
idea  of  Religion,  of  Patriotism,  of  heavenly 
Wisdom  in  one  or  the  other  form,  ever  hovered 
before  them;  in  which  cause,  they  neither 
shrunk  from  suffering,  nor  called  on  the  earth 
to  witness  it  as  something  wonderful;  but 
patiently  endured,  counting  it  blessedness 
enough  so  to  spend  and  be  spent.  Thus  the 
"  golden-calf  of  Self-love,"  however  curiously 
carved,  was  not  their  Deity ;  but  the  Invisible 
Goodness,  which  alone  is  man's  reasonable 
service.  This  feeling  was  as  a  celestial  foun- 
tain, Vvhose  streams  refreshed  into  gladness 
and  beauty  all  the  provinces  of  their  otherwise 
too  desolate  existence.  In  a  word,  they  willed 
one  thing,  to  which  all  other  things  were  sub- 
ordinated, and  made  subservient;  and  therefore 
they  accomplished  it.  The  wedge  will  rend 
rocks  ;  but  its  edge  must  be  sharp  and  single : 
if  it  be  double,  the  wedge  is  bruised  in  pieces 
and  will  rend  nothing. 

Part  of  this  superiority  these  men  owed  to 
their  age ;  in  which  heroism  and  devotedness 
were  still  practised,  or  at  least  not  yet  dis- 
believed in:   but  much  of  it  likewise  they 


BURNS. 


113 


yi 


owed  to  themselves.  With  Burns  again  it 
was  different.  His  morality,  in  most  of  its 
practical  points,  is  that  of  a  mere  worldly  man ; 
enjoyment,  in  a  finer  or  a  coarser  shape,  is  the 
only  thing  he  longs  and  strives  for.  A  noble 
instinct  sometimes  raises  him  above  this ;  but 
an  instinct  only,  and  acting  only  for  moments. 
He  has  no  Religion  ;  in  the  shallow  age,  where 
his  days  were  cast.  Religion  was  not  discrimi- 
nated from  the  New  and  Old  Light  forms  of 
Religion  ;  and  was,  with  these,  becoming  ob- 
solete in  the  minds  of  men.  His  heart,  indeed, 
is  alive  with  a  trembling  adoration,  but  there 
is  no  temple  in  his  understanding.  He  lives 
in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow  of  doubt.  His 
religion,  at  best,  is  an  anxious  wish  ;  like  that 
f  Rabelais,  "  a  great  Perhaps." 
He  loved  Poetry  warmly,  and  in  his  heart ; 
could  he  but  have  loved  it  purely,  and  with  his 
whole  undivided  heart,  it  had  been  well.  For 
Poetry,  as  Burns  could  have  followed  it,  is  but 
another  form  of  Wisdom,  of  Religion  ;  is  itself 
Wisdom  and  Religion.  But  this  also  was  de- 
nied him.  His  poetry  is  a  stray  vagrant  gleam, 
which  will  not  be  extinguished  within  him,  yet 
rises  not  to  be  the  true  light  of  his  path,  but  is 
often  a  wildfire  that  misleads  him.  It  was  not 
necessary  for  Burns  to  be  rich,  to  be,  or  to 
seem,  "  independent;"  but  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  be  at  one  with  his  own  heart ;  to  place 
what  was  highest  in  his  nature,  highest  also  in 
his  life ;  "  to  seek  within  himself  for  that  con- 
sistency and  sequence,  which  external  events 
would  for  ever  refuse  him."  He  was  born  a 
poet ;  poetry  was  the  celestial  element  of  his 
being,  and  should  have  been  the  soul  of  his 
whole  endeavours.  Lifted  into  that  serene 
ether,  whither  he  had  wings  given  him  to 
mount,  he  would  have  needed  no  other  eleva- 
tion :  Poverty,  neglect,  and  all  evil,  save  the 
desecration  of  himself  and  his  Art,  were  a 
small  matter  to  him ;  the  pride  and  the  pas- 
sions of  the  world  lay  far  beneath  his  feet ; 
and  he  looked  down  alike  on  noble  and  slave, 
on  prince  and  beggar,  and  all  that  wore  the 
stamp  of  man,  with  clear  recognition,  with 
brotherly  affection,  with  sympathy,  with  pity. 
Nay,  we  question  whether  for  his  culture  as  a 
Poet,  poverty,  and  much  suffering  for  a  season, 
were  not  absolutely  advantageous.  Great  men, 
in  looking  back  over  their  lives,  have  testified 
to  that  effect.  "I  would  not  for  much,"  says 
Jean  Paul, "  that  I  had  been  born  richer."  And 
yet  Paul's  birth  was  poor  enough  ;  for,  in  an- 
other place,  he  adds :  "  The  prisoner's  allow- 
ance is  bread  and  water ;  and  I  had  often  only 
the  latter."  But  the  gold  that  is  refined  in  the 
hottest  furnace  comes  out  the  purest;  or,  as 
he  has  himself  expressed  it,  "the  canary-bird 
sings  sweeter  the  longer  it  has  been  trained  in 

,   a  darkened  cage." 

S  A  man  like  Burns  might  have  divided  his 
hours  between  poetry  and  virtuous  industry; 
industry  which  all  true  feeling  sanctions,  nay 
prescribes,  and  which  has  a  beauty,  for  that 
cause,  beyond  the  pomp  of  thrones  :  but  to 
divide  his  hours  between  poetry  and  rich  men's 
banquets,  was  an  illrstarred  and  inauspicious 
attempt.  How  could  he  be  at  ease  at  such 
banquets  1  What  had  he  to  do  there,  mingling 
his  music  with  the  coarse  roar  of  altogether  i 
15 


earthly  voices,  and  brightening  the  thick  smoke 
of  intoxication  with  fire  lent  him  from  heaven  1 
Was  it  his  aim  to  enjoy  life  ?  To-morrow  he 
must  go  drudge  as  an  Exciseman !  We  won- 
der not  that  Burns  became  moody,  indignant, 
and  at  times  an  offender  against  certain  rules 
of  society ;  but  rather  that  he  did  not  grow 
utterly  frantic,  and  run  a-muck  against  them 
all.  How  could  a  man,  so  falsely  placed,  by 
his  own  or  others'  fault,  ever  know  content- 
ment or  peaceable  diligence  for  an  hourl 
What  he  did,  under  such  perverse  guidance, 
and  what  he  forbore  to  do.'alike  fill  us  with 
astonishment  at  the  natural  strength  and  worth 
of  his  character. 

Doubtless  there  was  a  remedy  for  this  per- 
verseness  :  but  not  in  others  ;  only  in  himself; 
least  of  all  in  simple  increase  of  wealth  and 
worldly  "  respectability."  We  hope  we  have 
now  heard  enough  about  the  efficacy  of  wealth 
for  poetry,  and  to  make  poets  happy.  Nay, 
have  we  not  seen  another  instance  of  it  in 
these  very  days  1  Byron,  a  man  of  an  endow- 
ment considerably  less  ethereal  than  that  of 
Burns,  is  bom  in  the  rank  not  of  a  Scottish 
ploughman,  but  of  an  English  peer:  the  high- 
est worldly  honours,  the  fairest  worldly  career, 
are  his  by  inheritance  :  the  richest  harvest  of 
fame  he  soon  reaps,  in  another  province,  by 
his  own  hand.  And  what  does  all  this  avail 
him  1  Is  he  happy,  is  he  good,  is  he  true  ? 
Alas,  he  has  a  poet's  soul,  and  strives  towards 
the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal ;  and  soon  feels 
that  all  this  is  but  mounting  to  the  house-top 
to  reach  the  stars  !  Like  Burns,  he  is  only  a 
proud  man ;  might  like  him  have  "  purchased 
a  pocket-copy  of  Milton  to  study  the  character 
of  Satan  ;"  for  Satan  also  is  Byron's  grand  ex- 
emplar, the  hero  of  his  poetry,  and  the  model 
apparently  of  his  conduct.  As  in  Burns's  case 
too,  the  celestial  element  will  not  mingle  with 
the  clay  of  earth;  both  poet  and  man  of  the 
world  he  must  not  be ;  vulgar  Ambition  will 
not  live  kindly  with  poetic  Adoration;  he  can- 
not serve  God  and  Mammon.  Byron,  like  Burns, 
is  not  happy;  nay,  he  is  the  most  wretched  of 
all  men.  His  life  is  falsely  arranged:  the  fire 
that  is  in  him  is  not  a  strong,  still,  central  fire, 
warming  into  beauty  the  products  of  a  world; 
but  it  is  the  mad  fire  of  a  volcano ;  and  now, — 
we  look  sadly  into  the  ashes  of  a  crater,  which, 
erelong,  will  fill  itself  with  snow ! 

Byron  and  Burns  were  sent  forth  as  mis- 
sionaries to  their  generation,  to  teach  it  a 
higher  Doctrine,  a  purer  Truth:  they  had  a 
message  to  deliver,  which,  left  them  no  rest 
till  it  was  accomplished;  in  dim  throes  of  pain, 
this  divine  behest  lay  smouldering  within 
them ;  for  they  knew  not  what  it  meant,  and 
felt  it  only  in  mysterious  anticipation,  and  they 
had  to  die  without  articulately  uttering  it. 
They  are  in  the  camp  of  the  Unconverted. 
Yet  not  as  high  messengers  of  rigorous 
though  benignant  truth,  but  as  soft  flattering 
singers,  and  in  pleasant  fellowship,  will  they 
live  there  ;  they  are  first  adulated,  then  perse- 
cuted; they  accomplish  little  for  others;  they 
find  no  peace  for  themselves,  but  only  death 
and  the  peace  of  the  grave.  We  confess,  it 
is  not  without  a  certain  mournful  awe  that  we 
view  the  fate  of  these  noble  souls,  so  richly- 
k2 


114 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


gifted,  yet  ruined  to  so  little  purpose  with  all 
their  gifts.  It  seems  to  us  there  is  a  stern 
moral  taught  in  this  piece  of  history, — twice 
told  us  in  our  own  time !  Surely  to  men  of 
like  genius,  if  there  be  any  such,  it  carries 
with  it  a  lesson  of  deep  impressive  significance. 
Surely  it  would  become  such  a  man,  furnished 
for  the  highest  of  all  enterprises,  that  of  being 
the  Poet  of  his  Age,  to  consider  well  what  it  is 
that  he  attempts,  and  in  what  spirit  he  attempts 
it.  For  the  words  of  Milton  are  true  in  all 
times,  and  were  never  truer  than  in  this :  "  He, 
who  would  write  heroic  poems,  must  make  his 
whole  life  a  heroic  poem."  If  he  cannot  first 
so  make  his  life,  then  let  him  hasten  from  this 
arena ;  for  neither  its  lofty  glories,  nor  its 
fearful  perils,  are  for  him.  Let  him  dwindle 
into  a  modish  ballad-monger ;  let  him  worship 
and  be-sing  the  idols  of  the  time,  and  the  time 
will  not  fail  to  reward  him, — if,  indeed,  he  can 
endure  to  live  in  that  capacity  !  Byron  and 
Burns  could  not  live  as  idol-priests,  but  the 
fire  of  their  own  hearts  consumed  them ;  and 
better  it  was  for  them  that  they  could  not.  For 
it  is  not  in  the  favour  of  the  great,  or  of  the 
small,  but  in  a  life  of  truth,  and  in  the  inex- 
pugnable citadel  of  his  own  soul,  that  a 
Byron's  or  a  Burns's  strength  must  lie.  Let 
the  great  stand  aloof  from  him,  or  know  how 
to  reverence  him.  Beautiful  is  the  union  of 
wealth  with  favour  and  furtherance  for  litera- 
ture ;  like  the  costliest  flower-jar  enclosing  the 
loveliest  amaranth.  Yet  let  not  the  relation 
be  mistaken.  A  true  poet  is  not  one  whom 
they  can  hire  by  money  or  flattery  to  be  a  min- 
ister of  their  pleasures,  their  writer  of  occa- 
sional verses,  their  purveyor  of  table-wit ;  he 
cannot  be  their  menial,  he  cannot  even  be  their 
partisan.  At  the  peril  of  both  parties,  let  no 
such  union  be  attempted!  Will  a  Courser  of 
the  Sun  work  softly  in  the  harness  of  a  Dray- 
horse  1  His  hoofs  are  of  fire,  and  his  path  is 
through  the  heavens,  bringing  light  to  all 
lands  ;  will  he  lumber  on  mud  highways,  drag- 
ging ale  for  earthly  appetites,  from  door  to 
doorl 

But  we  must  stop  short  in  these  considera- 
tions, which  would  lead  us  to  boundless  lengths. 
We  had  something  to  say  on  the  public  moral 
character  of  Burns ;  but  this  also  we  must  for- 
bear. We  are  far  from  regarding  him  as 
guilty  before  the  world,  as  guiltier  than  the 


average;  nay,  from  doubting  that  he  is  less 
guilty  than  one  of  ten  thousand.  Tried  at  a 
tribunal  far  more  rigid  than  that  where  the 
Plebiscita  of  common  civic  reputations  are  pro- 
nounced, he  has  seemed  to  us  even  there  less 
worthy  of  blame  than  of  pity  and  wonder. 
But  the  world  is  habitually  unjust  in  its  judg- 
ments of  such  men  ;  unjust  on  many  grounds, 
of  which  this  one  may  be  stated  as  the  sub- 
stance: It  decides,  like  a  court  of  law,  by  dead 
statutes ;  and  not  positively  but  negatively, 
less  on  what  is  done  right,  than  on  what  is,  or 
is  not,  done  wrong.  Not  the  few  inches  of  re- 
flection from  the  mathematical  orbit,  which 
are  so  easily  measured,  but  the  ratio  of  these 
to  the  whole  diameter,  constitutes  the  real 
aberration.  This  orbit  may  be  a  planet's,  its 
diameter  the  breadth  of  the  solar  system ;  or 
it  may  be  a  city  hippodrome ;  nay,  the  circle 
of  a  ginhorse,  its  diameter  a  score  of  feet  or 
paces.  But  the  inches  of  deflection  only  are 
measured ;  and  it  is  assumed  that  the  diameter 
of  the  ginhorse,  and  that  of  the  planet,  will 
yield  the  same  ratio  when  compared  with 
them.  Here  lies  the  root  of  many  a  blind, 
cruel  condemnation  of  Burnses,  Swifts,  Rous- 
seaus,  which  one  never  listens  to  with  ap- 
proval. Granted,  the  ship  comes  into  harbour 
with  shrouds  and  tackle  damaged;  and  the 
pilot  is  therefore  blameworthy ;  for  he  has  not 
been  all-wise  and  all-powerful;  but  to  know 
how  blameworthy,  tell  us  first  whether  his 
voyage  has  been  round  the  Globe,  or  only  to 
Ramsgate  and  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 

With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of 
right  feeling  anywhere,  we  are  not  required  to 
plead  for  Burns.  In  pitying  admiration,  he 
lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts,  in  a  far  nobler 
mausoleum  than  that  one  of  marble ;  neither 
will  his  Works,  even  as  they  are,  pass  away 
from  the  memory  of  men.  While  the  Shak- 
speares  and  Miltons  roll  on  like  mighty  rivers 
through  the  country  of  Thought,  bearing  fleets 
of  traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl-fishers  on 
their  waves ;  this  little  Valclusa  Fountain  will 
also  arrest  our  eye :  For  this  also  is  of  Nature's 
own  and  most  cunning  workmanship,  bursts 
from  the  depths  of  the  earth,  with  a  full  gush- 
ing current,  into  the  light  of  day ;  and  often 
will  the  traveller  turn  aside  to  drink  of  its 
clear  waters,  and  muse  among  its  rocks  and 
pines ! 


THE  LITE  OF  HEYNE. 


115 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE.* 


[Foreign  Review,  1828.] 


The  labours  and  merits  of  Heyne  being  better 
known,  and  more  justly  appreciated  in  England, 
than  those  of  almost  any  other  German,  whe- 
ther scholar,  poet,  or  philosopher,  we  cannot 
but  believe  that  some  notice  of  his  life  may  be 
acceptable  to  most  readers.  Accordingly,  we 
here  mean  to  give  a  short  abstract  of  this  vo- 
lume, a  miniature  copy  of  the  "  biographical 
portrait,"  but  must  first  say  a  few  words  on  the 
portrait  itself,  and  the  limner  by  whom  it  has 
been  drawn. 

Professor  Heeren  is  a  man  of  learning,  and 
known  far  out  of  his  own  Hanoverian  circle, — 
indeed,  more  or  less  to  all  students  of  history, 
— by  his  researches  on  Ancient  Commerce,  a 
voluminous  account  of  which  from  his  hand 
enjoys  considerable  reputation.  He  is  evi- 
dently a  man  of  sense  and  natural  talent,  as 
well  as  learning;  and  his  gifts  seem  to  lie 
round  him  in  quiet  arrangement,  and  very 
much  at  his  own  command.  Nevertheless,  we 
cannot  admire  him  as  a  writer;  we  do  not 
even  reckon  that  such  endowments  as  he  has 
are  adequately  represented  in  his  books.  His 
style  both  of  diction  and  thought  is  thin,  cold, 
formal,  without  force  or  character,  and  pain- 
fully reminds  us  of  college  lectures.  He  can 
work  rapidly,  but  with  no  freedom,  and,  as  it 
were,  only  in  one  attitude,  and  at  one  sort  of 
labour.  Not  that  we  particularly  blame  Pro- 
fessor Heeren  for  this,  but  that  we  think  he 
might  have  been  something  better:  These 
"fellows  in  buckram,"  very  numerous  in  cer- 
tain walks  of  literature,  are  an  unfortunate, 
rather  than  a  guilty  class  of  men  ;  they  have 
fallen,  perhaps  unwillingly,  into  the  plan  of 
writing  by  pattern,  and  can  now  do  no  other; 
for,  in  their  minds,  the  beautiful  comes  at  last 
to  be  simply  synonymous  with  the  neat.  Every 
sentence  bears  a  family-likeness  to  its  precur- 
sor; most  probably  it  has  a  set  number  of 
clauses ;  (three  is  a  favourite  number,  as  in 
Gibbon,  for  "  the  muses  delight  in  odds ;")  has 
also  a  given  rhythm,  a  known  and  foreseen 
music,  simple  but  limited  enough,  like  that  of 
ill-bred  fingers  drumming  on  a  table.  And 
then  it  is  strange  how  soon  the  outward  rhythm 
carries  the  inward  along  with  it;  and  the 
thought  moves  with  the  same  stinted,  ham- 
strung rub-a-dub  as  the  words.  In  a  state  of 
perfection,  this  species  of  writing  comes  to 
resemble  power-loom  weaving:  it  is  not  the 
mind  that  is  at  work,  but  some  scholastic  ma- 
chinery which  the  mind  has  of  old  constructed, 
and  is  from  afar  observing.  Shot  follows  shot 
from  the  unwearied  shuttle ;  and  so  the  web  is 

*  Christian  Oottlnb  Heyne,  biographiseh  dar^estellt  von 
Arnold  Hermann  LudwifT  Heeren.  (Christian  Gottlob 
Heyne,  biographically  portrayed  by  Arnold  Hermann 
Ludwig  Heeren.)    G6ttingen, 


woven,  ultimately  and  properly,  indeed,  by  the 
wit  of  man,  yet  immediately,  and  in  the  mean- 
while, by  the  mere  aid  of  time  and  steam. 

But  our  Professor's  mode  of  speculation  is 
little  less  intensely  academic  than  his  mode  of 
writing.  We  fear  he  is  something  of  what  the 
Germans  call  a  Kleinstddter ; — mentally  as  well 
as  bodily,  a  "dweller  in  a  little  town."  He 
speaks  at  great  length,  and  with  undue  fond- 
ness, of  the  "  Georgia  Augusta,"  which,  after  all, 
is  but  the  University  of  Gdltingen,  an  earthly, 
and  no  celestial  institution  :  it  is  nearly  in  vain 
that  he  tries  to  contemplate  Heyne  as  a  Euro- 
pean personage,  or  even  as  a  German  one ;  be- 
yond the  pfecincts  of  the  Georgia  Augusta,  his 
view  seems  to  grow  feeble  and  soon  die  away 
into  vague  inanity;  so  we  have  not  Hey^e,  the 
man  and  scholar,  but  Heyne,  the  Gdttingen 
Professor.  But  neither  is  this  habit  of  mind 
any  strange  or  crying  sin,  or  at  all  pecuTiar  to 
Gottingen ;  as,  indeed,  most  parishes  of  Eng- 
land can  produce  more  than  one  ;e^ample  to 
show.  And  yet  it  is  pitiful,  when  an  establish- 
ment for  universal  science,  which  ought  to  be 
a  watch-tower  where  a  man  might  see  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  world,  converts  itself  into  a 
'Workshop,  whence  he  sees  nothing  but  his  tool- 
box and  bench,  and  the  world,  in  broken 
glimpses,  through  one  patched  and  highly  dis- 
coloured pane ! 

Sometimes,  indeed,  our  worthy  friend  rises 
into  a  region  of  the  moral  sublime,  in  which  it 
is  difficult  for  a  foreigner  to  follow  him.  Thus 
he  says,  on  one  occasion,  speaking  of  Heyne: 
"  Immortal  are  his  merits  in  regard  to  the  cata- 
logues"— of  the  Gottingen  library.  And,  to 
cite  no  other  instance,  except  the  last  and  best 
one,  we  are  informed,  that,  when  Heyne  died, 
"  the  guardian  angels  of  the  Georgia  Augusta 
waited  in  that  higher  world  to  meet  him  with 
blessings."  By  day  and  night!  There  is  no 
such  guardian  angel,  that  we  know  of,  for  the 
University  of  Gottingen;  neither  does  it  need 
one,  being  a  good  solid  seminary  of  itself,  with 
handsome  stipends  from  Government.  We  had 
imagined,  too,  that  if  anybody  welcomed  peo- 
ple into  heaven,  it  would  be  St.  Peter,  or  at 
least  some  angel  of  old  standing,  and  not  a 
mere  mushroom,  as  this  of  Gottingen  must  be, 
created  since  the  year  1739. 

But  we  are  growing  very  ungrateful  to  the 
good  Heeren,  who  meant  no  harm  by  these 
flourishes  of  rhetoric,  and,  indeed,  does  not 
often  indulge  in  them.  The  grand  questions 
with  us  here  are,  Did  he  know  the  truth  in  this 
matter  1  and  was  he  disposed  to  tell  it  honestly  1 
To  both  of  which  questions  we  can  answer 
without  reserve,  that  all  appearances  are  in 
his  favour.  He  was  Heyne's  pupil,  colleague, 
son-in-law,  and  so  knew  him  intimately  for 


116 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


thirty  years :  he  has  every  feature  also  of  a 
just,  quiet,  truth-loving  man ;  so  that  we  see 
little  reason  to  doubt  the  authenticity,  the  inno- 
cence, of  any  statement  in  his  volume.  What 
more  have  we  to  do  with  him  then,  but  to  take 
thankfully  what  he  has  been  pleased  and  able 
to  give  us,  and,  with  all  despatch,  communi- 
cate it  to  our  readers. 

Heyne's  Life  is  not  without  an  intrinsic,  as 
well  as  an  external  interest;  for  he  had  much 
to  struggle  with,  and  he  struggled  with  it  man- 
fully ;  thus  his  history  has  a  value  independent 
of  his  fame.  Some  account  of  his  early  years 
we  are  happily  enabled  to  give  in  his  own 
words ;  we  translate  a  considerable  part  of  this 
passage,  autobiography  being  a  favourite  sort 
of  reading  with  us. 

He  was  born  at  Chemnitz,  in  Upper  Saxony, 
in  September,  1729;  the  eldest  of  a  poor  weav- 
er's family,  poor  almost  to  the  verge  of  desti- 
tution. 

"  My  good  father,  George  Heyne,"  says  he, 
"was  a  native  of  the  principality  of  Glogau,  in 
Silesia,  from  the  little  village  of  Gravenschutz. 
His  youth  had  fallen  in  those  times  when  the 
Evangelist  party  of  that  province  were  still 
exposed  to  the  oppressions  and  persecutions 
of  the  Romish  Church.  His  kindred,  enjoying 
the  blessing  of  contentment  in  an  humble  but 
independent  station,  felt,  like  others,  the  influ- 
ence of  this  proselytizing  bigotry,  and  lost  their 
domestic  peace  by  means  of  it.  Some  went 
over  to  the  Romish  faith.  My  father  left  his 
native  village,  and  endeavoured,  by  the  labour 
of  his  hands,  to  procure  a  livelihood  in  Saxony. 
'  What  will  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole 
world,  and  lose  his  own  soul!'  was  the  thought 
which  the  scenes  of  his  youth  had  stamped  the 
most  deeply  on  his  mind  ;  but  no  lucky  chance 
favoured  his  enterprises  or  endeavours  to  bet- 
ter his  condition,  ever  so  little.  On  the  con- 
trary, a  series  of  perverse  incidents  kept  him 
continually  below  the  limits  even  of  a  moder- 
ate sufficiency.  His  old  age  was  thus  left  a 
prey  to  poverty,  and  to  her  companions,  timid- 
ity and  depression  of  mind.  Manufactures,  at 
that  time,  were  visibly  declining  in  Saxony; 
and  the  misery  among  the  working  classes,  in 
districts  concerned  in  the  linen  trade,  was 
unusually  severe.  Scarcely  could  the  labour 
of  the  hands  suffice  to  support  the  labourer  him- 
self, still  less  his  family.  The  saddest  aspect 
which  the  decay  of  civic  society  can  exhibit 
has  always  appeared  to  me  to  be  this,  when 
honourable,  honour-loving,  conscientious  dili- 
gence cannot,  by  the  utmost  efforts  of  toil,  ob- 
tain the  necessaries  of  life,  or  when  the  work- 
ing man  cannot  even  find  work;  but  must 
stand  with  folded  arms,  lamenting  his  forced 
idleness,  through  which  himself  and  his  family 
are  verging  to  starvation,  or  it  may  be,  actually 
suffering  the  pains  of  hunger. 

"It  was  in  the  extremest  penury  that  I  was 
born  and  brought  up.  The  earliest  compa- 
nion of  my  childhood  was  Want ;  and  my 
first  impressions  came  from  the  tears  of  my 
mother,  who  had  not  bread  for  her  children. 
How  often  have  I  seen  her  on  Saturday-nights 
wringing  her  hands  and  weeping,  when  she 
had  come  back  with  what  the  hard  toil,  nay, 
often  the  sleepless  nights,  of  her  husband  had 


produced,  and  could  find  none  to  buy  it ! 
Sometimes  a  fresh  attempt  was  made  through 
me  or  my  sister ;  I  had  to  return  to  the  pur- 
chasers with  the  same  piece  of  ware,  to  see 
whether  we  could  not  possibly  get  rid  of  it. 
In  that  quarter  there  is  a  class  of  so-called 
merchants,  who,  however,  are  in  fact  nothing 
more  than  forestallers,  that  buy  up  the  linen 
made  by  the  poorer  people  at  the  lowest 
price,  and  endeavour  to  sell  it  in  other  dis- 
tricts at  the  highest.  Often  have  I  seen  one 
or  other  of  these  petty  tyrants,  with  all  the 
pride  of  a  satrap,  throw  back  the  piece  of 
goods  offered  him,  or  imperiously  cut  off  some 
trifle  from  the  price  and  wages  required  for  it. 
Necessity  constrained  the  poorer  to  sell  the 
sweat  of  his  brow  at  a  groschen  or  two  less, 
and  again  to  make  good  the  deficit  by  starving. 
It  was  the  view  of  such  things  that  awakened 
the  first  sparks  of  indignation  in  my  young 
heart.  The  show  of  pomp  and  plenty  among 
these  purse-proud  people,  who  fed  themselves 
on  the  extorted  crumbs  of  so  many  hundreds, 
far  from  dazzling  me  into  respect  or  fear,  filled 
me  with  rage  against  them.  The  first  time  I 
heard  of  tyrannicide  at  school,  there  rose 
vividly  before  me  the  project  to  become  a 
Brutus  on  all  those  oppressors  of  the  poor, 
who  had  so  often  cast  my  father  and  mother 
into  straits :  and  here,  for  the  first  time,  was 
an  instance  of  a  truth,  which  I  have  since  had 
frequent  occasion  to  observe,  that  if  the  un- 
happy man  armed  with  feeling  of  his  wrongs, 
and  a  certain  strength  of  soul,  does  not  risk 
the  utmost  and  become  an  open  criminal,  it  is 
merely  the  beneficent  result  of  those  circum- 
stances in  which  Providence  has  placed  him, 
thereby  fettering  his  activity,  and  guarding 
him  from  such  destructive  attempts.  That 
the  oppressing  part  of  mankind  should  be  se- 
cured against  the  oppressed  was,  in  the  plan 
of  inscrutable  wisdom,  a  most  important  ele- 
ment of  the  present  system  of  things. 

"My  good  parents  did  what  they  could,  and 
sent  me  to  a  child's  school  in  the  suburbs;  I 
obtained  the  praise  of  learning  very  fast  and 
being  very  fond  of  it.  My  schoolmaster  had 
two  sons,  lately  returned  from  Leipzig,  a  cou- 
ple of  depraved  fellows,  who  took  all  pains  to 
lead  me  astray;  and,  as  I  resisted,  kept  me 
for  a  long  time,  by  threats  and  mistreatment 
of  all  sorts,  extremely  miserable.  So  early  as 
my  tenth  year,  to  raise  the  money  for  my  school 
wages,  I  had  given  lessons  to  a  neighbour's 
child,  a  little  girl,  in  reading  and  writing.  As 
the  common  school-course  could  take  me  no 
farther,  the  point  now  was  to  get  a  private 
hour  and  proceed  into  Latin.  But  for  that 
purpose  a  guter  groschen  weekly  was  required: 
this  my  parents  had  not  to  give.  Many  a  day 
I  carried  this  grief  about  with  me :  however,  I 
had  a  godfather,  who  was  in  easy  circum- 
stances, a  baker,  and  my  mother's  half-brother. 
One  Saturday  I  was  sent  to  this  man  to  fetch 
a  loaf.  With  wet  eyes  I  entered  his  house, 
and  chanced  to  find  my  godfather  himself 
there.  Being  questioned  why  I  was  crying,  I 
tried  to  answer,  but  a  whole  stream  of  tears 
broke  loose,  and  scarcely  could  I  make  the 
cause  of  my  sorrow  intelligible.  My  magnani- 
mous  godfather  offered  to    pay  the  weekly 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


117 


grogcken  out  of  his  own  pocket ;  and  only  this 
condition  was  imposed  on  me,  that  I  should 
come  to  him  every  Sunday,  and  repeat  what 
part  of  the  Gospel  I  had  learned  by  heart. 
This  latter  arrangement  had  one  good  effect 
for  me, — it  exercised  my  memory,  and  I 
learned  to  recite  without  bashfulness. 

"  Drunk  with  joy,  I  started  off  with  my  loaf; 
tossing  it  up  time  after  time  into  the  air,  and 
barefoot  as  I  was,  I  capered  aloft  after  it.  But 
hereupon  my  loaf  fell  into  a  puddle.  This 
misfortune  again  brought  me  a  little  to  reason  ; 
my  mother  heartily  rejoiced  at  the  good  news ; 
my  father  was  less  content.  Thus  passed  a 
couple  of  years ;  and  my  schoolmaster  inti- 
mated what  I  myself  had  long  known,  that  I 
could  now  learn  no  more  from  him. 

"  This  then  was  the  time  when  I  must  leave 
school,  and  betake  me  to  the  handicraft  of 
my  father.  Were  not  the  artisan  under  op- 
pressions of  so  many  kinds,  robbed  of  the 
fruits  of  his  hard  toil,  and  of  so  many  advan- 
tages to  which  the  useful  citizen  has  a  natural 
claim ;  I  should  siill  say,— Had  I  but  continued 
in  the  station  of  my  parents,  what  thousand- 
fold vexations  would  at  this  hour  have  been 
unknown  to  me  !  My  father  could  not  but  be 
anxious  to  have  a  grown-up  son  for  an  assist- 
ant in  his  labour,  and  looked  upon  my  repug- 
nance to  it  with  great  dislike.  I  again  longed 
to  get  into  the  grammar-school  of  the  town ; 
but  for  this  all  means  were  wanting.  Where 
was  a  gulden  of  quarterly  fees,  where  were 
books  and  a  blue  cloak  to  be  come  at ;  how 
wistfully  my  look  often  hung  on  the  walls  of 
the  school  when  I  learned  it ! 

"  A  clergyman  of  the  suburbs  was  my  se- 
cond godfather ;  his  name  was  Sebastian  Sey- 
del ;  my  schoolmaster,  who  likewise  belonged 
to  his  congregation,  had  told  him  of  me ;  I 
was  sent  for,  and  after  a  short  examination,  he 
promised  me  that  I  should  go  to  the  town- 
school  ;  he  himself  would  bear  the  charges. 
Who  can  express  my  happiness,  as  I  then  felt 
it !  I  was  despatched  to  the  first  teacher,  ex- 
amined, and  placed  with  approbation  in  the 
second  class.  Weakly  from  the  first,  pressed 
down  with  sorrow  and  want,  without  any 
cheerful  enjoyment  of  childhood  or  youth,  I 
was  still  of  very  small  stature ;  my  class-fel- 
lows judged  by  externals,  and  had  a  very  slight 
opinion  of  me.  Scarcely  by  various  proofs 
of  diligence,  and  by  the  praises  I  received, 
could  I  get  so  far  that  they  tolerated  my  being 
put  beside  them. 

"  And  certainly  my  diligence  was  not  a  little 
hampered !  Of  his  promise,  the  clergyman, 
indeed,  kept  so  much,  that  he  paid  my  quar- 
terly fees,  provided  me  with  a  coarse  cloak, 
and  gave  me  some  useless  volumes  that  were 
lying  on  his  shelves  ;  but  to  furnish  me  with 
school-books  he  could  not  resolve.  I  thus 
found  myself  under  the  necessity  of  borrow- 
ing a  class-fellow's  books,  and  daily  copying 
a  part  of  them  before  the  lesson.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  honest  man  would  have  some  hand 
himself  in  my  instruction,  and  gave  me  from 
time  to  time  some  hours  in  Latin.  In  his 
youth  he  had  learned  to  make  Latin  verses : 
scarcely  was  Erasmus  de  Civilitatc  Morutn  got 
over,  when  I  too  must  take  to  verse-making; 


all  this  before  I  had  read  any  authors,  or  could 
possibly  possess  any  store  of  words.  The 
man  was  withal  passionate  and  rigorous ;  in 
every  point  repulsive ;  with  a  moderate  income 
he  was  accused  of  avarice ;  he  had  the  stiff- 
ness and  self-will  of  an  old  bachelor,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  vanity  of  aiming  to  be  a 
good  Latinist,  and,  what  was  more,  a  Latin 
verse-maker,  and  consequently  a  literary  cler- 
gyman. These  qualities  of  his  all  contributed 
to  overload  my  youth,  and  nip  away  in  the  bud 
every  enjoyment  of  its  pleasures." 

In  this  plain  but  somewhat  leaden  style  does 
Heyne  proceed,  detailing  the  crosses  and  losses 
of  his  school-years.  We  cannot  pretend  that 
the  narrative  delights  us  much ;  nay,  that  it  is 
not  rather  bald  and  barren  for  such  a  narra- 
tive :  but  its  fidelity  may  be  relied  on  ;  and  it 
paints  the  clear,  broad,  strong,  and  somewhat 
heavy  nature  of  the  writer,  perhaps  better 
than  description  could  do.  It  is  curious,  for 
instance,  to  see  with  how  little  of  a  purely  hu- 
mane interest  he  looks  back  to  his  childhood  : 
how  Heyne  the  man  has  almost  grown  into  a 
sort  of  teaching-machine,  and  sees  in  Heyne 
the  boy  little  else  than  the  incipient  Gerund- 
grinder,  and  tells  us  little  else  but  how  this 
wheel  after  the  other  was  dev^eloped  in  him, 
and  he  came  at  last  to  grind  in  complete  per- 
fection. We  could  have  wished  to  get  some 
view  into  the  interior  of  that  poor  Chemnitz 
hovel,  with  its  unresting  loom  and  cheerless 
hearth,  its  squalor  and  devotion,  its  affection 
and  repining;  and  the  fire  of  natural  genius 
struggling  into  flame  amid  such  incumbrances, 
in  an  atmosphere  so  damp  and  close!  But  of 
all  this  we  catch  few  farther  glimpses  ;  and 
hear  only  of  Fabricius  and  Owen  and  Pasor, 
and  school-examinations,  and  rectors  that  had 
been  taught  by  Ernesti.  Neither,  in  another 
respect,  not  of  omission  but  of  commission, 
can  this  piece  of  writing  altogether  content 
us.  We  must  object  a  little  to  the  spirit  of  it 
as  too  narrow,  too  intolerant.  Sebastian  Sey- 
del  must  have  been  a  very  meager  man ;  but 
is  it  right,  that  Heyne,  of  all  others,  should 
speak  of  him  with  asperity  1  Without  ques- 
tion the  unfortunate  Seydel  meant  nobly,  had 
not  thrift  stood  in  his  way.  Did  he  not  pay 
down  iiis  gulden  every  quarter  regularly,  and 
give  the  boy  a  blue  cloak,  though  a  coarse 
one  ?  Nay,  he  bestowed  old  books  on  him, 
and  instruction,  according  to  his  gift,  in  the 
mystery  of  verse-making.  And  was  not  all 
this  something?  And  if  thrift  and  charity 
had  a  continual  battle  to  fight,  was  not  this 
better  than  a  flat  surrender  on  the  part  of  the 
latter?  The  other  pastors  of  Chemnitz  are 
all  quietly  forgotten :  why  should  Sebastian 
be  remembered  to  his  disadvantage  for  being 
only  a  little  better  than  they? 

Heyne  continued  to  be  much  infested  with 
tasks  from  Sebastian,  and  sorely  held  down  by 
want,  and  discouragement  of  every  sort.  The 
school-course,  moreover,  he  says,  was  bad, 
nothing  but  the  old  routine  ;  vocables,  trans- 
lations, exercises ;  all  without  spirit  or  pur- 
pose. Nevertheless,  he  continued  to  make 
what  we  must  call  wonderful  proficiency  in 
these  branches;  especially  as  he  had  still  to 
write  every  task  before  he  could  learn  it.    For 


118 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


he  prepared  "Greek  versions,"  he  says;  "also 
Greek  verses;  and  by  and  by  could  write 
down  in  Greek  prose,  and  at  last,  in  Greek  as 
well  as  Latin  verses,  the  discourses  he  heard 
in  church ! "  Some  ray  of  hope  was  begin- 
ning to  spring  up  within  his  mind.  A  certain 
small  degree  of  self-confidence  had  first  been 
awakened  in  him,  as  he  informs  us,  by  a  "pe- 
dantic adventure." 

"  There  chanced  to  be  a  school-examination 
held,  at  which  the  superintendent,  as  chief 
school-inspector,  was  present.  This  man.  Dr. 
Theodor  Kriiger,  a  theologian  of  some  learning 
for  his  time,  all  at  once  interrupted  the  rector, 
who  was  teaching  ex  cathedra,  and  put  the  ques- 
tion :  who  among  the  scholars  could  tell  him 
what  might  be  made  per  anagramma  from  the 
word  Austria.  This  whim  had  arisen  from 
the  circumstance  that  the  first  Silesian  war 
was  just  begun ;  and  some  such  anagram, 
reckoned  very  happy,  had  appeared  in  a  news- 
paper.* No  one  of  us  knew  so  much  as 
what  an  anagram  was ;  even  the  rector  looked 
quite  perplexed.  As  none  answered,  the  lat- 
ter began  to  give  us  a  description  of  anagrams 
in  general.  I  set  myself  to  work,  and  sprang 
forth  with  my  discovery,  Vastari !  This  was 
something  different  from  the  newspaper  one  : 
so  much  the  greater  was  our  superintendent's 
admiration,  and  the  more  as  the  successful  as- 
pirant was  a  little  boy,  on  the  lowest  bench  of 
the  secunda.  He  growled  out  his  applause  to 
me,  but  at  the  same  time  set  the  whole  school 
about  my  ears,  as  he  stoutly  upbraided  them 
with  being  beaten  by  an  infimus. 

"  Enough  !  this  pedantic  adventure  gave  the 
first  impulse  to  the  development  of  my  powers. 
I  began  to  take  some  credit  to  myself,  and  in 
spite  of  all  the  oppression  and  contempt  in 
which  I  languished,  to  resolve  on  struggling 
forward.  This  first  struggle  was  in  truth  in- 
efiectual  enough ;  was  soon  regarded  as  a 
piece  of  pride  and  conceitedness ;  it  brought 
on  me  a  thousand  humiliations  and  disquie- 
tudes ;  at  times  it  might  degenerate  on  my 
part  into  defiance.  Nevertheless,  it  kept  me 
at  the  stretch  of  my  diligence,  ill-guided  as  it 
was,  and  withdrew  me  from  the  company  of 
my  class-fellows,  among  whom,  as  among 
children  of  low  birth  and  bad  nurture  could 
not  fail  to  be  the  case,  the  utmost  coarseness 
and  boorishness  of  every  sort  prevailed.  The 
plan  of  these  schools  does  not  include  any 
general  inspection,  but  limits  itself  to  mere  in- 
tellectual instruction. 

"  Yet  on  all  hands,"  continues  he,  "  I  found 
myself  too  sadly  hampered.  The  perverse 
way  in  which  the  old  parson  treated  me :  at 
home  the  discontent  and  grudging  of  my  pa- 
rents, especially  of  my  father,  who  could  not 
get  on  with  his  work,  and  still  thought,  that 
had  I  kept  by  his  way  of  life,  he  might  now 
have  had  some  help ;  the  pressure  of  want, 
the  feeling  of  being  behind  every  other;  all 
this  would  allow  no  cheerful  thought,  no  sen- 
timent of  worth,  to  spring  up  within  me.  A 
timorous,  bashful,  awkward  carriage  shut  me 
out  still  further  from  all  exterior  attractions. 


♦  As  yet  Saxony  was  against  Austria,  not,  as  in  the 
end,  allied  with  her. 


Where  could  I  learn  good  manners,  elegance, 
a  right  way  of  thought  1  where  could  I  attain 
any  culture  for  heart  and  spirit. 

'  Upwards,  however,  I  still  strove.  A  feeling 
of  honour,  a  wish  for  something  better,  an  effort 
to  work  myself  out  of  this  abasement,  inces- 
santly attended  me  ;  but  without  direction  as  it 
was,  it  led  me  rather  to  suUenness,  misanthropy, 
and  clownishness. 

"At  length  a  place  opened  for  me,  where 
some  training  in  these  points  lay  within  my 
reach.  One  of  our  senators  took  his  mother- 
in-law  home  to  live  with  him ;  she  had  still  two 
children  with  her,  a  son  and  a  daughter,  both 
about  my  own  age.  For  the  son  private  les- 
sons were  wanted ;  and  happily  I  was  chosen 
for  the  purpose. 

"  As  these  private  hours  brought  me  in  a  gul- 
den monthly,  I  now  began  to  defend  myself  a 
little  against  the  grumbling  of  my  parents. 
Hitherto  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  work 
occasionally,  that  I  might  not  be  told  how  I  was 
eating  their  bread  for  nothing ;  clothes,  and  oil 
for  my  lamp,  I  had  earned  by  teaching  in  the 
house ;  these  things  I  could  now  relinquish : 
and  thus  my  condition  was  in  some  degree  im- 
proved. On  the  other  hand,  I  had  now  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  persons  of  better  education.  I 
gained  the  goodwill  of  the  family ;  so  that  be- 
sides the  lesson-hours  I  generally  lived  there. 
Such  society  afforded  me  some  culture,  ex- 
tended my  conceptions  and  opinions,  and  also 
polished  a  little  the  rudeness  of  my  exterior." 

In  this  senatorial  house  he  must  have  been 
somewhat  more  at  ease ;  for  he  now  very  pri- 
vately fell  in  love  with  his  pupil's  sister,  and 
made  and  burnt  many  Greek  and  Latin  verses 
in  her  praise  ;  and  had  sweet  dreams  of  some- 
lime  rising  "  so  high  as  to  be  worthy  of  her." 
Even  as  matters  stood,  he  acquired  her  friend- 
ship and  that  of  her  mother.  But  the  grand  con- 
cern for  the  present  was  how  to  get  to  college  at 
Leipzig.  Old  Sebastian  had  promised  to  stand 
good  on  this  occasion ;  and  unquestionably 
would  have  done  so  with  the  greatest  pleasure, 
had  it  cost  him  nothing;  but  he  promised  and 
promised,  without  doing  aught;  above  all, 
without  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket;  and 
elsewhere  there  was  no  hope  or  resource.  At 
length,  wearied  perhaps  with  the  boy's  impor- 
tunity, he  determined  to  bestir  himself;  and  so 
directed  his  assistant,  who  was  just  making  a 
journey  to  Leipzig,  to  show  Heyne  the  road  ; 
the  two  arrived  in  perfect  safety :  Heyne  still 
longing  after  cash,  for  of  his  own  he  had  only 
two  gulden,  about  five  shillings  ;  but  the  assist- 
ant left  him  in  a  lodging  house,  and  went  his 
way,  saying  he  had  no  farther  orders  ! 

The  miseries  of  a  poor  scholar's  life  were 
now  to  be  Heyne's  portion  in  full  measure.  Ill- 
clothed,  totally  destitute  of  books,  with  five 
shillings  in  his  purse,  he  found  himself  set 
down  in  the  Leipzig  university,  to  study  all 
learning.  Despondency  at  first  overmastered 
the  poor  boy's  heart,  and  he  sunk  into  sick- 
ness, from  which  indeed  he  recovered;  but 
only,  as  he  says,  "  to  fall  into  conditions  of  life 
where  he  became  the  prey  of  desperation." 
How  he  contrived  to  exist,  much  more  to  study, 
is  scarcely  apparent  from  this  narrative.  The 
unhappy  old  Sebastian  did  at  length  send  him 


THE   LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


119 


some  pittance,  and  at  rare  intervals  repeated 
the  dole ;  yet  ever  with  his  own  peculiar  grace ; 
not  till  after  unspeakable  solicitations;  in 
quantities  that  were  consumed  by  inextinguish- 
able debt,  and  coupled  with  sour  admonitions ; 
nay,  on  one  occasion  addressed  externally,  "  Ji 
Mr.  Heyne,  Etudiant  negligeant."  For  half 
a  year  he  would  leave  him  without  all  help ;  then 
promise  to  come,  and  see  what  he  was  doing: 
come  accordingly,  and  return  without  leaving 
him  a  penny ;  neither  could  the  destitute  youth 
ever  obtain  any  public  furtherance ;  no  freytisch 
(free-table)  or  stipendium  was  to  be  procured. 
Many  times  he  had  no  regular  meal ;  "  often 
not  three-halfpence  for  a  loaf  at  naid-day."  He 
longed  to  be  dead,  for  his  spirit  was  often  sunk 
in  the  gloom  of  darkness.  "  One  good  heart 
alone,"  says  he,  "  I  found,  and  that  in  the  ser- 
vant girl  of  the  house  where  I  lodged.  She  laid 
out  money  for  my  most  pressing  necessities, 
and  risked  almost  all  she  had,  seeing  me  in 
such  frightful  want.  Could  I  but  find  thee  in 
the  world  even  now,  thou  good  pious  soul,  that 
I  might  repay  thee  what  thou  then  didst  for 
me!" 

Heyne  declares  it  to  be  still  a  mystery  to  him 
how  he  stood  all  this.  "  What  carried  me  for- 
ward," continues  he,  "was  not  ambition;  my 
youthful  dream  of  one  day  taking  a  place,  or 
aiming  to  take  one,  among  the  learned.  It  is 
true,  the  bitter  feeling  of  debasement,  of  defi- 
ciency in  education  and  external  polish ;  the 
consciousness  of  awkwardness  in  social  life, 
incessantly  accompanied  me.  But  my  chief 
strength  lay  in  a  certain  defiance  of  fate.  This 
gave  me  courage  not  to  yield ;  everywhere  to 
try  to  the  uttermost  whether  I  was  doomed 
without  remedy  never  to  rise  from  this  degra- 
dation." 

Of  order  in  his  studies  there  could  be  little 
expectation.  He  did  not  even  know  what  pro- 
fession he  was  aiming  after;  old  Sebastian 
was  for  theology;  and  Heyne,  though  himself 
averse  to  it,  affected,  and  only  affected  to  com- 
ply; besides  he  had  no  money  to  pay  class  fees : 
it  was  only  to  open  lectures,  or  at  most  to  ill- 
guarded  class-rooms  that  he  could  gain  admis- 
sion. Of  this  ill-guarded  sort  was  Winkler's  ; 
into  which  poor  Heyne  insinuated  himself  to 
hear  philosophy.  Alas  !  the  first  problem  of 
all  philosophy,  the  keeping  of  soul  and  body 
together,  was  wellnigh  too  hard  for  him.  Wink 
ler's  students  were  of  a  riotous  description,  ac- 
customed, among  other  improprieties,  to  schar- 
ren,  scraping  with  the  feet.  One  day  they  chose 
to  receive  Heyne  in  this  fashion;  and  he  could 
not  venture  back.  "Nevertheless,"  adds  he, 
simply  enough,  "  the  beadle  came  to  me  some- 
time afterwards,  demanding  the  fee :  I  had  my 
own  shifts  to  take  before  I  could  raise  it." 

Ernesti  was  the  only  teacher  from  whom 
he  derived  any  benefit :  the  man,  indeed,  whose 
influence  seems  to  have  shaped  the  whole  sub- 
sequent course  of  his  studies.  By  dint  of  ex- 
cessive endeavours  he  gained  admittance  to 
Ernesti's  lectures;  and  here  first  learned, 
says  Heeren, "  what  interpretation  of  the  clas- 
sics meant."  One  Crist  also,  a  strange,  fan- 
tastic Sir  Plume  of  a  Professor,  who  built  much 
on  taste,  elegance  of  manners,  and  the  like, 
took  some  notice  of  him,  and  procured  him  a 


little  employment  as  a  private  teacher.  This 
might  be  more  useful  than  his  advice  to  imi- 
tate Scaliger,  and  read  the  ancients  so  as  to 
begin  with  the  most  ancient,  and  proceed  regu- 
larly to  the  latest.  Small  service  it  can  do  abed- 
rid  man  to  convince  him  that  waltzing  is  prefera- 
ble to  quadrilles  !  "  Crist's  Lectures,"  says  he, 
"  were  a  tissue  of  endless  digressions,  which, 
however,  now  and  then  contained  excellent  re- 
marks." 

But  Heyne's  best  teacher  was  himself.  No 
pressure  of  distresses,  no  want  of  books,  ad- 
visers, or  encouragement,  not  hunger  itself 
could  abate  his  resolute  perseverance.  What 
books  he  could  come  at  he  borrowed ;  and  such 
was  his  excess  of  zeal  in  reading,  that  for  a 
whole  half  year  he  allowed  himself  only  two 
nights'  sleep  in  the  week,  till  at  last  a  fever 
obliged  him  to  be  more  moderate.  His  dili- 
gence was  undirected,  or  ill-directed,  but  it 
never  rested,  never  paused,  and  must  at  length 
prevail.  Fortune  had  cast  him  into  a  cavern, 
and  he  was  groping  darkly  round ;  but  the  pri- 
soner was  a  giant,  and  would  at  length  burst 
forth  as  a  giant  into  the  light  of  day.  Heyne, 
without  any  clear  aim,  almost  without  any  hope 
had  set  his  heart  on  attaining  knowledge ;  a 
force,  as  of  instinct,  drove  him  on,  and  no 
promise  and  no  threat  could  turn  him  back.  It 
was  at  the  very  depth  of  his  destitution,  when 
he  had  not  "  three  groschen  for  a  loaf  to  dine  on,'* 
that  he  refused  a  tutorship,  with  handsome 
enough  appointments,  but  which  was  to  have  re- 
moved him  from  the  University.  Crist  had  sent 
for  him  one  Sunday,  and  made  him  the  pro- 
posal :  "  There  arose  a  violent  struggle  within 
me,"  says  he,  "  which  drove  me  to  and  fro  for 
several  days  ;  to  this  hour  it  is  incomprehen- 
sible to  me  where  I  found  resolution  to  deter- 
mine on  renouncing  the  offer,  and  pursuing 
my  object  in  Leipzig."  A  man  with  a  half 
volition  goes  backwards  and  forwards,  and 
makes  no  way  on  the  smoothest  road;  a  man 
with  a  whole  volition  advances  on  the  rough- 
est, and  will  reach  his  purpose  if  there  be  a 
little  wisdom  in  it. 

With  his  first  two  years'  residence  in  Leip- 
zig, Heyne's  personal  narrative  terminates; 
not  because  the  nodus  of  the  history  had  been 
solved  then,  and  his  perplexities  cleared  up, 
but  simply  because  he  had  not  found  time  to 
relate  further.  A  long  series  of  straitened  hope- 
less days  were  yet  appointed  him.  By  Ernes- 
ti's or  Crist's  recommendation,  he  occasionally 
got  employment  in  giving  private  lessons ;  at 
one  time,  he  worked  as  secretary  and  classical 
hodman  to  "  Cruscius,  the  philosopher,"  who 
felt  a  little  rusted  in  his  Greek  and  Latin; 
everywhere  he  found  the  scantiest  accommo- 
dation, and,  shifting  from  side  to  side  in  dreary 
vicissitudes  of  want,  had  to  spin  out  an  exist- 
ence, warmed  by  no  ray  of  comfort,  except  the 
fire  that  burnt  or  smouldered  unquenchably 
within  his  own  bosom.  However,  he  had  now 
chosen  a  profession,  that  of  law,  at  which,  as 
at  many  other  branches  of  learning,  he  was 
labouring  with  his  old  diligence.  Of  prefer- 
ment in  this  province  there  was,  for  the  pre- 
sent, little  or  no  hope ;  but  this  was  no  new 
thing  with  Heyne.  By  degrees,  too,  his  fine 
talents  and  endeavours,  and  his  perverse  silua- 


120 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tion,  began  to  attract  notice  and  sympathy ; 
and  here  and  there  some  well-wisher  had  his 
eye  on  him,  and  stood  ready  to  do  him  a  ser- 
vice. Two  and  twenty  years  of  penury  and 
joyless  struggling  had  now  passed  over  the 
man ;  how  many  more  such  might  be  added 
was  still  uncertain ;  yet,  surely,  the  longest 
winter  is  followed  by  a  spring. 

Another  trifling  incident,  little  better  than 
that  old  "  pedantic  adventure,"  again  brought 
about  important  changes  in  Heyne's  situation. 
Among  his  favourers  in  Leipzig  had  been  the 
preacher  of  a  French  chapel,  one  Lacoste,  who, 
at  this  time,  was  cut  off  by  death.  Heyne,  it 
is  said,  in  the  real  sorrow  of  his  heart,  com- 
posed a  long  Latin  Epicediura  on  that  occa- 
sion ;  the  poem  had  nowise  been  intended  for 
the  press ;  but  certain  hearers  of  the  deceased 
were  so  pleased  with  it,  that  they  had  it  print- 
ed, and  this  in  the  finest  style  of  typography 
and  decoration.  It  was  this  latter  circum- 
stance, not  the  merit  of  the  verses,  which  is 
said  to  have  been  considerable,  that  attracted 
the  attention  of  Count  Briihl,  the  well-known 
prime-minister  and  favourite  of  the  Elector. 
Briihl's  sons  were  studying  in  Leipzig;  he  was 
pleased  to  express  himself  contented  with  the 
poem,  and  to  say,  that  he  should  like  to  have 
the  author  in  his  service.  A  prime  minister's 
'  words  are  not  as  water  spilt  upon  the  ground, 
which  cannot  be  gathered ;  but  rather  as  hea- 
venly manna,  which  is  treasured  up  and  eaten, 
not  without  a  religious  sentiment.  Heyne  was 
forthwith  written  to  from  all  quarters,  that  his 
fortune  was  made :  he  had  but  to  show  him- 
self in  Dresden,  said  his  friends,  with  one 
voice,  and  golden  showers  from  the  ministerial 
cornucopia  would  refresh  him  almost  to  satu- 
ration. For,  was  not  the  Count  taken  with 
him ;  and  who  in  all  Saxony,  not  excepting  Se- 
rene Highness  itself,  could  gainsay  the  Count] 
Over-persuaded,  and  against  his  will,  Heyne 
at  length  determined  on  the  journey ;  for  which, 
as  an  indispensable  preliminary,  "  fifty-one  tha- 
lers^^  had  to  be  borrowed  ;  and  so,  following  this 
hopeful  quest,  he  actually  arrived  at  Dresden 
in  April,  1752.  Count  Briihl  received  him 
with  the  most  captivating  smiles ;  and  even 
assured  him  in  words,  that  he.  Count  Briihl, 
would  take  care  of  him.  But  a  prime  minis- 
ter has  so  much  to  take  care  of!  Heyne 
danced  attendance  all  spring  and  summer, 
happier  than  our  Johnson,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
not  to  "  blow  his  fingers  in  a  cold  lobby,"  the 
weather  being  warm;  and  obtained  not  only 
promises,  but  useful  experience  of  their  value 
at  courts. 

He  was  to  be  made  a  secretary,  with  five  hun- 
dred, with  four  hundred,  or  even  with  three  hun- 
dred thalers,  of  income:  only,  in  the  meanwhile, 
his  old  stock  of  "fifty-one"  had  quite  run  out, 
and  he  had  nothing  to  live  upon.  By  great  good 
3uck,  he  procured  some  employment  in  his  old 
craft,  private  teaching,  which  helped  him 
through  the  winter;  but  as  this  ceased,  he  re- 
mained without  resources.  He  tried  working 
for  the  booksellers,  and  translated  a  French 
romance  and  a  Greek  one,  Chariton's  Loves  of 
Chareas  and  Callirhoe ;  however,  his  emolu- 
ments would  scarcely  furnish  him  with  salt, 
not  lo  speak  of  victuals.    He   sold  his  few 


books.  A  licentiate  in  divinity,  one  Sonntag, 
took  pity  on  his  houselessness,  and  shared  a 
garret  with  him  ;  where,  as  there  was  no  un- 
occupied bed,  Heyne  slept  on  the  floor,  with  a 
few  folios  for  his  pillow.  So  fared  he  as  to 
lodging  :  in  regard  to  board,  he  gathered  empty 
pease-cods,  and  had  them  boiled;  this  was  not 
unfrequenllyhis  only  meal. — O,  ye  poor  naked 
wretches  !  what  would  Bishop  Watson  say  to 
this? — At  length,  by  dint  of  incredible  solicita- 
tions, Heyne,  in  the  autumn  of  1753,  obtained, 
not  his  secretaryship,  but  the  post  of  under- 
clerk,  {copist)  in  the  Briihl  Library,  with  one 
hundred  thalers  of  salary  ;  a  sura  barely  sufii- 
cient  to  keep  in  life,  which,  indeed,  was  now  a 
great  point  with  him.  In  such  sort  was  this 
young  scholar  "  taken  care  of." 

Nevertheless,  it  was  under  these  external 
circumstances  that  he  first  entered  on  his  pro- 
per career,  and  forcibly  made  a  place  for  him- 
self among  the  learned  men  of  his  day.  In 
1754,  he  prepared  his  edition  of  Tibullus,  which 
was  printed  next  year  at  Leipzig;*  a  work 
said  to  exhibit  remarkable  talent,  inasmuch  as 
"  the  rudiments  of  all  those  excellences,  by 
which  Heyne  afterwards  became  distinguished 
as  a  commentator  on  the  classics,  are  more  or 
less  apparent  in  it."  The  most  illustrious 
Henry  Count  von  Briihl,  in  spite  of  the  dedi- 
cation, paid  no  regard  to  this  Tibullus ;  as  in- 
deed Germany  at  large  paid  little ;  but,  in  an- 
other country,  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  Rhunken, 
where  it  was  rightly  estimated,  and  lay  wait- 
ing, as  in  due  season  appeared,  to  be  the  pledge 
of  better  fortune  for  its  author. 

Meanwhile  the  day  of  difficulty  for  Heyne 
was  yet  far  from  past.  The  profits  of  his  Ti- 
bullus served  to  cancel  some  debts;  on  the 
strength  of  his  hundred  thalers,  the  spindle  of 
Clotho  might  still  keep  turning,  though  lan- 
guidly; but,  ere  long,  new  troubles  arose.  His 
superior  in  the  library  was  one  Rost,  a  poetas- 
ter, atheist,  and  gold-maker,  who  corrupted  his 
religious  principles,  and  plagued  him  with 
caprices  :  Over  the  former  evil  Heyne  at  length 
triumphed,  and  became  a  rational  Christian ; 
but  the  latter  was  an  abiding  grievance  ;  not, 
indeed,  for  ever,  for  it  was  removed  by  a 
greater.  In  1756,  the  Seven  Years'  War  broke 
out;  Frederic  advanced  towards  Dresden,  ani- 
mated with  especial  fury  against  Briihl ;  whose 
palaces  accordingly  were  in  a  few  months  re- 
duced to  ashes,  as  his  70,000  splendid  volumes 
were  annihilated  by  fire  and  by  water,f  and  all 
his  domestics  and  dependents  turned  to  the 
street  without  appeal. 

Heyne  had  lately  been  engaged  in  studying 
Epictetus,  and  publishing,  adjidem,  Codd.  Muspt., 
an  edition  of  his  Enchiridion  ;t  from  which, 
quoth  Heeren,  his  great  soul  had  acquired 
much   stoical  nourishment.      Such   nourish- 


*  Alhii  Tibulli  qua  extant  Carmina,  novis  Curis  casti- 
gata.  niustrissimo  Domino  Henrico  Comiti  de  Briihl 
Inseripta     Lipsim,  1755. 

\  One  rich  cargo,  on  its  way  to  Hamburg,  sank  in  the 
Elbe  ;  another  still  more  valuable  portion  had  been,  for 
safety,  deposited  in  a  vault,  through  which  passed  cer- 
tain pipes  of  artific  ial  waterworks ;  these  the  cannon 
broke,  and,  when  the  vault  came  to  be  opened,  all  was 
reduced  to  pulp  and  mould.  The  bomb-shells  burnt  the 
remainder. 

t  Lipsiae,  1756.  The  Codices,  or  rather  the  Codex,  was 
in  Briihl's  library. 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


121 


ment  never  comes  wrong  in  life ;  and,  surely, 
at  this  time  Heyne  had  need  of  it  all.  How- 
ever, he  struggled  as  he  had  been  wont:  trans- 
lated pamphlets,  sometimes  wrote  newspaper 
articles ;  eat,  when  he  had  wherewithal,  and 
resolutely  endured  when  he  had  not.  By  and 
by,  Rabener,  to  whom  he  was  a  little  known, 
offered  him  a  tutorship  in  the  family  of  a  Herr 
von  Schouberg,  which  Heyne,  not  without  re- 
luctance, accepted.  Tutorships  were  at  all 
times  his  aversion ;  his  rugged  plebeian  proud 
spirit  made  business  of  that  sort  grievous ;  but 
want  stood  over  him,  like  an  armed  man,  and 
was  not  to  be  reasoned  with. 

In  this  Schouberg  family,  a  novel  and  un- 
expected series  of  fortunes  awaited  him ;  but 
whether  for  weal  or  for  wo  might  still  be  hard 
to  determine.  The  name  of  Theresa  Weiss 
ha,s  become  a  sort  of  classical  word  in  biogra- 
phy ;  her  union  with  Heyne  forms,  as  it  were, 
a  green  cypress-and-myrtle  oasis  in  his  other- 
wise hard  and  stony  history.  It  was  here  that 
he  first  met  with  her ;  that  they  learned  to  love 
each  other.  She  was  the  orphan  of  a  "  profes- 
sor on  the  lute ;"  had  long,  amid  poverty  and 
afflictions,  been  trained,  like  the  Stoics,  to  bear 
and  forbear;  was  now  in  her  twenty-seventh 
year,  and  the  humble  companion,  as  she  had 
once  been  the  school-mate,  of  the  Frau  von 
Schouberg,  whose  young  brother  Heyne  had 
come  to  teach.  Their  first  interview  may  be 
described  in  his  own  words,  which  Hereen  is 
here  again  happily  enabled  to  introduce. 

"  It  was  on  the  10th  of  October,  (her  future 
death-day  !)  that  I  first  entered  the  Schouberg 
house.  Towards  what  mountains  of  mis- 
chances was  I  now  proceeding !  To  what 
endless  tissues  of  good  and  evil  hap  was  the 
thread  here  taken  up  !  Could  I  fancy  that  at 
this  moment  Providence  was  deciding  the 
fortune  of  my  life!  I  was  ushered  into  a 
room,  where  sat  several  ladies  engaged,  with 
gay  youthful  sportiveness,  in  friendly  confi- 
dential talk.  Frau  von  Schouberg,  but  lately 
married,  yet  at  this  time  distant  from  her  hus- 
band, was  preparing  for  a  journey  to  him  at 
Prague,  where  his  business  detained  him.  On 
her  brow  still  beamed  the  pure  innocence  of 
youth;  in  her  eyes  you  saw  a  glad  soft  vernal 
sky  ;  a  smiling  loving  complaisance  accompa- 
nied her  discourse.  This,  too,  seemed  one  of 
those  souls,  clear  and  uncontaminated  as  they 
come  from  the  hands  of  their  Maker.  By  reason 
of  her  brother,  in  her  tender  love  of  him,  I  must 
have  been,  to  her,  no  unimportant  guest. 

"  Beside  her  stood  a  young  lady,  dignified  in 
aspect,  of  fair,  slender  shape,  not  regular  in 
feature,  yet  soul  in  every  glance.  Her  words, 
her  looks,  her  every  movement,  impressed 
you  with  respect, — another  sort  of  respect  than 
what  was  paid  to  rank  and  birth.  Good  sense, 
good  feeling  disclosed  itself  in  all  she  did. 
You  forgot  that  more  beauty,  more  softness, 
might  have  been  demanded  ;  you  felt  yourself 
under  the  influence  of  something  noble,  some- 
thing stately  and  earnest,  something  decisive 
that  lay  in  her  look,  in  her  gestures ;  not  less 
attracted  to  her,  than  compelled  to  reverence 
her. 

"More  than  esteem,  the  first  sight  of  Theresa 
did  not  inspire  me  with-     What  I  noticed  most 
16 


were  the  efforts  she  made  to  relieve  my  em- 
barrassment, the  fruit  of  my  down-bent  pride, 
and  to  keep  me,  a  stranger,  entering  among 
familiar  acquaintances,  in  easy  conversation. 
Her  good  heart  reminded  her  how  much  the 
unfortunate  requires  encouragement;  espe- 
cially when  placed,  as  I  was,  among  those  to 
whose  protection  he  must  look  up.  Thus  was 
my  first  kindness  for  her  awakened  by  that 
good-heartedness,  which  made  her,  among 
thousands,  a  beneficent  angel.  She  was  one 
at  this  moment  to  myself;  for  I  twice  received 
letters  from  an  unknown  hand,  containing 
money,  which  greatly  alleviated  my  difficul- 
ties. 

"In  a  few  days,  on  the  14th  of  October,  I 
commenced  my  task  of  instruction.  Her  I  did 
not  see  again  till  the  following  spring,  when 
she  returned  with  her  friend  from  Prague; 
and  then  only  once  or  twice,  as  she  soon  ac- 
companied Frau  von  Schouberg  to  the  coun- 
try, to  iEnsdorf,  in  Oberlausitz  (Upper  Lusa- 
tia.)  They  left  us,  after  it  had  been  settled 
that  I  was  to  follow  them  in  a  few  days  with 
my  pupil.  My  young  heart  joyed  in  the  pro- 
spect of  rural  pleasures,  of  which  I  had,  from 
of  old,  cherished  a  thousand  delightful  dreams. 
I  still  remember  the  6th  of  May,  when  we  set 
out  for  iEnsdorf.  . 

"  The  society  of  two  cultivated  females,  who 
belonged  to  the  noblest  of  their  sex,  and  the 
endeavours  to  acquire  their  esteem,  contributed 
to  form  my  own  character.  Nature  and  reli- 
gion were  the  objects  of  my  daily  contempla- 
tion ;  I  began  to  act  and  live  on  principles,  of 
which,  till  now,  I  had  never  thought:  these, 
too,  formed  the  subject  of  our  constant  dis- 
course. Lovely  nature  and  solitude  exalted 
our  feelings  to  a  pitch  of  pious  enthusiasm. 

"  Sooner  than  I,  Theresa  discovered  that  her 
friendship  for  me  was  growing  into  a  passion. 
Her  natural  melancholy  now  seized  her  heart 
more  keenly  than  ever:  often  our  glad  hours 
were  changed  into  very  gloomy  and  sad  ones. 
Whenever  our  conversation  chanced  to  turn 
on  religion,  (she  was  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith,)  I  observed  that  her  grief  became  more 
apparent.  I  noticed  her  redouble  her  devo- 
tions ;  and  sometimes  found  her  in  solitude, 
weeping  and  praying  with  such  a  fulness  of 
heart  as  I  had  never  seen." 

Theresa  and  her  lover,  or  at  least  beloved, 
were  soon  separated,  and  for  a  long  while  kept 
much  asunder;  partly  by  domestic  arrange- 
ments, still  more  by  the  tumults  of  war.  Heyne 
attended  his  pupil  to  the  Wittenberg  Univer- 
sity, and  lived  there  a  year;  studying  for  his 
own  behoof,  chiefly  in  philosophy  and  German 
history,  and  with  more  profit,  as  he  says,  than 
of  old.  Theresa  and  he  kept  up  a  corres- 
pondence, which  often  passed  into  melancholy 
and  enthusiasm.  The  Prussian  cannon  drove 
him  out  of  Wittenberg :  his  pupil  and  he  wit- 
nessed the  bombardment  of  the  place  from  the 
neighbourhood ;  and,  having  waited  till  their 
University  became  "  a  heap  of  rubbish,"  had 
to  retire  elsewhere  for  accommodation.  The 
young  man  subsequently  went  to  Erlangen, 
then  to  Gottingen.  Heyne  remained  again 
without  employment,  alone  in  Dresden.  The- 
resa was  living  in  his  neighbourhood,  lovely 


132 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  sad  as  ever;  bat  a  new  bombardment 
drove  her  also  to  a  distance.  She  left  her  little 
property  with  Heyne,  who  removed  it  to  his 
lodging,  and  determined  to  abide  the  Prussian 
siege,  having  indeed  no  other  resource.  The 
sack  of  cities  looks  so  well  on  paper,  that  we 
must  find  a  little  space  here  for  JHeyne's  ac- 
count of  his  experience  in  this  business; 
though  it  is  none  of  the  brightest  accounts; 
and  indeed  contrasts  but  poorly  with  Rabe- 
ner's  brisk  sarcastic  narrative  of  the  same 
adv-enture;  for  he,  too,  was  cannonaded  out  of 
Dresden  at  this  time,  and  lost  house  and  home, 
and  books  and  manuscripts,  and  all  but  good 
humour. 

"  The  Prussians  advanced  meanwhile,  and 
on  the  18th  of  July,  (1760,)  the  bombardment 
of  Dresden  began.  Several  nights  I  passed,  in 
company  with  others,  in  a  tavern,  and  the  days 
in  my  room;  so  that  I  could  hear  the  balls 
from  the  battery,  as  they  flew  through  the 
street,  whizzing  past  my  windows.  An  indif- 
ference to  danger  and  to  life  took  such  posses- 
sion of  me,  that  on  the  last  morning  of  the 
siege,  I  went  early  to  bed,  and,  amid  the  fright- 
fullest  crashing  of  bombs  and  grenades,  fell 
fast  asleep  of  fatigue,  and  lay  sound  till  mid- 
day. On  awakening,  I  huddled  on  my  clothes, 
and  ran  down  stairs,  but  found  the  whole 
house  deserted.  I  had  returned  to  my  room, 
considering  what  I  was  to  do,  whither,  at  all 
events,  I  was  to  take  my  chest,  when  with  a 
tremendous  crash,  a  bomb  came  down  in  the 
court  of  the  house  J  did  not,  indeed,  set  fire  to 
it,  but,  on  all  sides,  shattered  every  thing  to 
pieces.  The  thought,  that  where  one  bomb 
fell  more  would  soon  follow,  gave  me  wings ; 
I  darted  down  stairs,  found  the  house-door 
locked,  ran  to  and  fro ;  at  last  got  entrance  into 
one  of  the  under-rooms,  and  sprung  through 
the  window  into  the  street. 

"  Empty  as  the  street  where  I  lived  had  been, 
I  found  the  principal  thoroughfares  crowded 
with  fugitives.  Amidst  the  whistling  of  balls, 
I  ran  along  the  Schlossgasse  towards  the 
Elbe-Bridge,  and  so  forward  to  the  Neustadt, 
out  of  which  the  Prussians  had  now  been 
forced  to  retreat.  Glad  that  I  had  leave  to  rest 
anywhere,  I  passed  one  part  of  the  night  on 
the  floor  of  an  empty  house ;  the  other,  witness- 
ing the  frightful  light  of  flying  bombs,  and  a 
burning  city. 

"  At  break  of  day,  a  little  postern  was  opened 
by  the  Austrian  guard,  to  let  the  fugitives  get 
out  of  the  walls.  The  captain  in  his  insolence 
called  the  people  Lutheran  dogs,  and  with  this 
nick-name  gave  each  of  us  a  stroke  as  we 
passed  through  the  gate. 

"I  was  now  at  large;  and  the  thought, 
whither  bound  1  began  for  the  first  time  to 
employ  me.  As  I  had  run,  indeed  leapt  from 
my  house,  in  the  night  of  terror,  I  had  carried 
with  me  no  particle  of  my  property,  and  not  a 
groschen  of  money.  Only  in  hurrying  along 
the  street,  I  had  chanced  to  see  a  tavern  open 
(it  was  an  Italian's)  where  I  used  to  pass  the 
nights.  Here  espying  a  fur-cloak,  I  had  picked 
it  up,  and  thrown  it  about  me.  With  this  I 
walked  along,  in  one  of  the  sultriest  days,  from 
the  Neustadt,  over  the  sand  and  the  moor ;  and 
took  the  road  for  JGnsdorf,  where  Theresa 


with  her  friend  was  staying:  the  mother-in- 
law  of  the  latter  being  also  on  a  visit  to  them. 
In  the  fiercest  heat  of  the  sun,  through  tracts 
of  country  silent  and  deserted,  I  walked  four 
leagues  to  Bischopfwerda,  where  I  had  to 
sleep  in  an  inn  among  carriers.  Towards  mid- 
night arrived  a  postilion  with  return  horses ; 
I  asked  him  to  let  me  ride  one;  2fnd  with  him 
I  proceeded,  till  my  road  turned  off"  from  the 
highway.  All  day,  I  heard  the  shots  at  poor 
Dresden  re-echoing  in  the  hills. 

"  Curiosity  at  first  made  my  reception  at 
^nsdorf  very  warm.  But  as  I  came  to  appear 
in  the  light  of  an  altogether  destitute  man,  the 
family  could  see  in  me  only  a  future  burden : 
no  invitations  to  continue  with  them  followed. 
In  a  few  days  came  a  chance  of  conveyance, 
by  a  wagon  for  Neustadt,  to  a  certain  Frau  von 
Fletscher  a  few  miles  on  this  side  of  it;  I  was 
favoured  with  some  old  linen  for  the  road.  The 
good  Theresa  suffered  unspeakably  under  these 
proceedings:  the  noble  lady,  her  friend,  had 
not  been  allowed  to  act  according  to  the  dic- 
tates of  her  own  heart. 

"  Not  till  now  did  I  feel  wholly  how  misera- 
ble I  was  !  Spurning  at  destiny,  and  hardening 
my  heart,  I  entered  on  this  journey.  With  the 
Frau  von  Fletscher  too  my  abode  was  brief; 
and  by  the  first  opportunity  I  returned  to 
Dresden.  There  was  still  a  possibility  that 
my  lodging  might  have  been  saved.  With 
heavy  heart  I  entered  the  city ;  hastened  to  the 
place  where  I  had  lived,  and  found — a  heap 
of  ashes." 

Heyne  took  up  his  quarters  in  the  vacant 
rooms  of  the  Briihl  Library.  Some  friends 
endeavoured  to  alleviate  his  distress ;  but  war 
and  rumors  of  war  continued  to  harass  him 
and  drive  him  to  and  fro ;  and  his  Theresa, 
afterwards  also  a  fugitive,  was  now  as  poor  as 
himself.  She  heeded  little  the  loss  of  her  pro- 
perty; but  inward  sorrow  and  so  many  out- 
ward agitations  preyed  hard  upon  her ;  in  the 
winter  she  fell  violently  sick  at  Dresden,  was 
given  up  by  her  physicians  ;  received  extreme 
unction  according  to  the  rites  of  her  church ; 
and  was  for  some  hours  believed  to  be  dead. 
Nature  however,  again  prevailed :  a  crisis  had 
occurred  in  the  mind  as  well  as  in  the  body; 
for  with  her  first  returning  strength,  Theresa 
declared  her  determination  to  renounce  the 
Catholic,  and  publicly  embrace  the  Protestant 
faith.  Argument,  representation  of  worldly 
disgrace  and  loss  were  unavailing;  she  could 
now,  that  all  her  friends  were  to  be  estranged, 
have  little  hope  of  being  wedded  to  Heyne  on 
earth ;  but  she  trusted  that  in  another  scene  a 
like  creed  might  unite  them  in  a  like  destiny. 
He  himself  fell  ill ;  and  only  escaped  death  by 
her  nursing.  Persisting  the  more  in  her  pur- 
pose, she  took  priestly  instruction,  and  on  the 
20th  of  May,  in  the  Evangelical  Schlosskirche, 
solemnly  professed  her  new  creed. 

"  Reverent  admiration  filled  me,"  says  he, 
"as  I  beheld  the  peace  and  steadfastness  with 
which  she  executed  her  determination  ;  and 
still  more  the  courage  with  which  she  bore  the 
consequences  of  it.  She  saw  herself  altogether 
cast  out  from  her  family:  forsaken  by  her 
acquaintance,  by  every  one ;  and  by  the  fire 
deprived  of  all  she  had.    Her  courage  exalted 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


tS3 


me  to  a  higher  duty,  and  admonished  me  to  do 
mine.  Imprudently  I  had,  in  former  conversa- 
tions, first  awakened  her  religious  scruples; 
the  passion  for  me,  which  had  so  much  in- 
creased her  enthusiasm,  increased  her  melan- 
choly; even  the  secret  thought  of  belonging 
more  closely  to  me  by  sameness  of  belief  had 
unconsciously  influenced  her.  In  a  word,  I 
formed  the  determination  which  could  not  but 
expose  me  to  universal  censure:  helpless  as 
I  was,  I  united  my  destiny  with  hers.  We 
were  wedded  at  ^nsdorf,  on  the  4th  of  June, 
1761." 

This  was  a  bold  step,  but  a  right  one :  The- 
resa had  now  no  stay  but  him ;  it  behoved  them 
to  struggle,  and  if  belter  might  not  be,  to  sink 
together.  Theresa,  in  this  narrative,  appears 
to  us  a  noble,  interesting  being;  noble  not  in 
sentiment  only,  but  in  action  and  suffering;  a 
fair  flower  trodden  down  by  misfortune,  but 
yielding,  like  flowers,  only  the  sweeter  per- 
fume for  being  crushed,  and  which  it  would 
have  been  a  blessedness  to  raise  up  and 
cherish  into  free  growth.  Yet,  in  plain  prose, 
we  must  question  whether  the  two  were  hap- 
pier than  others  in  their  union ;  both  were 
quick  of  temper ;  she  was  all  a  heavenly  light, 
he  in  good  part  a  hard  terrestrial  mass,  which 
perhaps  she  could  never  wholly  illuminate ;  the 
balance  of  the  love  seems  to  have  lain  much 
on  her  side.  Nevertheless  Heyne  was  a  stead- 
fast, true,  and  kindly,  if  no  ethereal  man ;  he 
seems  to  have  loved  his  wife  honestly;  and 
so  amid  light  and  shadow  they  made  their 
pilgrimage  together,  if  not  better  than  other 
mortals,  not  worse,  which  was  to  have  been 
feared. 

Neither,  for  the  present,  did  the  pressure  of 
distress  weigh  heavier  on  either  than  it  had 
done  before.  He  worked  diligently,  as  he 
found  scope,  for  his  old  Maecenases,  the  Book- 
sellers; the  war-clouds  grew  lighter,  or  at  least 
the  young  pair  got  better  used  to  them  ;  friends 
also  were  kind,  often  assisting  and  hospitably 
entertaining  them.  On  occasion  of  such  a  visit 
to  the  family  of  a  Herr  von  Lbben,  there  oc- 
curred a  little  trait,  which,  for  the  sake  of 
Theresa,  must  not  be  omitted.  Heyne  and  she 
had  spent  some  happy  weeks  with  their  infant, 
in  this  country-house,  when  the  alarm  of  war 
drove  the  Von  Lbbens  from  their  residence, 
which  with  the  management  of  its  concerns 
they  left  to  Heyne.  He  says  he  gained  some 
notion  of  "  land-economy  "  truly ;  and  Heeren 
states  that  he  had  a  candle-manufactory  to 
oversee. 

But  to  our  incident. 

"Soon  after  the  departure  of  the  family, 
there  came  upon  us  an  irruption  of  Cossacks, 
(disguised  Prussians,  as  we  subsequently 
learned.)  After  drinking  to  intoxication  in 
the  cellars,  they  set  about  plundering.  Pursued 
by  them,  I  ran  up  stairs,  and  no  door  being 
open  but  that  of  the  room  where  my  wife  was 
with  her  infant,  I  rushed  into  it.  She  arose 
courageously,  and  placed  herself,  with  the 
child  on  her  arm,  in  the  door  against  the  rob- 
bers. This  courage  saved  me,  and  the  treasure 
which  lay  hidden  in  the  chamber." 

*•  O  thou  Lioness !"  said  Attila  Schmelzle, 
on  occasion  of  a  similar  rescue,  "  why  hast 


thou  never  been  in  any  deadly  peril,  that  I 
might  show  thee  the  lion  in  thy  husband  1" 

But  better  days  were  dawning.  "  On  our 
return  to  Dresden,"  says  Heyne,  "  I  learned 
that  inquiries  had  been  made  after  me  from 
Hanover  ;  I  knew  not  for  what  reason."  The 
reason  by  and  by  came  to  light.  Gessner, 
Professor  of  Eloquence  in  Gottingen,  was 
dead :  and  a  successor  was  wanted.  These 
things,  it  would  appear,  cause  difficulties  in 
Hanover,  which  in  many  other  places  are  little 
felt.  But  the  Prime  Minister  Miinchhausen 
had  as  good  as  founded  the  Georgia  Augusta 
himself;  and  he  was  wont  to  watch  over  it 
with  singular  anxiety.  The  noted  and  notori- 
ous Klotz  was  already  there,  as  assistant  to 
Gessner,  "but  his  beautiful  latinity,"  says 
Heeren,  "  did  not  dazzle  Miinchhausen ;  so 
Klotz,  with  his  pugnacity,  was  not  thought 
of."  The  Minister  applied  to  Emesti  for  ad- 
vice :  Emesti  knew  of  no  fit  men  in  Germany, 
but  recommended  Rhunken  of  Leyden,  or  Saxe 
of  Utrecht.  Rhunken  refused  to  leave  his 
country,  and  added  these  words;  "But  why 
do  you  seek  out  of  Germany,  what  Germany 
itself  offers  you  ]  why  not,  for  Gessner's  suc- 
cessor, take  Christian  Gottlob  Heyne,  that  true 
pupil  of  Emesti,  and  man  of  fine  talent,  (ex- 
cellenti  virum  ingenio,)  who  has  shown  how 
much  he  knows  of  Latin  literature  by  his 
Tibullus  ;  of  Greek,  by  his  Epictetus  1  In  my 
opinion,  and  that  of  the  greatest  Hemsterhuis 
(Hemsterhusii  rov  vdw,)  Heyne  is  the  only  one 
that  can  replace  your  Gessner.  Nor  let  any 
one  tell  me  that  Heyne's  fame  is  not  sufllcient- 
ly  illustrious  and  extended.  Believe  me,  there 
is  in  this  man  such  a  richness  of  genius  and 
learning,  that  ere  long  all  Europe  will  ring 
with  his  praises." 

This  courageous  and  generous  verdict  of 
Rhunken's,  in  favour  of  a  person  as  yet  little 
known  to  the  world,  and  to  him  known  only 
by  his  writings,  decided  the  matter.  "  Miinch- 
hausen," says  our  Heeren,  "believed  in  the 
boldly  prophesying  man."  Not  without  dif- 
ficulty Heyne  was  unearthed;  and  after  various 
excuses  on  account  of  competence  on  his  part, 
— for  he  had  lost  all  his  books  and  papers  in 
the  siege  of  Dresden,  and  sadly  forgotten  his 
Latin  and  Greek  in  so  many  tumults, — and 
various  prudential  negotiations  about  dismis- 
sion from  the  Saxon  service,  and  salary,  and 
privilege  in  the  Hanoverian,  he  at  length 
formally  received  his  appointment;  and  some 
three  months  after,  in  June  1763,  settled  in 
Gottingen,  with  an  official  income  of  eight 
hundred  thalers,  which,  it  appears,  was  by 
several  additions,  in  the  course  of  time,  in- 
creased to  twelve  hundred. 

Here  then  had  Heyne  at  last  got  to  land. 
His  long  life  was  henceforth  as  quiet  and 
fruitful  in  activity  and  comfort  as  the  past 
period  of  it  had  been  desolate  and  full  of  sor- 
rows. He  never  left  Gottingen,  though  fre- 
quently invited  to  do  so,  and  sometimes  with 
higtily  tempting  offers  ;*  but  continued  in  his 

*  He  was  invited  successively  to  be  Professor  at  Cas- 
sel,  and  at  Klosterbergen  ;  to  be  Librarian  at  Dresden  ; 
and,  most  flatterinR  of  ail,  to  be  Prokanzler  m  the  Lni- 
versity  of  Copenhagen,  and  virtual  Director  of  Educa- 
tion over  all  Denmark.    He  had  a  itruggle  cm  tlu*  la»t 


124 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


place,  busy  in  his  vocation;  growing  in  in- 
fluence, in  extent  of  connection  at  home  and 
abroad ;  till  Rhunken's  prediction  might  almost 
be  reckoned  fulfilled  to  the  letter ;  for  Heyne 
in  his  own  department  was  without  any  equal 
in  Europe. 

However,  his  history,  from  this  point,  even 
because  it  was  so  happy  for  himself,  must  lose 
most  of  its  interest  for  the  general  reader. 
Heyne  has  how  become  a  professor,  and  a 
regularly  progressive  man  of  learning;  has  a 
fixed  household,  his  rents  and  comings  in  ;  it 
is  easy  to  fancy  how  that  man  might  flourish 
in  calm  sunshine  of  prosperity,  whom  in  ad- 
versity we  saw  growing  in  spite  of  every 
storm.  Of  his  proceedings  in  Gdttingen,  his 
reform  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Sciences,  his 
editing  of  the  Gelehrte  Anzeigen  (Gazette  of 
Learning,)  his  exposition  of  the  classics  from 
Virgil  to  Pindar,  his  remodelling  of  the  library, 
his  passive  quarrels  with  Voss,  his  armed 
neutrality  with  Michaelis ;  of  all  this  we  must 
say  little.  The  best  fruit  of  his  endeavours 
lies  before  the  world,  in  a  long  series  of  works, 
which,  among  us,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  are 
known  and  justly  appreciated.  On  looking 
over  them,  the  first  thing  that  strikes  us  is 
astonishment  at  Heyne's  diligence;  which, 
considering  the  quantity  and  quality  of  his 
writings,  might  have  appeared  singular  even  in 
one  who  had  been  without  other  duties.  Yet 
Heyne's  office  involved  him  in  the  most  la- 
borious researches:  he  wrote  letters  by  the 
hundred  to  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  on  all 
conceivable  subjects ;  he  had  three  classes  to 
teach  daily;  he  appointed  professors,  for  his 
recommendation  was  all-powerful ;  superin- 
tended schools ;  for  a  long  time  the  inspection 
of  the  Freytische  was  laid  on  him,  and  he  had 
cooks'  bills  to  settle,  and  hungry  students  to 
satisfy  with  his  purveyance.  Besides  all  which, 
he  accomplished,  in  the  way  of  publication,  as 
follows : 

In  addition  to  his  Tibullus  and  Epidetus,  the 
first  of  which  went  through  three,  the  second 
through  two  editions,  each  time  with  large 
extensions  and  improvements : 

His  Virgil,  (P.  Virgiiius  Maro  Varietate 
Lectionis  et  perpetud  Annotatione  illuslratus,)  in 
various  forms,  from  1767  to  1803;  no  fewer 
than  six  editions. 

His  Pliny,  {Ex  C.  Pxikii  Secundi  Historia 
Naturali  excerpta,  quas  ad  Artes  spectant ;)  two 
editions,  1790,  1811. 

His  ApoUodorus,  (Apollodobt  Atheniensis 
Bihlwtheccs  Libri  tres,  &c. ;)  two  editions,  1787, 
1803. 

His  Pindar,  (Pindari  Carmina,  cum  Lectionis 
Varietate,  curavit  Ch.  G.  H.)  three  editions,  1774, 
1797, 1798,  the  last  with  the  Scholia,  the  Frag- 
ments, a  Translation,  and  Hermann's  Enq.  De 
Metris. 

His  Conon  and  Parthenius,  (Cononis  Nar- 
rationes  et  Parthejtii  Narrationes  amatorice,) 
1798. 

And  lastly  his  Homer,  (Homeri  Ilias,  cum 
brevi  Annotatione:)  8  volumes,  1802;  and  a 
second,  contracted  edition,  in  2  volumes,  1804. 

occasion,  but  the  Georgia  Augusta  again  prevailed. 
Some  increase  of  salary  usually  follows  such  refusals  : 
it  did  not  in  this  instance. 


Next,  almost  a  cartload  of  Translations;  of 
which  we  shall  mention  only  his  version,  (said 
to  be  with  very  important  improvements,)  of 
our  Universal  History,  by  Guthrie  and  Gray. 

Then  some  ten  or  twelve  thick  volumes  of 
Prolusions,  Eulogies,  Essays;  treating  of  all 
subjects,  from  the  French  Directoral  to  the 
Chest  of  Cyprolus.  Of  these,  six  volumes  are 
known  in  a  separate  shape,  under  the  title  of 
Opuscula :  and  contain  some  of  Heyne's  most 
valuable  writings. 

And  lastly,  to  crown  the  whole  with  one 
most  surprising  item,  seven  thousand  five 
hundred  (Heeren  says  from  seven  to  eight 
thousand)  Reviews  of  Books,  in  the  Goiiingen 
Gelehrte  Anzeigen!  Shame  on  us  degenerate 
Editors !  Here  of  itself  was  work  for  a  life- 
time ! 

To  expect  that  elegance  of  composition 
should  prevail  in  these  multifarious  per- 
formances were  unreasonable  enough.  Heyne 
wrote  very  indifferent  German;  and  his  Latin, 
by  much  the  more  common  vehicle  in  his 
learned  works,  flowed  from  him  with  a  copious- 
ness which  could  not  be  Ciceronian.  At  the 
same  time  these  volumes  are  not  the  folios  of 
a  Montfaucon,  not  mere  classical  ore  and  slag, 
but  regularly  melted  metal,  for  most  part  ex- 
hibiting the  essence,  and  only  the  essence  of 
very  great  research,  and  enlightened  by  a  philo- 
sophy, which,  if  it  does  not  always  wisely 
order  its  results,  has  looked  far  and  deeply  in 
collecting  them. 

To  have  performed  so  much  evinces  on 
the  part  of  Heyne  no  little  mastership  in 
the  great  art  of  husbanding  lime.  Heeren 
gives  us  sufficient  details  on  this  subject;  ex- 
plains Heyne's  adjustment  of  his  hours  and 
various  occupations;  how  he  rose  at  five 
o'clock,  and  worked  all  the  day,  and  all  the 
year,  with  the  regularity  of  a  steeple-clock ; 
nevertheless,  how  patiently  he  submitted  to 
interruptions  from  strangers,  or  extraneous 
business ;  how,  briefly,  yet  smoothly,  he  con- 
trived to  despatch  such  interruptions  ;  how  his 
letters  were  endorsed  when  they  came  to  hand; 
and  lay  in  a  special  drawer  till  they  were 
answered:  nay,  we  have  a  description  of  his 
whole  ♦'  locality,"  his  bureau  and  book-shelves 
and  portfolios,  his  very  bed  and  strong  box 
are  not  forgotten.  To  the  busy  man,  espe- 
cially the  busy  man  of  letters,  these  details  are 
far  frorp  uninteresting;  if  we  judged  by  the 
result,  many  of  Heyne's  arrangements  might 
seem  worthy  not  of  notice  only,  but  of  imita- 
tion. 

His  domestic  circumstances  continued  on 
the  whole  highly  favourable  for  such  activity; 
though  not  now  more  than  formerly  were  they 
exempted  from  the  common  lot ;  but  still  had 
several  hard  changes  to  encounter.  In  1775, 
he  lost  his  Theresa  after  long  ill-health ;  an 
event  which,  stoic  as  he  was,  struck  heavily 
and  dolefully  upon  his  heart.  He  forebore  not 
to  shed  some  natural  tears,  though  from  eyes 
little  used  to  the  melting  mood.  Nine  days 
after  her  death,  he  thus  writes  to  a  friend  with 
a  solemn,  mournful  tenderness,  which  none  of 
us  will  deny  to  be  genuine: 

"  I  have  looked  upon  the  grave  that  covers 
the  remains  of  my  Theresa :  what  a  thousand- 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


125 


fold  pang,  beyond  the  pitch  of  human  feeling, 
pierced  through  my  soul !  How  did  my  limbs 
tremble  as  I  approached  this  holy  spot !  Here, 
then,  reposes  what  is  left  of  the  dearest  that 
heaven  gave  me ;  among  the  dust  of  her  four 
children  she  sleeps.  A  sacred  horror  covered 
the  place.  I  should  have  sunk  altogether  in 
my  sorrow,  had  it  not  been  for  my  two  daugh- 
ters that  were  standing  on  the  outside  of  the 
church-yard  ;  I  saw  their  faces  over  the  wall, 
directed  to  me  with  anxious  fear.  This  called 
me  to  myself;  I  hastened  in  sadness  from  the 
spot  where  I  could  have  continued  for  ever: 
where  it  cheered  me  to  think  that  one  day  I 
should  rest  by  her  side  ;  rest  from  all  the 
carking  care,  from  all  the  griefs  which  so  often 
have  embittered  to  me  the  enjoyment  of  life. 
Alas  !  among  these  griefs  must  I  reckon  even 
her  love,  the  strongest,  truest,  that  ever  inspired 
the  heart  of  woman,  which  may  be  the  happiest 
of  mortals,  and  yet  was  a  fountain  to  me  of  a 
thousand  distresses,  inquietudes,  and  cares. 
To  entire  cheerfulness  perhaps  she  never  at- 
tained ;  but  for  what  unspeakable  sweetness, 
for  what  exalted,  enrapturing  joys  is  not  Love 
indebted  to  Sorrow  ]  Amidst  gnawing  anxie- 
ties, with  the  torture  of  anguish  in  my  heart,  I 
have  been  made  even  by  the  love  which  caused 
me  this  anguish,  these  anxieties,  inexpressibly 
happy  !  When  tears  flowed  over  our  cheeks, 
did  not  a  nameless,  seldom  felt  delight  stream 
through  my  breast,  oppressed  equally  by  joy 
and  by  sorrow !" 

But  Heyne  was  not  a  man  to  brood  over 
past  griefs,  or  linger  long  where  nothing  was 
to  be  done,  but  mourn.  In  a  short  time,  ac- 
cording to  a  good  old  plan  of  his,  having 
reckoned  up  his  grounds  of  sorrow,  he  fairly 
wrote  down  on  paper,  over  against  them,  his 
"grounds  of  consolation;"  concluding  with 
these  pious  words,  "  So  for  all  these  sorrows 
too,  these  trials,  do  I  thank  thee,  my  God  !  And 
now,  glorified  friend,  will  I  again  turn  me  with 
undivided  heart  to  my  duty ;  thou  thyself 
smilest  approval  on  me !"  Nay,  it  was  not 
many  months  before  a  new  marriage  came  on 
the  anvil,  in  which  matter,  truly,  Heyne  con- 
ducted himself  with  the  most  philosophic  in- 
difference ;  leaving  his  friends,  by  whom  the 
project  had  been  started,  to  bring  it  to  what 
issue  they  pleased.  It  was  a  scheme  concerted 
by  Zimmerman,  (the  author  of  Solitude,  a  man 
little  known  to  Heyne,)  and  one  Reich,  a  Leip- 
zig bookseller,  who  had  met  at  the  Prymont 
Baths.  Brandes,  the  Hanoverian  Minister, 
successor  of  Miinchhausen  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  University  concerns,  was  there 
also  with  a  daughter;  upon  her,  the  projectors 
cast  their  eye.  Heyne,  being  consulted,  seems 
to  have  comported  himself  like  clay  in  the 
hands  of  the  potter;  father  and  fair  one,  in 
like  manner,  were  of  a  compliant  humour,  and 
thus  was  the  business  achieved ;  and  on  the 
9th  of  April,  1777,  Heyne  could  take  home 
a  bride,  won  with  less  difficulty  than  most  men 
have  in  choosing  a  pair  of  boots.  Neverthe- 
less, she  proved  an  excellent  wife  to  him ; 
kept  his  house  in  the  cheerfullest  order;  ma- 
naged her  step-children,  and  her  own,  like  a 
true  mother ;  and  loved,  and  faithfully  assisted 
her  husband  ia  whatever  he  undertook.    Con- 


sidered in  his  private  relations,  such  a  man 
might  well  reckon  himself  fortunate. 

In  addition  to  Heyne's  claims  as  a  scholar 
and  teacher,  Heeren  would  have  us  regard  him 
as  an  unusually  expert  man  of  business  aj>d  ne- 
gotiator, for  which  line  of  life  he  himself  seems 
indeed  to  have  thought  that  his  talent  was 
more  peculiarly  fitted.  In  proof  of  this,  we 
have  long  details  of  his  procedure  in  manag- 
ing the  Library,  the  Royal  Society,  the  Univer- 
sity generally,  and  his  incessant,  and  often 
rather  complex  correspondence  with  Miinch- 
hausen, Brandes,  or  other  ministers,  who  pre- 
sided over  this  department.  Without  detract- 
ing from  Heyne's  skill  in  such  matters,  what 
struck  us  more  in  this  narrative  of  Heeren's 
was  the  singular  contrast  which  the  "  Georgia 
Augusta,"  in  its  interior  arrangement,  as  well 
as  in  its  external  relations  to  the  Government, 
exhibits  with  our  own  universities.  The  prime 
minister  of  the  country  writes  thrice  weekly  to 
the  director  of  an  institution  for  learning  !  He 
oversees  all ;  knows  the  character,  not  only  of 
every  professor,  but  of  every  pupil  that  gives 
any  promise.  He  is  continually  purchasing 
books,  drawings,  models ;  treating  for  this  or 
the  other  help  or  advantage  to  the  establish- 
ment. He  has  his  eye  over  all  Germany ;  and 
nowhere  does  a  man  of  any  decided  talent 
show  himself,  but  he  strains  every  nerve  to 
acquire  him.  And  seldom  or  ever  can  he  suc- 
ceed; for  the  Hanoverian  assiduity  seems 
nothing  singular ;  every  state  in  Germany  has 
its  minister  for  education,  as  well  as  Hanover. 
They  correspond,  they  inquire,  they  negotiate ; 
everywhere  there  seems  a  canvassing,  less  for 
places,  than  for  the  best  men  to  fill  them. 
Heyne  himself  has  his  Seminarium,  a  private 
class  of  the  nine  most  distinguished  students 
in  the  university;  these  he  trains  with  all  dili- 
gence, and  is  in  due  time  most  probably  en- 
abled, by  his  connections,  to  place  in  stations 
fit  for  them.  A  hundred  and  thirty-five  pro- 
fessors are  said  to  have  been  sent  from  thig 
Seminarium  during  his  presidency.  These 
things  we  state  without  commentary :  we  be- 
lieve that  the  experience  of  all  English,  and 
Scotch,  and  Irish  university-men  will,  of  itself, 
furnish  one.  The  state  of  education  in  Ger- 
many, and  the  structure  of  the  establishments 
for  conducting  it,  seems  to  us  one  of  the  most 
promising  inquiries  that  could  at  this  moment 
be  entered  on. 

But  to  return  to  Heyne :  We  have  said,  that 
in  his  private  circumstances,  he  might  reckon 
himself  fortunate.  His  public  relations,  on  a 
more  splendid  scale,  continued,  to  the  last,  to 
be  of  the  same  happy  sort.  By  degrees,  he 
had  risen  to  be,  both  in  name  and  office,  the 
chief  man  of  his  establishment;  his  character 
stood  high  with  the  learned  of  all  countries; 
and  the  best  fruit  of  external  reputation,  in- 
creased respect  in  his  own  circle,  was  not 
denied  to  him.  The  burghers  of  Gottingen,  so 
fond  of  their  University,  coiild  not  but  be  proud 
of  Heyne ;  nay,  as  the  time  passed  on,  they 
found  themselves  laid  under  more  than  one 
specific  obligation  to  him.  He  remodelled  and 
reanimated  their  gymnasium  (town-school),  as 
he  had  before  done  that  of  Ilfeld ;  and  what 
was  still  more  important,  in  the  rude  times  of 
l2 


126 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  French  war,  by  his  skilful  application,  he 
succeeded  in  procuring  from  Napoleon,  not 
only  a  protection  for  the  University,  but  im- 
munity from  hostile  invasion  for  the  whole 
district  it  stands  in.  Nay,  so  happily  were 
matters  managed,  or  so  happily  did  they  turn 
of  their  own  accord,  that  Gottingen  rather 
gained  than  suffered  by  the  war :  Under  Jerome 
of  Westphalia,  not  only  were  all  benefices 
punctually  paid,  but  improvements  even  were 
effected ;  among  other  things,  a  new  and  very 
handsome  extension,  which  had  long  been  de- 
sired, was  built  for  the  library,  at  the  charge 
of  Government.  To  all  these  claims  for  public 
regard,  add  Heyne's  now  venerable  age,  and 
we  can  fancy  how,  among  his  townsmen  and 
fellow-collegians,  he  must  have  been  cherished, 
nay,  almost  worshipped.  Already  ha.d  the 
magistracy,  by  a  special  act,  freed  him  from 
all  public  assessments ;  but,  in  1809,  on  his 
eightieth  birth-day,  came  a  still  more  emphatic 
testimony;  for  the  Ritter  Franz,  and  all  the 
public  boards,  and  the  faculties,  in  corpdre,  came 
to  him  in  procession  with  good  wishes ;  and 
students  reverenced  him ;  and  young  ladies 
sent  him  garlands,  stitched  together  by  their 
own  fair  fingers ;  in  short,  Gottingen  was  a 
place  of  jubilee;  and  good  old  Heyne,  who 
nowise  affected,  yet  could  not  dislike  these 
things,  was  among  the  happiest  of  men. 

In  another  respect,  we  must  also  reckon  him 
fortunate ;  that  he  lived  till  he  had  completed 
all  his  undertakings  ;  and  then  departed  peace- 
fully, and  without  sickness,  from  which,  indeed, 
his  whole  life  had  been  remarkably  free.  Three 
months  before  his  death,  in  April,  1812,  he  saw 
the  last  volume  of  his  works  in  print ;  and  re- 
joiced, it  is  said,  with  an  affecting  thankful- 
ness, that  so  much  had  been  granted  him. 
Length  of  life  was  not  now  to  be  hoped  for; 
neither  did  Heyne  look  forward  to  the  end  with 
apprehension.  His  little  German  verses,  and 
Latin  translations,  composed  in  sleepless 
nights,  at  this  extreme  period,  are,  to  us,  by  far 
the  most  touching  part  of  his  poetry;  so  me- 
lancholy is  the  spirit  of  them,  yet  so  mild ; 
solemn,  not  without  a  shade  of  sadness,  yet 
full  of  pious  resignation.  At  length  came  the 
end ;  soft  and  gentle  as  his  mother  could  have 
wished  it  for  him.  The  11th  of  July  was  a 
public  day  in  the  Royal  Society ;  Heyne  did 
his  part  in  it ;  spoke  at  large,  and  with  even 
more  clearness  and  vivacity  than  usual. 

"  Next  day,"  says  Heeren,  "  was  Sunday :  I 
saw  him  in  the  evening,  for  the  last  time.  He 
was  resting  in  his  chair,  exhausted  by  the  fa- 
tigue of  yesterday.  On  Monday  morning,  he 
once  more  entered  his  class  room,  and  held  his 
Seminarium.  In  the  afternoon  he  prepared  his 
letters,  domestic  as  well  as  foreign;  among 
the  latter,  one  on  business  ;  sealed  them  all  but 
one,  written  in  Latin,  to  Professor  Thorlacius, 
in  Copenhagen,  which  I  found  open,  but  finish- 
ed, on  his  death.  At  supper,  (none  but  his 
elder  daughter  was  with  him,)  he  talked  cheer- 
fully, and  at  his  usual  time  retired  to  rest.  In 
the  night,  the  servant  girl,  that  slept  under  his 
apartment,  heard  him  walking  up  and  down  ; 
a  common  practice  with  him  when  he  could 
not  sleep.  However,  he  had  again  gone  to 
bed.    Soon  after  five,  he  arose,  as  usual;  he 


joked  with  the  girl  when  she  asked  him  how 
he  had  been  over-night.  She  left  him,  to  make 
ready  his  coffee,  as  was  her  wont;  and  return- 
ing with  it  in  a  short  quarter  of  an  hour,  she 
found  him  sunk  down  before  his  washing-stand, 
close  by  his  work-table.  His  hands  were  wet; 
at  the  moment  when  he  had  been  washing 
them,  had  death  taken  him  into  his  arms.  One 
breath  more,  and  he  ceased  to  live  :  when  the 
hastening  doctor  opened  a  vein,  no  blood  would 
flow." 

Heyne  was  interred  with  all  public  solemni- 
ties :  and,  in  epicedial  language,  it  may  be 
said  without  much  exaggeration,  that  his  coun- 
try mourned  for  him.  At  Chemnitz,  his  birth- 
place, there  assembled,  under  constituted  au- 
thority, a  grand  meeting  of  the  magistrates,  to 
celebrate  his  memory;  the  old  school-album, 
in  which  the  little  ragged  boy  had  inscribed  his 
name,  was  produced;  grandiloquent  speeches 
were  delivered;  and  "in  the  afternoon,  many 
hundreds  went  to  see  the  poor  cottage,"  where 
his  father  had  weaved,  and  he  starved  and 
learned.     How  generous ! 

To  estimate  Heyne's  intellectual  character, 
to  fix  accurately  his  rank  and  merits  as  a  critic 
and  philologer,  we  cannot  but  consider  as  be- 
yond our  province,  and  at  any  rate  superflu- 
ous here.  By  the  general  consent  of  the  learn- 
ed in  all  countries,  he  seems  to  be  acknow- 
ledged as  the  first  among  recent  scholars  ;  his 
immense  reading,  his  lynx-eyed  skill  in  expo- 
sition and  emendation  are  no  longer  here  con- 
troverted ;  among  ourselves  his  taste  in  these 
matters  has  been  praised  by  Gibbon,  and  by 
Parr  pronounced  to  be  "exquisite."  In  his 
own  country,  Heyne  is  even  regarded  as  the 
founder  of  a  new  epoch  in  classical  study;  as 
the  first  who  with  any  decisiveness  attempted 
to  translate  fairly  beyond  the  letter  of  the  clas- 
sics ;  to  read  in  the  writings  of  the  ancients, 
not  the  language  alone,  or  even  their  detached 
opinions  and  records,  but  their  spirit  and  cha- 
racter, their  way  of  life  and  thought ;  how  the 
world  and  nature  painted  themselves  to  the 
mind  in  those  old  ages  ;  how,  in  one  word,  the 
Greeks  and  the  Romans  were  men,  even  as  we 
are.  Such  of  our  readers  as  have  studied  any 
one  of  Heyne's  works,  or  even  looked  care- 
fully into  the  Lectures  of  the  Schlegels,  the  most 
ingenious  and  popular  commentators  of  that 
school,  will  be  at  no  loss  to  understand  what 
we  mean. 

By  his  inquiries  into  antiquity,  especially  by 
his  laboured  investigation  of  its  politics  and 
its  mythology,  Heyne  is  believed  to  have  car- 
ried the  torch  of  philosophy  towards,  if  not 
into,  the  mysteries  of  old  time.  What  Winkel- 
mann,  his  great  contemporary  did,  or  began  to 
do,  for  ancient  plastic  art,  the  other,  with  equal 
success,  began  for  ancient  literature.*    A  high 


*  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  these  two  men,  so  singularly 
correspondent  in  their  early  sufferings,  subsequent  dis- 
tinction, line  of  study,  and  rugged  enthusiasm  of  cha- 
racter, were  at  one  lime,  while  both  as  yet  were  under 
the  horizon,  brought  into  partial  contact.  "An  ac- 
quaintance of  another  sort,"  says  Heeren,  "the  young 
Heyne  was  to  make  in  the  Bruhl  Library ;  with  a  per- 
son  whose  importance  he  could  not  then  anticipate. 
One  frequent  visitor  of  this  establishment  was  a  certain 
almost  wholly  unknown  man,  whose  visits  could  not  be 
specially  desirable  for  the  librarians,  such  endless  labour 
did  he  cost  thera.   He  seemed  insatiable  in  reading  j  and 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


127 


praise,  surely;  yet,  as  we  must  think,  one  not 
unfounded,  and  which,  indeed,  in  all  parts  of 
Europe,  is  becoming  more  and  more  confirmed. 

So  much,  in  the  province  to  which  he  de- 
voted his  activity,  is  Heyne  allowed  to  have 
accomplished.  Nevertheless,  we  must  not  as- 
sert that,  in  point  of  understanding  and  spi- 
ritual endowment,  he  can  be  called  a  complete, 
or  even,  in  strict  speech,  a  great  man.  Won- 
derful perspicuity,  unwearied  diligence,  are  not 
denied  him ;  but  to  philosophic  order,  to  clas- 
sical adjustment,  clearness,  polish,  whether  in 
word  or  thought,  he  seldom  attains  ;  nay,  many 
times,  it  must  be  avowed,  he  involves  himself 
in  tortures,long-winded  verbosities,  and  stands 
before  us  little  better  than  one  of  that  old  school 
which  his  admirers  boast  that  he  displaced. 
He  appears,  we  might  almost  say,  as  if  he  had 
wings  but  could  not  well  use  them.  Or,  in- 
deed, it  might  be  that,  writing  constantly  in  a 
dead  language, he  came  to  write  heavily  ;  work- 
ing for  ever  on  subjects  where  learned  armor- 
at-all-points  cannot  be  dispensed  with,  he  at 
last  grew  so  habituated  to  his  harness  that  he 
would  not  walk  abroad  without  it ;  nay  per- 
haps it  had  rusted  together,  and  could  not  be 
unclasped  !  A  sad  fate  for  a  thinker !  Yet  one 
which  threatens  many  commentators,  and  over- 
takes many. 

As  a  man  encrusted  and  encased,  he  exhi- 
bits himself,  moreover,  to  a  certain  degree,  in 
his  moral  character.  Here  too,  as  in  his  in- 
tellect, there  is  an  awkwardness,  a  cumbrous 
inertness;  nay,  there  is  a  show  of  dulness,  of 
hardness,  which  nowise  intrinsically  belongs 
to  him.  He  passed,  we  are  told,  for  less  reli- 
gious, less  affectionate,  less  enthusiastic  than 
he  was.  His  heart,  one  would  think,  had  no 
free  course,  or  had  found  itself  a  secret  one ; 
outwardly  he  stands  before  us,  cold  and  still,  a 
very  wall  of  rock  ;  yet  within  lay  a  well,  from 
which,  as  we  have  witnessed,  the  stroke  of 
some  Moses'-wand  (the  death  of  a  Theresa) 
could  draw  streams  of  pure  feeling.  Callous 
as  a  man  seems  to  us,  he  has  a  sense  for  all 
natural  beauty;  a  merciful  sympathy  for  his 
fellow-men :  his  own  early  distresses  never 
left  his  memory :  for  similar  distresses  his  pity 
and  help  were  at  all  times  in  store.  This  form 
of  character  may  also  be  the  fruit  partly  of 
his  employments,  partly  of  his  sufferings,  and, 


called  for  so  many  books,  that  his  reception  there  grew 
rather  of  the  coolest.  It  wdiS  Johann  Winkelmann.  Me- 
ditating his  journey  for  Italy,  he  was  then  laying  in  pre- 
paration for  it.  Thus  did  these  two  men  become,  if  not 
confidential,  yet  acquainted ;  who  at  that  time,  both  still 
in  darkness  and  poverty,  could  little  suppose,  that  in  a 
few  years,  they  were  to  be  the  teachers  of  cultivated 
Europe,  and  the  ornaments  of  their  nation." 


perhaps,  is  not  very  singular  among  commen- 
tators. 

For  the  rest,  Heeren  assures  us,  that  in  prac- 
tice Heyne  was  truly  a  good  man  ;  altogether 
just;  diligent  in  his  own  honest  business,  and 
ever  ready  to  forward  that  of  others ;  com- 
passionate ;  though  quick-tempered,  placable  ; 
friendly,  and  satisfied  with  simple  pleasures. 
He  delighted  in  roses,  and  always  kept  a  bou- 
quet of  them  in  water  on  his  desk.  His  house 
was  embowered  among  roses ;  and  in  his  old 
days  he  used  to  wander  through  the  bushes 
with  a  pair  of  scissors.  Farther,  says  Heeren, 
in  spite  of  his  short  sight,  he  was  fond  of  the 
fields  and  skies,  and  could  lie  for  hours  read- 
ing on  the  grass.  A  kindly  old  man  !  With 
strangers,  hundreds  of  whom  visited  him,  he 
was  uniformly  courteous  ;  though  latterly,  be- 
ing a  little  hard  of  hearing,  less  fit  to  converse. 
In  society  he  strove  much  to  be  polite ;  but 
had  a  habit  (which  ought  to  be  general)  of 
yawning,  when  people  spoke  to  him  and  said 
nothing. 

On  ihe  whole,  the  Germans  have  some  rea- 
son to  be  proud  of  Heyne ;  who  shall  deny 
that  they  have  here  once  more  produced  a 
scholar  of  the  right  old  stock;  a  man  to  be 
ranked,  for  honesty  of  study  and  of  life,  with 
the  Scaligers,  the  Bentleys,  and  old  illustrious 
men,  who,  though  covered  with  academic  dust 
and  harsh  with  polyglot  vocables,  were  true 
men  of  endeavour,  and  fought  like  giants,  with 
such  weapons  as  they  had,  for  the  good  cause  1 
To  ourselves,  we  confess,  Heyne,  highly  inte- 
resting for  what  he  did,  is  not  less  but  more  so 
for  what  he  was.  This  is  another  of  the  proofs, 
which  minds  like  his  are  from  time  to  time 
sent  hither  to  give,  that  the  man  is  not  the  pro- 
duct of  his  circumstances,  but  that,  in  a  far 
higher  degree,  the  circumstances  are  the  pro- 
duct of  the  man.  While  beneficed  clerks  and 
other  sleek  philosophers,  reclining  on  their 
cushions  of  velvet,  are  demonstrating  that  to 
make  a  scholar  and  man  of  taste,  there  must 
be  co-operation  of  the  upper  classes,  society  of 
gentlemen-commoners,  and  an  income  of  four 
hundred  a  year; — arises  the  son  of  a  Chemnitz 
weaver,  and  with  the  very  wind  of  his  stroke 
sweeps  them  from  the  scene.  Let  no  man 
doubt  the  omnipotence  of  Nature,  doubt  the 
majesty  of  man's  soul ;  let  no  lonely  unfriended 
son  of  genius  despair!  Let  him  not  despair; 
if  he  have  the  will,  the  right  will,  then  the 
power  also  has  not  been  denied  him.  It  is  but 
the  artichoke  that  will  not  grow  except  in  gar- 
dens ;  the  acorn  is  cast  carelessly  abroad  into 
the  wilderness,  yet  it  rises  to  be  an  oak ;  on  the 
wild  soil  it  nourishes  itself,  it  defies  the  tempest, 
and  lives  for  a  thousand  years. 


128 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


GERMAN    PLAYWRIGHTS. 


[Foreign  Review,  1829.] 


In  this  stage  of  society,  the  playwright  is  as 
essential  and  acknowledged  a  character  as  the 
millwright,  or  cartwright,  or  any  other  wright 
whatever ;  neither  can  we  see  why,  in  general 
estimation,  he  should  rank  lower  than  these 
his  brother  artisans,  except  perhaps,  for  this 
one  reason:  that  the  former,  working  in  timber 
and  iron,  for  the  wants  of  the  body,  produce  a 
completely  suitable  machine,  while  the  latter, 
working  in  thought  and  feeling,  for  the  wants 
of  the  soul,  produces  a  machine  which  is  in- 
completely suitable.  In  other  respects,  we 
confess,  we  cannot  perceive  that  the  balance 
lies  against  him:  for  no  candid  man,  as  it 
seems  to  us,  will  doubt  but  the  talent,  which 
constructed  a  Virg^inius  or  a  Bertram,  might 
have  sufficed,  had  it  been  properly  directed,  to 
make  not  only  wheelbarrows  and  wagons,  but 
even  mills  of  considerable  complicacy.  How- 
ever, if  the  public  is  niggardly  to  the  play- 
wright in  one  point,  it  must  be  proportionably 
liberal  in  another;  according  to  Adam  Smith's 
observation,  that  trades  which  are  reckoned 
less  reputable  have  higher  money-wages. 
Thus,  one  thing  compensating  the  other,  the 
playwright  may  still  realize  an  existence;  as, 
in  fact,  we  find  that  he  does :  for  playwrights 
were,  are,  and  probably  will  always  be ;  unless, 
indeed,  in  process  of  years,  the  whole  dramatic 
concern  be  finally  abandoned  by  mankind;  or, 
as  in  the  case  of  our  Punch  and  Mathews, 
every  player  becoming  his  own  playwright, 
this  trade  may  merge  in  the  other  and  older 
one. 

The  British  nation  has  its  own  playwrights, 
several  of  them  cunning  men  in  their  craft: 
yet  here,  it  would  seem,  this  sort  of  carpentry 
does  not  flourish ;  at  least,  not  with  that  pre- 
eminent vigour  which  distinguishes  most  other 
branches  of  our  national  industry.  In  hard- 
ware and  cotton  goods,  in  all  sorts  of  chemical, 
mechanical,  or  other  material  processes,  Eng- 
land outstrips  the  world :  nay,  in  many  depart- 
ments of  literary  manufacture  also,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  fabrication  of  novels,  she  may 
safely  boast  herself  peerless  :  but  in  this  mat- 
ter of  the  Drama,  to  whatever  cause  it  be  owing, 
she  can  claim  no  such  superiority.     In  theatri- 

*  Die  ^hvfrau.  (The  Ancestress.)  A  Tragedy,  in  five 
Acts.    By  F.  Grillparzer.    Fourth  Edition.    Vienna,  1823. 

Koviff  Ottokars  Olilck  imd  Ende.  (King  Ottocar's 
Fortune  and  End.)  A  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  F. 
Grillparzer.     Vienna,  1825. 

Sappho.  A  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  F.  Grillparzer. 
Third  Edition.     Vienna,  1822. 

2.  Faust.  A  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  August  Klinge- 
mann.    Leipzig  and  Altenbnrg,  1815. 

Jlhasver.  A  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  August  Klinge- 
mann.     Brunswick,  1827. 

3.  Milliner's  Dramatische  Werke.  F.rste  rechtmassiffe, 
voUstandi[re,'undvom.  Verfasser verhesserte  Oesarnmt-^us- 
gahe.  (Milliner's  Dramatic  Works.  First  legal  collec- 
tive Edition,  complete  and  revised  by  the  Author.) 
7  vols.    Brunswick,  1628. 


cal  produce  she  yields  considerably  to  France; 
and  is,  out  of  sight,  inferior  to  Germany.  Nay, 
do  not  we  English  hear  daily,  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  that  the  Drama  is  dead,  or  in  a 
state  of  suspended  animation;  and  are  not 
medical  men  sitting  on  the  case,  and  propound- 
ing their  remedial  appliances,  weekly,  monthly, 
quarterly,  to  no  manner  of  purpose  1 — whilst 
in  Germany  the  Drama  is  not  only,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, alive,  but  in  the  very  flush  and  hey- 
day of  superabundant  strength;  indeed,  as  it 
Avere,  still  only  sowing  its  first  wild  oats  !  For 
if  the  British  Playwrights  seem  verging  to  ruin, 
and  our  Knowleses,  Maturins,  Shiels,  and 
Shees  stand  few  and  comparatively  forlorn, 
like  firs  on  an  Irish  bog,  the  playwrights  of 
Germany  are  a  strong,  triumphant  body,  so 
numerous  that  it  has  been  calculated,  in  case 
of  war,  a  regiment  of  foot  might  be  raised,  in 
which,  from  the  colonel  down  to  the  drummer, 
every  officer  and  private  sentinel  might  show 
his  drama  or  dramas. 

To  investigate  the  origin  of  so  marked  a  su- 
periority would  lead  us  beyond  our  purpose. 
Doubtless  the  proximate  cause  must  lie  in  a 
superior  demand  for  the  article  of  dramas; 
which  superior  demand  again  may  arise  either 
from  the  climate  of  Germany,  as  Montesquieu 
might  believe  ;  or  perhaps  more  naturally  and 
immediately  from  the  political  condition  of 
that  country;  for  man  is  not  only  a  working 
but  a  talking  animal,  and  where  no  Catholic 
Questions,  and  Parliamentary  Reforms,  and 
Select  Vestries  are  given  him  to  discuss  in  his 
leisure  hours,  he  is  glad  to  fall  upon  plays  or 
players,  or  whatever  comes  to  hand,  whereby 
to  fence  himself  a  little  against  the  inroads  of 
Ennui.  Of  the  fact,  at  least,  that  such  a  supe- 
rior demand  for  dramas  exists  in  Germany,  we 
have  only  to  open  a  newspaper  to  find  proof. 
Is  not  every  Literaturhlatt  and  Kunstblatt  stuffed 
to  bursting,  with  theatricals  ]  Nay,  has  not 
the  "able  Editor"  established  correspondents 
in  every  capital  city  of  the  civilized  world, 
who  report  to  him  on  this  one  matter  and  on 
no  other  ]  For,  be  our  curiosity  what  it  may, 
let  us  have  profession  of  "intelligence  from 
Munich,"  "intelligence  from  Vienna,"  intelli- 
gence from  Berlin,"  is  it  intelligence  of  any 
thing  but  of  greenroom  controversies  and  nego- 
tiations, of  tragedies  and  operas  and  farces 
acied  and  to  be  acted  1  Not  of  men,  and  their 
doings,  by  hearth  and  hall,  in  the  firm  earth ; 
but  of  mere  effigies  and  shells  of  men,  and 
their  doings  in  the  world  of  pasteboard,  do 
these  unhappy  correspondents  write.  Un- 
happy we  call  them ;  for,  with  all  our  toler- 
ance of  playwrights,  we  cannot  but  think  that 
there  are  limits,  and  very  strait  ones,  within 
which  their  activity  should  be  restricted. 
Here,  in  England,  our  "  theatrical  reports"  are 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


129 


ntiisance  enough;  and  many  persons  who  love 
their  life,  and  therefore  "take  care  of  their 
time,  which  is  the  stuff  life  is  made  of,"  regu- 
larly lose  several  columns  of  their  weekly 
newspaper  in  that  way:  but  our  case  is  pure 
luxury,  compared  with  that  of  the  Germans, 
who,  instead  of  a  measurable  and  sufFerable 
spicing  of  theatric  matter,  are  obliged,  meta- 
phorically speaking,  to  breakfast  and  dine  on 
it,  have  in  fact  nothing  else  to  live  on  but  that 
highly  unnutritive  victual.  We  ourselves  are 
occasionally  readers  of  German  newspapers, 
and  have  often,  in  the  spirit  of  Christian  hu- 
manity, meditated  presenting  to  the  whole  body 
of  German  editors  a  project,  which,  however, 
must  certainly  have  ere  now  occurred  to 
themselves,  and  for  some  reason  been  found 
inapplicable ;  it  was,  to  address  these  corre- 
spondents of  theirs,  all  and  sundry,  in  plain 
language,  and  put  the  question :  wiiether,  on 
studiously  surveying  the  Universe  from  their 
several  stations,  there  was  nothing  in  the  Hea- 
vens above,  on  the  earth  beneath,  or  the  waters 
under  the  earth,  nothing  visible  but  this  one 
business,  or  rather  shadow  of  business,  that 
had  an  interest  for  the  minds  of  men  1  If  the 
correspondents  still  answered  that  nothing  was 
visible,  then  of  course  they  must  be  left  to 
continue  in  this  strange  state :  prayers,  at  the 
same  time,  being  ptrt?»up  for  them  in  all 
churches. 

However,  leaving  every  able  Editor  to  fight 
his  own  battle,  we  address  ourselves  to  the 
task  in  hand:  meaning  hei^e  to  inquire  a  very 
little  into  the  actual  state  of  the  dramatic  trade 
in  Germany,  and  exhibit  some  detached  fea- 
tures of  it  to  the  consideration  of  our  readers. 
For,  seriously  speaking,  low  as  this  province 
may  be,  it  is  a  real,  active,  and  ever-enduring 
province  of  the  literary  republic;  nor  can  the 
pursuit  of  many  men,  eveji  though  it  be  a  pro- 
fitless and  foolish  pursuit,  ever  be  without 
claim  to  some  attention  from  us,  either  in  the 
way  of  furtherance  or  of  censure  and  correc- 
tion. Our  avowed  object  is  to  promote  the 
sound  study  of  foreign  literature  ;  which  study, 
like  all  other  earthly  undertakings,  has  its  ne- 
gative as  well  as  its  positive  side.  We  have 
already,  as  occasion  served,  borne  testimony 
to  the  merits  of  various  German  poets,  and 
must  now  say  a  word  on  certain  German 
poetasters ;  hoping  that  it  may  be  chiefly  a  re- 
gard to  the  former  which  has  made  us  take 
even  this  slight  notice  of  the  latter :  for  the  bad 
is  in  itself  of  no  value,  and  only  worth  de- 
scribing lest  it  be  mistaken  for  the  good.  At 
the  same  time,  let  no  reader  tremble,  as  if  we 
meant  to  overwhelm  him,  on  this  occasion, 
with  a  whole  mountain  of  dramatic  lumber, 
poured  forth  in  torrents,  like  shot-rubbish, 
from  the  play-house-garrets,  where  it  is  mould- 
ering and  evaporating  into  nothing,  silently 
and  without  harm  to  any  one.  Far  be  this 
from  us !  Nay,  our  own  knowledge  of  this 
subject  is  in  the  highest  degree  limited;  and, 
indeed,  to  exhaust  it,  or  attempt  discussing  it 
with  scientific  precision,  would  be  an  impos- 
sible enterprise.  What  man  is  there  that 
could  assort  the  whole  furniture  of  Milton's 
Limbo  of  Vanity ;  or  where  is  the  Hallam  that 
would  think  it  worth  his  while  to  write  us  the 
17 


Constitutional  History  of  a  Rookery  1  Let  the 
courteous  reader  take  heart,  then ;  for  he  is  in 
hands  that  will  not,  nay,  what  is  more,  that 
cannot,  do  him  much  harm.  One  brief,  shy 
glance  into  this  huge  bivouac  of  Playwrights, 
all  sawing  and  planing  with  such  tumult;  and 
we  leave  it,  probably  for  many  years. 

The  German  Parnassus,  as  one  of  its  own 
denizens  remarks, has  a  rather  broad  summit: 
yet  only  two  Dramatists  are  reckoned,  within 
the  last  half  century,  to  have  mounted  thither; 
— Schiller  and  Goethe ;  if  we  are  not,  on  the 
strength  of  his  Minna  von  Barnhelm  and  Emilie 
Gateotti,  to  account  Lessing  of  the  number. 
On  the  slope  of  the  Mountain  may  be  found  a 
few  stragglers  of  the  same  brotherhood ;  among 
these,  Tieck  and  Maler  Miiller,  firmly  enough 
stationed  at  considerable  elevations ;  while,  far 
below,  appear  various  honest  persons  climb- 
ing vehemently,  but  against  precipices  of  loose 
sand,  to  whom  we  wish  all  speed.  But  the 
reader  will  understand  that  the  bivouac  we 
speak  of,  and  are  about  to  enter,  lies  not  on  the 
declivity  of  the  Hill  at  all ;  but  on  the  level 
ground  close  to  the  foot  of  it;  the  essence  of  a 
Playwright  being  that  he  works  not  in  Poetry, 
but  in  Prose,  which  more  or  less  cunningly 
resembles  it.  And  here,  pausing  for  a  moment, 
the  reader  observes  that  he  is  in  a  civilized 
country;  for  there,  on  the  very  boundary  line 
of  Parnassus,  rises  a  gallows  with  the  figure 
of  a  man  hung  in  chains!  It  is  the  figure  of 
August  von  Kotzebue,  and  has  swung  there 
for  many  years,  as  a  warning  to  all  too  auda- 
cious Playwrights,  who  nevertheless,  as  we 
see,  pay  little  heed  to  it.  Ill-fated  Kotzebue, 
once  the  darling  of  theatrical  Europe  !  This 
was  the  prince  of  all  Playwrights,  and  could 
manufacture  Plays  with  a  speed  and  felicity 
surpassing  even  Edinburgh  novels.  For  his 
muse,  like  other  doves,  hatched  twins  in  the 
month  ;  and  the  world  gazed  on  them  with  an 
admiration  too  deep  for  mere  words.  What  is 
all  past  or  present  popularity  to  this?  Were 
not  these  Plays  translated  into  almost  every 
language  of  articulate-speaking  men  ;  acted,  at 
least,  we  may  literally  say,  in  every  theatre 
from  Kamtschatka  to  Cadiz  1  Nay,  did  they 
not  melt  the  most  obdurate  hearts  in  all  coun- 
tries; and,  like  the  music  of  Orpheus,  draw 
tears  down  iron  cheeks  ?  We  ourselves  have 
known  the  flintiest  men,  who  professed  to  have 
wept  over  them,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives. 
So  was  it  twenty  years  ago ;  how  stands  it  to- 
day? Kotzebue,  lifted  up  on  the  hollow  bal- 
loon of  popular  applause,  thought  wings  had 
been  given  him  that  he  might  ascend  to  the 
Immortals :  gay  he  rose,  soaring,  sailing,  as 
with  supreme  dominion  ;  but  in  the  rarer  azure 
deep,  his  windbag  burst  asunder,  or  the  arrows 
of  keen  archers  pierced  it;  and  so  at  last  we 
find  him  a  compound-pendulum,  vibrating  in 
the  character  of  scarecrow,  to  guard  from  for- 
bidden fruit !  0  ye  Playwrights,  and  literary 
quacks  of  every  feather,  weep  over  Kotzebue, 
and  over  yourselves  !  Know  that  the  loudest 
roar  of  the  million  is  not  fame ;  that  the  wind- 
bag, are  ye  mad  enough  to  mount  it,will  burst, 
or  be  shot  through  with  arrows,  and  your  bones 
too  shall  act  as  scarecrows. 

But,  quitting  this  idle  allegorical  vein,  let  us 


130 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


at  length  proceed  in  plain  English,  and  as  be- 
seems mere  prose  Reviewers,  to  the  work  laid 
out  for  us.  Among  the  hundreds  of  German 
dramatists,  as  they  are  called,  three  individuals, 
already  known  to  some  British  readers,  and 
prominent  from  all  the  rest  in  Germany,  may 
fitly  enough  stand  here  as  representatives  of 
the  whole  Playwright  class;  whose  various 
craft  and  produce  the  procedure  of  these  three 
may  in  some  small  degree  serve  to  illustrate. 
Of  Grillparzer,  therefore,  and  Klingemann, 
and  Mvilner,  in  their  order. 

Franz  Grillparzer  seems  to  be  an  Austrian; 
which  country  is  reckoned  nowise  fertile  in 
poets ;  a  circumstance  that  may  perhaps  have 
contributed  a  little  to  his  own  rather  rapid 
celebrity.  Our  more  special  acquaintance 
with  Grillparzer  is  of  very  recent  date ; 
though  his  name  and  samples  of  his  ware  have 
for  some  time  been  hung  out,  in  many  British 
and  foreign  Magazines,  often  with  testimonials 
which  might  have  beguiled  less  timeworn  cus- 
tomers. Neither,  after  all,  have  we  found 
there  testimonials  falser  than  other  such  are, 
but  rather  not  so  false;  for, indeed,  Grillparzer 
is  a  most  inoffensive  man,  nay  positively 
rather  meritorious ;  nor  is  it  without  reluctance 
that  we  name  him  under  this  head  of  Play- 
wrights, and  not  under  that  of  Dramatists, 
which  he  aspires  to.  Had  the  law  with  regard 
to  mediocre  poets  relaxed  itself  since  Horace's 
time,  all  had  been  well  with  Grillparzer ;  for 
undoubtedly  there  is  a  small  vein  of  tenderness 
and  grace  running  through  him,  a  seeming 
modesty  also,  and  real  love  of  his  art,  which 
gives  promise  of  better  things.  But  gods  and 
men  and  columns  are  still  equally  rigid  in  that 
unhappy  particular  of  mediocrity, — even  pleas- 
ing mediocrity;  and  no  scene  or  line  is  yet 
known  to  us  of  Grillparzer's  which  exhibits 
any  thing  more.  Non  concessere,  therefore,  is  his 
sentence  for  the  present;  and  the  louder  his 
well-meaning  admirers  extol  him,  the  more 
emphatically  should  it  be  pronounced  and  re- 
peated. Nevertheless  Grillparzer's  claim  to 
the  title  of  Playwright  is  perhaps  more  his 
misfortune  than  his  crime.  Living  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  Drama  engrosses  so  much  at- 
tention, he  has  been  led  into  attempting  it, 
without  any  decisive  qualification  for  such  an 
enterprise ;  and  so  his  allotment  of  talent, 
which  might  have  done  good  service  in  some 
prose  department,  or  even  in  the  sonnet,  elegy, 
song,  or  other  outlying  province  of  Poetry,  is 
driven,  as  it  were,  in  spite  of  fate,  to  write 
Plays,  which,  though  regularly  divided  into 
scenes  and  separate  speeches,  are  essentially 
monological;  and  though  swarming  with  cha- 
racters, too  often  express  only  one  character, 
and  that  no  very  extraordinary  one,  the  cha- 
racter of  Franz  Grillparzer  himself.  What  is 
an  increase  of  misfortune,  too,  he  has  met 
with  applause  in  this  career,  which  therefore 
he  is  likely  to  follow  farther  and  farther,  let 
nature  and  his  stars  say  to  it  what  they  will. 

The  characteristic  of  a  Playwright  is  that  he 
writes  in  Prose,  which  Prose  he  palms,  pro- 
bably, first  on  himself,  and  then  on  the  simpler 
part  of  the  public,  for  Poetry :  and  the  manner, 
in  which  he  effects  this  legerdemain,  consti- 
tutes hLj  specific  distinction,  fixes  the  species 


to  which  he  belongs  in  the  genus  Playwright, 
But  it  is  a  universal  feature  of  him  that  he 
attempts,  by  prosaic,  and  as  it  were  mechanical 
means,  to  accomplish  an  end  which,  except  by 
poetical  genius,  is  absolutely  not  to  be  accom- 
plished. For  the  most  part,  he  has  some 
knack,  or  trick  of  the  trade,  which  by  close 
inspection  can  be  detected,  and  so  the  heart 
of  his  mystery  be  seen  into.  He  may  have 
one  trick,  or  many;  and  the  more  cunningly 
he  can  disguise  these,  the  more  perfect  is  he 
as  a  craftsman ;  for  were  the  public  once  to 
penetrate  into  this  his  slight  of  hand,  it  were 
all  over  with  him, — Othello's  occupation  were 
gone.  No  conjuror,  when  we  once  understand 
his  method  of  fire-eating,  can  any  longer  pass 
for  a  true  thaumaturgist,  or  even  entertain  us 
in  his  proper  character  of  quack,  though  he 
should  eat  Mount  Vesuvius  itself.  But  hap- 
pily for  Playwrights  and  others,  the  Public  is 
a  dim-eyed  animal;  gullible  to  almost  all 
lengths, — nay,  which  often  seems  to  prefer 
being  gulled. 

Of  Grillparzer's  peculiar  knack,  and  recipe 
for  play-making,  there  is  not  very  much  to  be 
said.  He  seems  to  have  tried  various  kinds 
of  recipes,  in  his  time ;  and,  to  his  credit  be  it 
spoken,  seems  little  contented  with  any  of 
them.  By  much  the  worst  Play  of  his,  that  we 
have  seen,  is  the  Ahnfrau  (Ancestress)  ;  a  deep 
tragedy  of  the  Castle  Spectre  sort ;  the  whole 
mechanism  of  which  was  discernible  and  con- 
demnable  at  a  single  glance.  It  is  nothing  but 
the  old  Story  of  Fate;  an  invisible  Nemesis 
visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children 
to  the  third  and  fourth  generation ;  a  method 
almost  as  common  and  sovereign  in  German 
Art,  at  this  day,  as  the  method  of  steam  is  in 
British  mechanics;  and  of  which  we  shall 
anon  have  more  occasion  to  speak.  In  his 
Preface,  Grillparzer  endeavours  to  palliate  or 
deny  the  fact  of  his  being  a  Schicksal-Dichter 
(Fate-Tragedian) ;  but  to  no  purpose ;  for  it  is 
a  fact  grounded  on  the  testimony  of  the  seven 
senses :  however,  we  are  glad  to  observe  that, 
with  this  one  trial,  he  seems  to  have  abandoned 
the  Fate-line,  and  taken  into  better,  at  least 
into  different  ones.  With  regard  to  the  Ahn- 
frau itself,  we  may  remark  that  few  things 
struck  us  so  much  as  this  little  observation  of 
Count  Borotins,  occurring,  in  the  middle  of  the 
dismalest  night-thoughts,  so  unexpectedly  as 
follows : — 


Und  der  Himmel,  sternelos, 
Starrt  aus  leeren  Augenhohlen 
In  das  icngeheure  Grab 
Schwarz  herab  ! 

GRAF. 
Wie  sich  dock  die  Stunden  dehnen  ! 
Was  ist  wohl  die  Glocke,  Bertha  ? 

BERTHA  {is  just  condoling  with  him.,  in  these  words)  : — 
»  *  »  * 

And  the  welkin,  starless, 
Glares  from  empty  eye-holes. 
Black  down  on  that  boundless  grave ! 

COUKT. 


How  the  hours  do  linger! 

What  o'clock  is't,  prithee,  Bertha  1 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


131 


A  more  delicate  turn,  we  venture  to  say,  is 
rarely  to  be  met  with  in  tragic  dialogue.  As 
to  the  story  of  the  Ahnfrau,  it  is,  naturally 
enough,  of  the  most  heart-rending  description. 
This  Ancestress  is  a  lady,  or  rather  the  ghost 
of  a  lady,  for  she  has  been  defunct  some  cen- 
turies, who  in  life  had  committed  what  we  call 
an  "indiscretion;"  which  indiscretion  the  un- 
polite  husband  punished,  one  would  have 
thought  sufficiently,  by  running  her  through 
the  body.  However,  the  Schicksal  of  Grill- 
parzer  does  not  think  it  sufficient;  but  farther 
dooms  the  fair  penitent  to  walk  as  goblin,  till 
the  last  branch  of  her  family  be  extinct.  Ac- 
cordingly she  is  heard,  from  time  to  time, 
slamming  doors  and  the  like,  and  now  and 
then  seen  with  dreadful  goggle-eyes  and  other 
ghost  appurtenances,  to  the  terror  not  only  of 
servant  people,  but  of  old  Count  Borotin,  her 
now  sole  male  descendant,  whose  afternoon 
nap  she,  on  one  occasion,  cruelly  disturbs. 
This  Count  Borotin  is  really  a  worthy,  prosing 
old  gentleman;  only  he  had  a  son  long  ago 
drowned  in  a  fish-pond  (body  not  found)  ;  and 
has  still  a  highly  accomplished  daughter, 
whom  there  is  none  offering  to  wed,  except  one 
Jaromir,  a  person  of  unknown  extraction,  and 
to  all  appearance,  of  the  lightest  purse;  nay, 
as  it  turns  out  afterwards,  actually  the  head 
of  a  Banditti  establishment,  which  had  long 
infested  the  neighbouring  forests.  However, 
a  Captain  of  foot  arrives,  at  this  juncture, 
utterly  to  root  out  these  Robbers ;  and  now  the 
strangest  things  come  to  light.  For  who 
should  this  Jaromir  prove  to  be  but  poor  old 
Borotin's  drowned  son,  not  drowned,  but  stolen 
and  bred  up  by  these  Outlaws;  the  brother, 
therefore,  of  his  intended ;  a  most  truculent 
fellow,  who  fighting  for  his  life  unwittingly 
kills  his  own  father,  and  drives  his  bride  to 
poison  herself;  in  which  wise,  as  was  also 
Giles  Scroggins'  case,  he  "cannot  get  married." 
The  reader  sees  all  this  is  not  to  be  accom- 
plished without  some  jarring  and  tumult.  In 
fact,  there  is  a  frightful  uproar  everywhere 
throughout  that  night;  robbers  dying,  mus- 
quetry  discharging,  women  shrieking,  men 
swearing,  and  the  Ahnfrau  herself  emerging 
at  intervals,  as  the  genius  of  the  whole  dis- 
cord. But  time  and  hours  bring  relief,  as  they 
always  do.  Jaromir,  in  the  long  run,  likewise, 
succeeds  in  dying;  whereupon  the  Borotin 
lineage  having  gone  to  the  Devil,  the  Ances- 
tress also  retires  thither, — at  least  makes  the 
upper  world  rid  of  her  presence, — and  the 
piece  ends  in  deep  stillness.  Of  this  poor  An- 
cestress we  shall  only  say  farther :  wherever 
she  be,  requiescat !  requiescat ! 

As  we  mentioned  above,  the  Fate  method 
of  manufacturing  tragic  emotion  seems  to  have 
yielded  Grillparzer  himself  little  contentment; 
for  after  this  Ahnfrau,  we  hear  no  more  of  it. 
His  Konig  Ottokars  Glilck  und  Ende  (King  Ot- 
tokar's  Fortune  and  End)  is  a  much  more 
innocent  piece,  and  proceeds  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent strain ;  aiming  to  subdue  us  not  by  old 
women's  fables  of  Destiny,  but  by  the  accu- 
mulated splendour  of  thrones  and  principali- 
ties, the  cruel  or  magnanimous  pride  of  Aus- 
trian Emperors  and  Bohemian  conquerors,  the 
wit  of  chivalrous  courtiers,  and  beautiful  but 


shrewish  queens ;  the  whole  set  off  by  a  pro- 
per intermixture  of  coronation  ceremonies, 
Hungarian  dresses,  whiskered  halberdiers, 
alarms  of  battle,  and  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  glorious  war.  There  is  even  some 
attempt  at  delineating  character  in  this  play; 
certain  of  the  dramatis  perscnoe  are  evidently 
meant  to  differ  from  certain  others,  not  in  dress 
and  name  only,  but  in  nature  and  mode  of  being; 
so  much  indeed  they  repeatedly  assert,  or  hint, 
and  do  their  best  to  make  good, — unfortunately, 
however,  with  very  indifferent  success.  In 
fact  these  dramatis  persona,  are  rubrics  and 
titles  rather  than  persons ;  for  most  part,  mere 
theatrical  automata,  with  only  a  mechanical 
existence.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Grill- 
parzer cannot  communicate  a  poetic  life  to  any 
character  or  object;  and  in  this,  were  it  in  no 
other  way,  he  evinces  the  intrinsically  prosaic 
nature  of  his  talent.  These  personages  of  his 
have,  in  some  instances,  a  certain  degree  of 
metaphysical  truth  ;  that  is  to  say,  one  portion 
of  their  structure,  psychologically  viewed,  cor- 
responds with  the  other; — so  far  all  is  well 
enough:  but  to  unite  these  merely  scientific 
and  inanimate  qualities  into  a  living  man  is 
work  not  for  a  Playwright,  but  for  a  Dramatist. 
Nevertheless,  Kdnig  Ottokar  is  comparatively 
a  harmless  tragedy.  It  is  full  of  action,  strik- 
ing enough,  though  without  any  discernible 
coherence ;  and  with  so  much  both  of  flirting, 
and  fighting,  with  so  many  weddings,  funerals, 
processions,  encampments,  it  must  be,  we 
should  think,  if  the  tailor  and  decorationist  do 
their  duty,  a  very  comfortable  piece  to  see 
acted,  especially  on  the  Vienna  boards,  where 
it  has  a  national  interest,  Rodolph  of  Hapsburg 
being  a  main  personage  in  it. 

The  model  of  this  Ottokar  we  imagine  to 
have  been  Schiller's  Piccolomini ;  a  poem  of 
similar  materials  and  object;  but  differing 
from  it  as  a  living  rose  from  a  mass  of  dead 
rose-leaves,  or  even  of  broken  Italian  gum- 
flowers.  It  seems  as  though  Grillparzer  had 
hoped  to  subdue  us  by  a  sufficient  multitude 
of  wonderful  scenes  and  circumstances,  with- 
out inquiring,  with  any  painful  solicitude, 
whether  the  soul  and  meaning  of  them  were 
presented  to  us  or  not.  Herein  truly,  we  be- 
lieve, lies  the  peculiar  knack  or  playwright- 
mystery  of  Ottokar ;  that  its  effect  is  calculated 
to  depend  chiefly  on  its  quantity  :  on  the  mere 
number  of  astonishments,  and  joyful  or  de- 
plorable adventures  there  brought  to  light; 
abundance  in  superficial  contents  compensat- 
ing the  absence  of  callida  junctura.  Which 
second  method  of  tragic  manufacture  we  hold 
to  be  better  than  the  first,  but  still  far  from 
good.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  a  very  common 
method,  both  in  Tragedy  and  elsewhere  ;  nay, 
we  hear  persons  whose  trade  it  is  to  write 
metre,  or  be  otherwise  "imaginative,"  pro- 
fessing it  openly  as  the  best  they  know.  Do 
not  these  men  go  about  collecting  "  features ;" 
ferreting  out  strange  incidents,  murders,  duels, 
ghost-apparitions,  over  the  habitable  globe;  of 
which  features  and  incidents,  when  they  have 
gathered  a  sufficient  stock,  nothing  more  is 
needed  than  that  they  be  ample  enough,  high- 
coloured  enough,  though  huddled  into  any  case 
(Novel,  Tragedy,  or  Metrical  Romance)  that 


132 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


will  hold  it  all?  Nevertheless  this  is  ag- 
glomeration, not  creation  ;  and  avails  little  in 
Literature.  Quantity,  it  is  a  certain  fact,  will 
not  make  up  for  defect  of  quality  ;  nor  are  the 
gayest  hues  of  any  service,  unless  there  be  a 
likeness  painted  from  them.  Better  were  it 
for  Kdnig  Ottokar  had  the  story  been  twice  as 
short,  and  twice  as  expressive.  For  it  is  still 
true,  as  in  Cervantes'  time,  nunca  lo  hueno  fue 
mucho.  What  avails  the  dram  of  brandy  while 
it  swims  chemically  united  with  its  barrel  of 
wort  1  Let  the  distiller  pass  it  and  repass  it 
through  his  limbecs;  for  it  is  the  drops  of 
pure  alcohol  that  we  want,  not  thfe  gallons  of 
water,  which  may  be  had  in  every  ditch. 

On  the  whole,  however,  we  remember  Kdnig 
Ottokar  without  animosity  ;  and  lo  prove  that 
Grillparzer,  if  he  could  not  make  it  poetical, 
might  have  made  it  less  prosaic,  and  has  in 
fact  something  better  in  him  than  is  here 
manifested,  we  shall  quote  one  passage,  which 
strikes  us  as  really  rather  sweet  and  natural. 
King  Ottokar  is  in  the  last  of  his  fields,  no 
prospect  before  him  but  death  or  captivity: 
and  soliloquizing  on  his  past  misdeeds: — 

I  have  not  borne  me  wisely  in  thy  World, 

Thoii  great,  all  judging  God  !    Like  storm  and  tempest, 

I  traversed  thy  fair  garden,  wasting  it : 

'T  is  thine  to  waste,  for  thou  alone  canst  heal. 

Was  evil  not  my  aim,  yet  how  did  I, 

Poor  worm,  presume  to  ape  the  Lord  of  Worlds, 

And  through  the  Bad  seek  out  a  way  to  the  Good  ! 

My  fellow  man,  sent  thither  for  his  joy, 

An  end,  a  Self,  within  thy  World  a  World,— 

For  thou  hast  fashion'd  him  a  marvellous  work, 

With  lofty  brow,  erect  in  look,  strange  sense, 

And  clothed  him  in  the  garment  of  thy  Beauty, 

And  wondrously  encircled  him  with  wonders ; 

He  hears,  and  sees,  and  feels,  has  pain  and  pleasure  : 

He  takes  him  food,  and  cunning  powers  come  forth, 

And  work  and  work,  within  their  secret  chambers. 

And  build  him  up  his  House :  no  royal  Palace 

Is  comparable  to  the  frame  of  Man  ! 

And  I  have  cast  them  from  me  by  thousands. 

For  whims,  as  men  throw  rubbish  from  their  door. 

And  none  of  all  these  slain  but  had  a  Mother 

Who,  as  she  bore  him  in  sore  travail. 

Had  qlasped  him  fondly  to  her  fostering  breast; 

A  father  who  had  bless'd  him  as  his  pride. 

And  nurturing,  watch'd  over  him  long  years  ; 

If  he  but  hurt  the  skin  upon  his  finger. 

There  would  they  run,  with  anxious  look,  to  bind  it. 

And  tend  it,  cheering  him,  until  it  heal'd  ; 

And  it  was  but  a  finger,  the  skin  o'  the  finger! 

And  I  have  trod  men  down  in  heaps  and  squadrons, 

For  the  stern  iron  open'd  out  a  way 

To  their  warm  living  hearts.— O  God ! 

Wilt  thou  go  into  judgment  with  me,  spare 

My  suffering  people. 

Kdnig  Ottokar,  180-1. 

Passages  of  this  sort,  scattered  here  and 
there  over  Grillparzer's  Plays,  and  evincing 
at  least  an  amiable  tenderness  of  natural  dis- 
position, make  us  regret  the  more  to  condemn 
him.  In  fact,  we  have  hopes  that  he  is  not 
born  to  be  for  ever  a  Playwright.  A  true 
though  feeble  vein  of  poetic  talent  he  really 
seems  to  possess  ;  and  such  purity  of  heart  as 
may  yet,  with  assiduous  study,  lead  him  into 
his  proper  field.  For  we  do  reckon  him  a 
conscientious  man,  and  honest  lover  of  Art: 
nay  this  incessant  fluctuation  in  his  dramatic 


schemes  is  itself  a  good  omen.  Besides  this 
Ahnfrau  and  Ottokar,  he  has  written  two  Dra- 
mas, Sappho,  and  Der  Goldene  Vliess,  (The  Golden 
Fleece,)  on  quite  another  principle;  aim- 
ing apparently  at  some  Classic  model,  or  at 
least  at  some  French  reflect  of  such  a  model. 
Sappho,  which  we  are  sorry  to  learn  is  not  his 
last  piece,  but  his  second,  appears  to  us  very 
considerably  the  most  faultless  production  of 
his  we  are  yet  acquainted  with.  There  is  a 
degree  of  grace  and  simplicity  in  it,  a  softness, 
polish,  and  general  good  taste,  little  to  be  ex- 
pected from  the  Author  of  the  Ahnfrau :  if  he 
cannot  bring  out  the  full  tragic  meaning  of 
Sappho's  situation,  he  contrives,  with  laudable 
dexterity,  to  avoid  the  ridicule  that  lies  within 
a  single  step  of  it;  his  Drama  is  weak  and 
thin,  but  innocent,  lovable ; — nay,  the  last 
scene  strikes  us  as  even  poetically  merito- 
rious. His  Goldene  Vliess  we  suspect  to  be  of 
similar  character,  but  have  not  yet  found  time 
and  patience  to  study  it.  We  repeat  our  hope 
of  one  day  meeting  Grillparzer  in  a  more 
honourable  calling  than  this  of  Playwright,  or 
even  fourth-rate  Dramatist;  which  titles,  as 
was  said  above,  we  have  not  given  him  with- 
out regret;  and  shall  be  truly  glad  to  cancel 
for  whatever  better  one  he  may  yet  chance  to 
merit. 

But  if  we  felt  a  certain  reluctance  in  class- 
ing Grillparzer  among  the  Playwrights,  no  such 
feeling  can  have  place  with  regard  to  the  se- 
cond name  on  our  list,  that  of  Doctor  August 
Klingemann.  Dr.  Klingemann  is  one  of  the 
most  indisputable  Playwrights  now  extant:  nay 
so  superlative  is  his  vigour  in  this  department, 
we  might  even  designate  him  the  Playwright. 
His  manner  of  proceeding  is  quite  diflferent 
from  Grillparzer's;  not  a  wavering  over- 
charged method,  or  combination  of  methods, 
as  the  other's  was;  but  a  fixed  principle  of 
action,  which  he  follows  with  unflinching 
courage;  his  own  mind  being,  to  all  appear- 
ance, highly  satisfied  with  it.  If  Grillparzer 
attempted  to  overpower  us  now  by  the  method 
of  Fate,  now  by  that  of  pompous  action,  and 
grandiloquent  or  lachrymose  sentiment,  heaped 
onus  in  too  rich  abundance,  Klingemann,  with- 
out neglecting  any  of  these  resources,  seems 
to  place  his  chief  dependence  on  a  surer  and 
readier  stay :  on  his  magazines  of  rosin,  oil- 
paper, vizards,  scarlet-drapery,  and  gunpowder. 
What  thunder  and  lightning,  magic-lantern 
transparencies,  death's-heads,  fire-showers,  and 
plush  cloaks  can  do, — is  here  done.  Abundance 
of  churchyard  and  chapel  scenes,  in  most  tem- 
pestuous weather;  to  say  nothing  of  battle- 
fields, gleams  of  scoured  arms  here  and  there 
in  the  wood,  and  even  occasional  shots  heard 
in  the  distance.  Then  there  are  such  scowls  and 
malignant  side-glances,  ashy  paleness,  stamp- 
ings, and  hysterics,  as  might,  one  would  think, 
wring  the  toughest  bosom  into  drops  of  pity. 
For  not  only  are  the  looks  and  gestures  of  these 
people  of  the  most  heart-rending  description, 
but  their  words  and  feelings  also  (for  Klinge- 
mann is  no  half-artist)  are  of  a  piece  with  them; 
gorgeous  inflations,  the  purest  innocence,  high- 
est magnanimity ;  godlike  sentiment  of  all  sorts ; 
everywhere  the  finest  tragic  humour.  The  moral 
too  is  genuine ;  there  is  the  most  anxious  re- 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


133 


gard  to  virtue ;  indeed  a  distinct  patronage  both 
of  Providence  and  the  Devil.  In  this  manner, 
does  Dr.  Klingemann  compound  his  dramatic 
electuaries,  no  less  cunningly  than  Dr.  Kitch- 
ener did  his  "  peptic  persuaders  ;"  and  truly  of 
the  former  we  must  say,  that  their  operation  is 
nowise  unpleasant;  nay,  to  our  shame  be  it 
spoken,  we  have  even  read  these  Plays  with  a 
certain  degree  of  satisfaction;  and  shall  de- 
clare that  if  any  man  wish  to  amuse  himself 
irrationally,  here  is  the  ware  for  his  money. 

Klingemann's  latest  dramatic  undertaking  is 
Ahasucr ;  a  purely  original  invention,  on  which 
he  seems  to  pique  himself  somewhat ;  confess- 
ing his  opinion  that  now  when  the  "  birth-pains" 
are  over,  the  character  of  Ahasuer  may  possi- 
bly do  good  service  in  many  a  future  drama. 
We  are  not  prophets,  or  sons  of  prophets  ;  so 
shall  leave  this  prediction  resting  on  its  own 
basis.  Ahasuer,  the  reader  will  be  interested 
to  learn,  is  no  other  than  the  Wandering  Jew 
or  Shoemaker  of  Jerusalem,  concerning  whom 
there  are  two  things  to  be  remarked.  The  first 
is  the  strange  name  of  this  Shoemaker :  why 
do  Klingemann  and  all  the  Germans  call  the 
man  Ahasuer,  when  his  authentic  Christian 
name  is  John  ;  Joannes  a  Temporibus  Christi,  or, 
for  brevity's  sake,  simply  Joannes  a  Temporibus? 
This  should  be  looked  into.  Our  second  re- 
mark is  of  the  circumstance  that  no  Historian 
or  Narrator,  neither  Schiller,  Strada,  Thuanus, 
Monroe,  nor  Dugald  Dalgetty,  makes  any  men- 
tion of  Ahasuer's  having  been  present  at  the 
Battle  of  Liitzen.  Possibly  they  thought  the 
fact  too  notorious  to  need  mention.  Here,  at 
all  events,  he  was  ;  nay,  as  we  infer,  he  must 
have  been  at  Waterloo  also ;  and  probably  at 
Trafalgar,  though  in  which  fleet  is  not  so  clear ; 
for  he  takes  a  hand  in  all  great  battles  and  na- 
tional emergencies,  at  least  is  witness  of  them, 
being  bound  to  it  by  his  destiny.  Such  is  the  pe- 
culiar occupation  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  as 
brought  to  light  in  this  Tragedy:  his  other 
specialities, — that  he  cannot  lodge  above  three 
nights  in  one  place  ;  that  he  is  of  a  melancho- 
lic temperament;  above  all,  that  he  cannot  die, 
not  by  hemp  or  steel,  or  Prussic-acid  itself,  but 
must  travel  on  till  the  general  consummation, 
— are  familiar  to  all  historical  readers.  Ahas- 
uer's task  at  this  Battle  of  Lutzen  seems  to 
have  been  a  very  easy  one ;  simply  to  see  the 
Lion  of  the  North  brought  down;  not  by  a 
cannon-shot,  as  is  generally  believed,  but,  by 
the  traitorous  pistol-bullet  of  one  Heinyn  von 
Warth,  a  bigoted  Catholic,  who  had  pretended 
to  desert  from  the  Imperialists,  that  he  might 
find  some  such  opportunity.  Unfortunately, 
Heinyn,  directly  after  this"  feat,  falls  into  a 
sleepless,  half  rabid  state;  comes  home  to 
Castle  Warth,  frightens  his  poor  wife  and 
worthy  old  noodle  of  a  Father;  then  skulks 
about,  for  some  time,  now  praying,  oftener  curs- 
ing and  swearing;  till  at  length  the  Swedes 
lay  hold  of  him  and  kill  him.  Ahasuer,  as 
usual,  is  in  at  the  death :  in  the  interim,  how- 
ever, he  has  saved  Lady  Heinyn  from  drowning, 
though  as  good  as  poisoned  her  with  the  look 
of  his  strange  stony  eyes ;  and  now  his  busi- 
ness to  all  appearance  being  over,  he  signifies 
in  strong  language  that  he  must  begone ;  there- 
upon, he  "steps  solemnly  into  the  wood;  Wasa- 


burg  looks  after  him  surprised ;  the  rest  kneel 
round  the  corpse ;  the  Requiem  faintly  con- 
tinues;" and  what  is  still  more  surprising,  "the 
curtain  falls."  Such  is  the  simple  action  and 
stern  catastrophe  of  this  Tragedy ;  concerning 
which  it  were  superfluous  for  us  to  speak  far- 
ther in  the  way  of  criticism.  We  shall  only  add 
that  there  is  a  dreadful  lithographic  print  in  it, 
representing  "Lud  wig  Derrient  as  Ahasuer;" 
in  that  very  act  of  "  stepping  solemnly  into 
the  wood;"  and  uttering  these  final  words: 
Ich  aber  wandle  weiter — weiter — weiter !"  We 
have  heard  of  Herr  Derrient  as  of  the  best 
actor  in  Germany  ;  and  can  now  bear  testimo- 
ny, if  there  be  truth  in  this  plate,  that  he  is  one 
of  the  ablest-bodied  men.  A  most  truculent, 
rawboned  figure,  "  with  bare  legs  and  red 
leather  shoes  ;"  huge  black  beard ;  eyes  turned 
inside  out;  and  uttering  these  extraordinary 
words : — "  But  /  go  on — on — on  !" 

Now,  however,  we  must  give  a  glance  at 
Klingemann's  other  chief  performance  in  this 
line,  the  tragedy  of  Faust.  Dr.  Klingemann 
admits  that  the  subject  has  been  often  treated  ; 
that  Goethe's  Faust  in  particular  has  "dramatic 
points,"  (dramatische  momente:)  but  the  business 
is  to  give  it  an  entire  dramatic  superficies,  to 
make  it  an  dcht  dramatische,  a  "  genuinely"  dra- 
matic tragedy.  Setting  out  with  this  laudable 
intention,  Dr.  Klingemann  has  produced  a 
Faust,  which  differs  from  that  of  Goethe  in 
more  than  one  particular.  The  hero  of  this 
piece  is  not  the  old  Faust,  doctor  in  philosophy, 
driven  desperate  by  the  uncertainty  of  human 
knowledge:  but  plain  John  Faust,  the  printer, 
and  even  the  inventor  of  gunpowder ;  driven 
desperate  by  his  ambitious  temper,  and  a  total 
deficiency  of  cash.  He  has  an  excellent  wife, 
an  excellent  blind  father,  both  of  whom  would 
fain  have  him  be  peaceable,  and  work  at  his 
trade ;  but  being  an  adept  in  the  black  art,  he 
determines  rather  to  relieve  himself  in  that 
way.  Accordingly  he  proceeds  to  make  a  con- 
tract with  the  Devil,  on  what  we  should  consi- 
der pretty  advantageous  terms  ;  the  devil  being 
bound  to  serve  him  in  the  most  effectual  man- 
ner, and  Faust  at  liberty  to  commit /om>-  mortal 
sins  before  any  hair  of  his  head  can  be  harmed. 
However,  as  will  be  seen,  the  devil  proves  York- 
shire ;  and  Faust  naturally  enough  finds  him- 
self quite  jockeyed  in  the  long  run. 

Another  characteristic  distinction  of  Klinge- 
mann is  his  manner  of  im bodying  this  same 
Evil  Principle,  when  at  last  he  resolves  on  in- 
troducing him  to  sight;  for  all  these  contracts 
and  preliminary  matters  are  very  properly 
managed  behind  the  scenes ;  only  the  main 
points  of  the  transaction  being  indicated  to  the 
spectator  by  some  thunder-clap,  or  the  like. 
Here  is  no  cold  mocking  Mephistopheles  ;  but  a 
swaggering, jovial,  West-India-looking  "  Stran- 
ger," with  a  rubicund,  indeed  quite  brick- 
coloured  face,  which  Faust  at  first  mistakes  for 
the  effect  of  hard  drinking.  However,  it  is  a 
remarkable  feature  of  this  Stranger,  that 
always  on  the  introduction  of  any  religious 
topic,  or  the  mention  of  any  sacred  name,  he 
strikes  his  glass  down  on  the  table,  and  gene- 
rally breaks  it. 

For   some   time,  after  his   grand   bargain, 
Faust's   affairs  go  on  triumphantly,  on  the 
M 


134 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


great  scale,  and  he  seems  to  feel  pretty  comfort- 
able. But  the  Stranger  shows  him  "  his  wife," 
Helena,  the  most  enchanting  creature  in  the 
■world ;  and  the  most  cruel  hearted, — for  not- 
withstanding the  easy  temper  of  her  husband, 
she  will  not  grant  Faust  the  smallest  encou- 
ragement, till  he  have  killed  Kiithe,  his  own 
living  helpmate,  against  whom  he  entertains 
no  manner  of  grudge.  Nevertheless,  reflecting 
that  he  has  a  stock  of  four  mortal  sins  to  draw 
upon,  and  may  well  venture  one  for  such  a 
prize,  he  determines  on  killing  Kathe..  But 
here  matters  take  a  bad  turn ;  for  having 
poisoned  poor  Kiithe,  he  discovers,  most  un- 
expectedly, that  she  is  in  the  family  way ;  and 
therefore  that  he  has  committed  not  one  sin  but 
two  !  Nay  before  the  interment  can  take  place, 
he  is  farther  reduced,  in  a  sort  of  accidental 
self-defence,  to  kill  his  father;  thus  accom- 
plishing his  third  mortal  sin ;  with  which  third, 
as  we  shall  presently  discover,  his  whole  allot- 
ment is  exhausted,  a  fourth,  that  he  knew  not 
of,  being  already  on  the  score  against  him ! 
From  this  point,  it  cannot  but  surprise  us  that 
bad  grows  worse :  catchpoles  are  out  in  pur- 
suit of  him,  "  black  masks"  dance  round  him 
in  a  most  suspicious  manner,  the  brick-faced 
stranger  seems  to  laugh  at  him,  and  Helena 
will  nowhere  make  her  appearance.  That  the 
sympathizing  reader  may  see  with  his  own 
eyes  how  poor  Faust  is  beset  at  this  juncture, 
we  shall  quote  a  scene  or  two.  The  first  may, 
properly  enough,  be  that  of  those  "black 
masks." 

SCENE  SEVENTH.    j1  lighted  Hall. 

(In  the  distance  is  heard  quick  dancing-viusic.  Masks  pass 
from  time  to  time  over  the  Stage,  but  all  dressed  in  black, 
and  with  vizards  perfectly  close.  Jifter  a  pause,  Faust 
plunges  wildly  in,  with  a  fall  goblet  in  his  hand.) 

FAUST  (rushing  stormfully  into  the  foreground.) 
Ha !  Poison,  'stead  of  wine,  that  1  intoxicate  me  ! 
Your  wine  makes  sober,— burning  fire  bring  us  ! 
Off  witii  your  drink  t— and  blood  is  in  it  too ! 

(Shuddering,  he  dashes  the  goblet  from  his  hand.) 
My  father's  blood, — I've  drunk  my  fill  of  that ! 

(  With  increasing  tumult.) 
Yet  curses  on  him  !  curses,  that  he  begot  me  ! 
Curse  on  my  mother's  bosom,  that  it  bore  me ! 
Curse  on  the  gossip  crone  that  stood  by  her, 
And  did  not  strangle  me,  at  my  first  scream  ; 
How  could  I  help  this  being  that  was  given  me  1 
Accursed  art  thou,  Nature,  that  hast  mock'd  me ! 
Accursed  I,  that  let  myself  be  mock'd ! 
And  thou  strong  Being,  that  to  make  thee  sport, 
Enclosedst  the  fire-soul  in  this  dungeon, 
That  so  despairing  it  might  strive  for  freedom— 
Accur.  .  •     (He  shrinks  terror-struck.) 

No,  not  the  fourth  ....  the  blackest  sin ! 
No!  No! 

(In  the  excess  of  his  outbreaking  anguish,  he  hides  his 
face  in  his  hands.) 

O,  I  am  altogether  wretched  ! 
(Three  black  Masks  come  towards  him.) 
FIRST    MASK. 

Hey !  merry  friend ! 

SECOJfD    MASK. 

Hey  !  Merry  brother  ! 
THIHD   MASK  (reiterating  with  a  cutting  tone.) 
Merry ! 
FAUST  (breaking  out  in  wild  humour^  and  looking  round 
among  them. 
Hey!  Merry,  then! 


FIRST    MASK. 

Will  any  one  catch  flies  ? 

SECOND    MASK. 

A  long  life  yet ;  to  midnight  all  the  way ! 

THIRD    MASK. 

And  after  that,  such  pleasure  without  end ! 

(The  music  suddenly  ceases,  and  a  clock  strikes  thrice.) 

FAUST  (astonished.) 
What  is  it  1 

FIRST    MASK. 

Wants  a  quarter,  Sir,  of  twelve  ! 

SECOND    MASK. 

Then  we  have  time ! 

THIRD    MASK. 

Aye,  time  enough  for  jigging. 

FIRST    MASK. 

And  not  till  midnight  comes  the  shot  to  pay ! 

FAUST  (shuddering.) 
What  want  ye  1 

FIRST  MASK  (clasps  his  hand  abruptly.) 
Hey !  To  dance  a  step  with  thee  ! 

FAUST  (plucks  his  hand  back.) 
Off!— Fire!  ! 

FIRST    MASK. 

Tush !  A  spark  or  so  of  brimstone  I 

SECOND    MASK. 

Art  dreaming,  brother  1 

THIRD    MASK. 

Holla !  Music,  there ! 
(The  music  begins  again  in  the  distance. 

FIRST  MASK  (secretly  laughing.) 
The  spleen  is  biting  him  ! 

SECOND    MASK. 

Hark !  at  the  gallows, 
What  jovial  footing  of  it ! 

THIRD    MASK. 

Thither  must  I !    (Exit) 

FIRST    MASK. 

Below,  too !  down  in  Purgatory !  Hear  ye  1 

SECOND    MASK. 

A  stirring  there  ?  'Tis  time  then !  Hui,  your  servant ! 

FIRST    MASK    (to  FAUST.) 

Till  midnight ! 

(Exeunt  both  Masks  hastily.) 

FAUST  (clasping  his  brow.) 
Ha !   What  begirds  me  here  1     (Stepping  vehemently 

forward.) 
Down  with  your  masks  !    (Violent  knocking  without.) 

What  horrid  uproar,  next ! 
Is  madness  coming  on  me  1 — 

VOICE  (violently,  from  without.) 

Open,  in  the  king's  name ! 

(The  music  ceases.     Thunderclap.) 

FAUST  (staggers  back.) 
I  have  a  heavy  dream !— Sure,  't  is  not  doomsday  1 

VOICE  (as  before.) 
Here  Is  the  murderer  !  Open!  open,  then'. 

FAUST  (wipes  his  brow.) 
Has  agony  unmanu'd  mel— 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


135 


SCENE  EIGHTH. 

BAILIFFS. 

Where  is  hef  where  1 

From  these  merely  terrestrial  constables, 
the  jovial  Stranger  easily  delivers  Faust ;  but 
now  comes  the  long-looked-for  tete-d-tite  with 
Helena. 

SCENE  TWELFTH. 

(FAUST  leads  Helena  on  the  stage.  She  also  is  close 
masked.     The  other  Masks  withdraw.) 

FAUST  {warm  and  glowing.) 
No  longer  strive,  proud  beauty ! 

HELENA. 

Ha,  wild  stormer .' 

FAUST. 

"  My  bosom  burns—! 

HELENA. 

The  time  is  not  yet  come.— 

— And  so  forth,  through  four  pages  of  flame 
and  ice,  till  at  last, 

FAUST  (insisting.) 
Off  with  the  mask,  then 

HELEKA  (still  wilder.) 

Hey !  the  marriage-hour ! 

FAUST. 

Off  with  the  mask !  ! 

HELENA. 
'T  is  striking  ! ! 

FAUST. 

One  kiss ! 

HELENA. 

Take  it!! 

(The  mask  and  head-dress  fall  from  her  :  and  she  grins 
at  him  from  a  death's  head  :  loud  thunder  :  and  the  music 
ends,  as  with  a  shriek,  in  dissonances.) 

FAUST  (staggers  back.) 
O  Horror !  wo  ! 

HELENA. 

The  couch  is  ready,  there  ! 
Come,  Bridegroom,  to  thy  fire-nuptials ! 

(She  sinks,  with  a  crashing  thunder-peal,  into  the  ground, 
out  of  which  issue  flames.) 

All  this  is  bad  enough;  but  mere  child's-play 
to  the  "Thirteenth  Scene,"  the  last  of  this 
strange  eventful  history :  with  some  parts  of 
which  we  propose  to  send  our  readers  weep- 
ing to  their  beds. 

SCENE  THIRTEENTH. 

(The  STBANOEU  hurls  faust,  whose  face  is  deadly  pale, 
back  to  the  stage,  by  the  hair.) 

FAUST. 

Ha,  let  me  fly !— Come  !  Come  !— 

STRANGER  (with  wild  thundering  tone.) 

'T  is  over  now ! 

FAUST. 
That  horrid  visage  '.—throwing  himself,  in  a  tremor, 

on  the  sttanger's  breast.)   Thou  art  my  Friend  1 
Protect  me !  I 

STRANGER  (laughing  aloud.) 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  : 


FAUST. 

O,  save  me  ! ! 
STRANGER  (clutches  him  with  irresistible  force :  whirls 
him  round,  so  that  faust's  face  is  towards  the  spectators., 
whilst  his  own  is  turned  away  :  and  thus  he  looks  at  him, 
and  bawls  with  thundering  voice  :) 

'T  is  I'.!— (a  clap  of  THUNDER.  FAUST,  with 
gestures  of  deepest  horror,  rushes  to  the  ground,  uttering 
an  inarticulate  cry.  The  other,  after  a  pause,  continues, 
with  cutting  coolness :) 

Is  that  the  mijrhty  Hell-subduer, 
That  threatened  me  ?— Ha,  ME  !  !    (with  highest  con- 
tempt.) 

Worm  of  the  dust ! 
1  had  reserved  thy  torment  fox— myself .' ! 
Descend  to  other  hands,  be  sport  for  slaves— 
Thou  art  too  small  for  me  !  I 
FAUST   (rises  erect,  and  seems  to  recover  his  strength.) 
Am  I  not  Faust  1 

STRANGER. 

Thou,  no ! 

FAUST  (rising  in  his  whole  vehemence.) 

Accursed  !  Ha,  I  am !  I  am  1 
Down  at  my  feet !  I  am  thy  master ! 

STRANGER. 

No  more !  • 
FAUST   (wildly.) 
More  1  Ha  1  My  Bargain  ! ! 

STRANGER. 

Is  concluded ! ! 

FAUST. 

Three  mortal  sins. — 

STRANGER. 

The  Fourth  too  is  committed ! 

FAUST. 

My  wife,  my  child,  and  my  old  Father's  blood—  ! 

STRANGER  (holds  up  a  Parchment  to  him.) 
And  here  thy  own ! — 

FAUST. 

That  is  my  covenant ! 

STRANGER. 

This  signature— was  thy  most  damning  sin  ! 

FAUST  (raging.) 
Ha,  spirit  of  lies  !  I  &c.,  &c. 

STRANGER  (in  highest  fury.) 
Down,  thou  accursed ! 
(He  drags  him  by  the  hair  towards  the  back-ground  ;  at 
this  moment,  amid  violent  thunder  and  lightning,  the 
scene  changes  into  a  horrid  wilderness ;  in  the  back-ground 
of  which,  a  yawning  Chasm :  into  this  the  Devil  hurls 
Faust ;  on  all  sides  Fire  rains  down,  so  that  the  whole  in- 
terior of  the  Cavern  seems  burning  :  a  black  veil  descends 
over  both,  so  soon  as  Faust  is  got  under.) 

FAUST  (huzzaing  in  wild  defiance.) 
Ha,  down  !  Down  ! 
(Thunder,  lightning,  and  fire.   Both  sink.    The  Curtain 
falls.) 

On  considering  all  which  supernatural  trans- 
actions, the  bewildered  reader  has  no  theory 
for  it,  except  that  Faust  must,  in  Dr.  Cabanis's 
phrase,  have  laboured  under  "obstructions  in 
the  epigastric  region,"  and  all  this  of  the  Devil, 
and  Helena,  and  so  much  murder  and  carous- 
ing, have  been  nothing  but  a  waking  dream, 
or  other  atrabilious  phantasm;  and  regrets 
that  the  poor  Printer  had  not  rather  applied  to 
some  Abernelhy  on  the  subject,  or  even,  by* 


136 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


one  sufficient  dose  of  Epsom-salt,  on  his  own 
prescription,  have  put  an  end  to  the  whole 
matter,  and  restored  himself  to  the  bosom  of 
his  afflicted  family. 

Such,  then,  for  Dr.  Klingemann's  part,  is  his 
method  of  constructing  Tragedies ;  to  which 
method  it  may  perhaps  be  objected  that  there 
is  a  want  of  originality  in  it ;  for  do  not  our  own 
British  Playwrights  follow  precisely  the  same 
plan  ?  We  might  answer  that,  if  not  his  plan, 
at  least,  his  infinitely  superior  execution  of  it, 
must  distinguish  Klingemann:  but  we  rather 
think  his  claim  to  originality  rests  on  a  diiferent 
ground,  on  the  ground,  namely,  of  his  entire 
contentment  with  himself  and  with  this  his 
dramaturgy;  and  the  cool  heroism  with  which, 
on  all  occasions,  he  avows  that  contentment. 
Here  is  no  poor,  cowering,  underfoot  Play- 
wright, begging  the  public  for  God's  sake  not 
to  give  him  the  whipping  which  he  deserves ; 
but  a  bold  perpendicular  Playwright,  avowing 
himself  as  such;  nay,  mounted  on  the  top  of 
his  joinery,  and  therefrom  exercising  a  sharp 
critical  superintendence  over  the  German 
Drama  generally.  Klingemann,  we  under- 
stand, has  lately  executed  a  theatrical  Tour, 
as  Don  Quixote  did  various  Sallies ;  and  thrown 
stones  into  most  German  Playhouses,  and  at 
various  German  Playwriters ;  of  which  we 
have  seen  only  his  assault  on  Tieck ;  a  feat 
comparable  perhaps  to  that  "  never-imagined 
adventure  of  the  Windmills."  Fortune,  it  is 
said,  favours  the  brave ;  and  the  prayer  of 
Burns's  Kilmarnock  weaver  is  not  always  un- 
heard of  Heaven.  In  conclusion,  we  congra- 
tulate Dr.  Klingemann  on  his  Manager-dignity 
in  the  Brunswick  Theatre ;  a  post  he  seems 
made  for,  almost  as  Bardolph  was  for  the 
Eastcheap  waitership. 

But  now,  like  his  own  Ahasuer,  Doctor 
Klingemann  must  "  go  on — on — on ;"  for  ano- 
ther and  greater  Doctor  has  been  kept  too  long 
waiting,  whose  seven  beautiful  volumes  of 
Dramatische  Werke  might  well  secure  him  a 
better  fate.  Dr.  Miillner,  of  all  these  Play- 
wrights, is  the  best  known  in  England ;  some 
of  his  works  have  even,  we  believe,  been 
translated  into  our  language.  In  his  own 
country,  his  fame,  or  at  least  notoriety,  is  also 
supreme  over  all ;  no  Playwright  of  this  age 
makes  such  a  noise  as  Miillner;  nay,  many 
there  are  who  affirm  that  he  is  something  far 
better  than  a  Playwright.  Critics  of  the  sixth 
and  lower  magnitudes,  in  every  corner  of  Ger- 
many, have  put  the  question  a  thousand  times : 
Whether  Miillner  is  not  a  Poet  and  Dramatist? 
To  which  question,  as  the  higher  authorities 
maintain  an  obstinate  silence,  or,  if  much 
pressed,  reply  only  in  groans,  these  sixth- 
magnitude  men  have  been  obliged  to  make 
answer  themselves ;  and  they  have  done  it  with 
an  emphasis  and  vociferation  calculated  to  dis- 
pel all  remaining  doubts  in  the  minds  of  men. 
In  Milliner's  mind,  at  least,  they  have  left  little; 
a  conviction  the  more  excusaiale,  as  the  play- 
going  vulgar  seem  to  be  almost  unanimous  in 
sharing  it;  and  thunders  of  applause,  nightly 
through  so  many  theatres,  return  him  loud 
acclaim.  Such  renown  is  pleasant  food  for  the 
hungry  appetite  of  a  man,  and  naturally  he 
rolls  it  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  his  tongue : 


but,  after  all,  it  can  profit  him  but  little ;  nay, 
many  times,  what  is  sugar  to  the  taste  may  be 
sugar-of-lead  when  it  is  swallowed.  Better 
were  it  for  Miillner,  we  think,  had  fainter 
thunders  of  applause,  and  from  fewer  theatres, 
greeted  him.  For  what  good  is  in  it,  even 
were  there  no  evil?  Though  a  thousand  caps 
leap  into  the  air  at  his  name,  his  own  stature 
is  no  hair's  breadth  higher;  neither  even  can 
the  final  estimate  of  its  height  be  thereby  in 
the  smallest  degree  enlarged.  From  gainsay- 
ers  these  greetings  provoke  only  a  stricter 
scrutiny ;  the  matter  comes  to  be  accurately 
known  at  last;  and  he,  who  has  been  treated 
with  foolish  liberality  atone  period,  must  make 
up  for  it  by  the  want  of  bare  necessaries  at 
another.  No  one  will  deny  that  Miillner  is  a 
person  of  some  considerable  talent:  we  under- 
stand he  is,  or  was  once,  a  Lawyer;  and  can 
believe  that  he  may  have  acted,  and  talked, 
and  written,  very  prettily  in  that  capacity : 
but  to  set  up  for  a  Poet  was  quite  a  diiferent 
enterprise,  in  which  we  reckon  that  he  has 
altogether  mistaken  his  road,  and  these  mob- 
cheers  have  led  him  farther  and  farther  astray. 
Several  years  ago,  on  the  faith  of  very  earn- 
est recommendation,  it  was  our  lot  to  read  one 
of  Dr.  Milliner's  Tragedies,  the  Albandserinn ; 
with  which,  such  was  its  efl^ect  on  us,  we  could 
willingly  enough  have  terminated  our  ac- 
quaintance with  Dr.  Miillner.  A  palpable  imi- 
tation of  Schiller's  Braut  von  Messina;  without 
any  philosophy  or  feeling  that  was  not  either 
perfectly  commonplace  or  perfectly  false,  often 
both  the  one  and  the  other;  inflated,  indeed, 
into  a  certain  hollow  bulk,  but  altogether  with- 
out greatness  ;  being  built  throughout  on  mere 
rant  and  clangour,  and  other  elements  of  the 
most  indubitable  Prose:  such  a  work  could 
not  but  be  satisfactory  to  us  respecting  Dr. 
Milliner's  genius  as  a  Poet;  and  time  being 
precious,  and  the  world  wide  enough,  we  had 
privately  determined  that  we  and  Dr.  Miillner 
were  each  henceforth  to  pursue  his  own 
course.  Nevertheless,  so  considerable  has 
been  the  progress  of  our  worthy  friend,  since 
then,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  that  his  labours 
are  again  forced  on  our  notice  :  for  we  reckon 
the  existence  of  a  true  Poet  in  any  country  to 
be  so  important  a  fact,  that  even  the  slight  pro- 
bability of  such  is  worthy  of  investigation. 
Accordingly,  we  have  again  perused  the  Al- 
bandserinn, and  along  with  it,  faithfully  ex- 
amined the  whole  Dramatic  works  of  Milliner, 
published  in  seven  volumes,  on  beautiful  pa- 
per, in  small  shape,  and  every  way  very  fit  for 
handling.  The  whole  tragic  works,  we  should 
rather  say :  for  three  or  four  of  his  comic  per- 
formances sufficiently  contented  us  ;  and  some 
two  volumes  of  farces,  we  confess,  are  still 
unread.  We  have  also  carefully  gone  through, 
and  with  much  less  difficulty,  the  Prefaces, 
Appendices,  and  other  prose  sheets,  wherein 
the  Author  exhibits  the  ^\fata  libelli:"  defends 
himself  from  unjust  criticisms,  reports  just 
ones,  or  himself  makes  such.  The  toils  of 
this  task  we  shall  not  magnify,  well  knowing 
that  man's  life  is  a  fight  throughout:  only 
having  now  gathered  what  light  is  to  be  had  on 
this  matter,  we  proceed  to  speak  forth  our  ver- 
dict thereon ;  fondly  hoping  that  we  shall  then 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


137 


have  done  with  it,  for  an  indefinite  period  of 
time. 

Dr.  Milliner,  then,  we  must  take  liberty  to 
believe,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  been  said  or 
gung  on  the  subject,  is  no  Dramatist;  has  never 
written  a  Tragedy,  and  in  all  human  probabi- 
lity will  never  write  one.  Grounds  for  this 
harsh,  negative  opinion,  did  the  "  burden  of 
proof"  lie  chiefly  on  our  side,  we  might  state 
in  extreme  abundance.  There  is  one  ground, 
however,  which,  if  our  observation  be  correct, 
would  virtually  include  all  the  rest.  Dr.  Miill- 
ner's  whole  soul  and  character,  to  the  deepest 
root  we  can  trace  of  it,  seems  prosaic,  not 
poetical;  his  Dramas,  therefore,  like  whatever 
else  he  produces,  must  be  manufactured,  not 
created ;  nay,  we  think  that  his  principle  of 
manufacture  is  itself  rather  a  poor  and  second- 
hand one.  Vain  were  it  for  any  reader  to 
search  in  these  seven  volumes  for  an  opinion 
any  deeper  or  clearer,  a  sentiment  any  finer  or 
higher,  than  may  conveniently  belong  to  the 
commonest  practising  advocate :  except  stilting 
heroics,  which  the  man  himself  half  knows  to 
be  false,  and  every  other  man  easily  waives 
aside,  there  is  nothing  here  to  disturb  the  qui- 
escence of  either  heart  or  head.  This  man  is 
a  Doctor  Utriusque  Juris,  most  probably  of  good 
juristic  talent;  and  nothing  more  whatever. 
His  language,  too,  all  accurately  measured 
into  feet,  and  good  current  German,  so  far  as  a 
foreigner  may  judge,  bears  similar  testimony. 
Except  the  rhyme  and  metre,  it  exhibits  no 
poetical  symptom ;  without  being  verbose,  it  is 
essentially  meager  and  watery;  no  idiomatic 
expressiveness,  no  melody,  no  virtue  of  any 
kind;  the  commonest  vehicle  for  the  com- 
monest meaning.  Not  that  our  Doctor  is  des- 
titute of  metaphors  and  other  rhetorical  further- 
ances ;  but  that  these  also  are  of  the  most 
trivial  character:  old  threadbare  material, 
scoured  up  into  a  state  of  shabby-gentility; 
mostly  turning  on  "light"  and  "darkness;" 
"  flashes  through  clouds,"  "  fire  of  heart," 
"tempest  of  soul,"  and  the  like,  which  can 
profit  no  man  or  woman.  In  short,  we  must 
repeat  it,  Dr.  Milliner  has  yet  to  show  that 
there  is  any  particle  of  poetic  metal  in  him ; 
that  his  genius  is  other  than  a  sober  clay-pit, 
from  which  good  bricks  may  be  made ;  but 
where,  to  look  for  gold  or  diamonds  were  sheer 
waste  of  labour. 

When  we  think  of  our  own  Maturin  and 
Sheridan  Knowles,  and  the  gala-day  of  popu- 
larity which  they  also  once  enjoyed  with  us, 
we  can  be  at  no  loss  for  the  genus  under  which 
Dr.  Milliner  is  to  be  included  in  critical  physi- 
ology. Nevertheless,  in  marking  him  as  a  dis- 
tinct Playwright,  we  are  bound  to  mention 
that  in  general  intellectual  talent  he  shows 
himself  very  considerably  superior  to  his  two 
German  brethren.  He  has  a  much  better  taste 
than  Klingemann ;  rejecting  the  aid  of  plush 
and  gunpowder,  we  may  say,  altogether;  is 
even  at  the  pains  to  rhyme  great  part  of  his 
Tragedies;  and  on  the  whole,  writes  with  a 
certain  care  and  decorous  composure,  to  which 
the  Brunswick  Manager  seems  totally  indif- 
ferent. Moreover,  he  appears  to  surpass 
Grillparzer,  as  well  as  Klingemann,  in  a  cer- 
tain force  both  of  judgment  and  passion; 
18 


which  indeed  is  no  very  mighty  aflfair ;  Grill- 
parzer being  naturally  but  a  treble  pipe  in 
these  matters ;  and  Klingemann  blowing 
through  such  an  enormous  coach-horn,  that 
the  natural  note  goes  for  nothing,  becomes  a 
mere  vibration  in  that  all-subduing  volume  of 
sound.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  singular  enough 
that  neither  Grillparzer  nor  Klingemann  should 
be  nearly  so  tough  reading  as  Milliner,  which, 
however,  we  declare  to  be  the  fact.  As  to 
Klingemann,  he  is  even  an  amusing  artist; 
there  is  such  a  briskness  and  heart  in  him  ;  so 
rich  is  he,  nay,  so  exuberant  in  riches,  so  full 
of  explosions,  fire-flashes,  execrations,  and  all 
manner  of  catastrophes  :  and  then,  good  soul, 
he  asks  no  attention  from  us,  knows  his  trade 
better  than  to  dream  of  asking  any.  Grill- 
parzer again  is  a  sadder  and  perhaps  a  wiser 
companion  ;  long-winded  a  little,  but  peaceable 
and  soft-hearted :  his  melancholy,  even  when 
he  pules,  is  in  the  highest  degree  inoffensive, 
and  we  can  often  weep  a  tear  or  two  for  him, 
if  not  with  him.  But  of  all  Tragedians,  may 
the  indulgent  Heavens  deliver  us  from  any 
farther  traffic  with  Dr.  Milliner!  This  is  the 
lukewarm,  which  we  could  wish  to  be  either 
cold  or  hot.  Milliner  will  not  keep  us  awake, 
while  we  read  him ;  yet  neither  will  he,  like 
Klingemann,  let  us  fairly  get  asleep.  Ever 
and  anon,  it  is  as  if  we  came  into  some  smooth 
quiescent  country ;  and  the  soul  flatters  herself 
that  here  at  last  she  may  be  allowed  to  fall 
back  on  her  cushions,  the  eyes  meanwhile, 
like  two  safe  postillions,  comfortably  conduct- 
ing her  through  that  flat  region,  in  which  are 
nothing  but  flax-crops  and  milestones;  and 
ever  and  anon  some  jolt  or  unexpected  noise 
fatally  disturbs  her;  and  looking  out,  it  is  no 
waterfall  or  mountain  chasm,  but  only  the  vil- 
lanous  highway,  and  squalls  of  October  wind. 
To  speak  without  figure.  Dr.  Milliner  does 
seem  to  us  a  singularly  oppressive  writer;  and 
perhaps,  for  this  reason,  that  he  hovers  too 
near  the  verge  of  good  writing;  ever  tempting 
us  with  some  hope  that  here  is  a  touch  of  poe- 
try; and  ever  disappointing  us  with  a  touch 
of  pure  Prose.  A  stately  sentiment  comes 
tramping  forth  with  a  clank  that  sounds  poetic 
and  heroic :  we  start  in  breathless  expectation, 
waiting  to  reverence  the  heavenly  guest ;  and, 
alas,  he  proves  to  be  but  an  old  stager  dressed 
in  new  buckram,  a  stager  well  known  to  us, 
nay,  often  a  stager  that  has  already  been  drum- 
med out  of  most  well-regulated  communities. 
So  it  is  ever  with  Dr.  Milliner:  no  feeUng  can 
be  traced  much  deeper  in  him  than  the  tongue ; 
or  perhaps  when  we  search  more  strictly,  in- 
stead of  an  ideal  of  beauty,  we  shall  find  some 
vague  aim  after  strength,  or  in  defect  of  this, 
after  mere  size.  And  yet  how  cunningly 
he  manages  the  counterfeit !  A  most  plausible, 
fair-spoken,  close-shaven  man ;  a  man  whom 
you  must  not,  for  decency's-sake,  throw  out  of 
the  window ;  and  yet  you  feel  that  being  pal- 
pably a  Turk  in  grain,  his  intents  are  wicked 
and  not  charitable ! 

But  the  grand  question  with  regard  to  Milli- 
ner, as  with  regard  to  these  other  Playwrights, 
is :  where  lies  his  peculiar  sleight  of  hand  in 
this  craft  1  Let  us  endeavour,  then,  to  find  out 
his  secret, — his  recipe  for  play-making;  and 
m2 


138 


CARLYLE'S  MISCEIiLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


communicate  the  same  for  behoof  of  the  British 
nation.      Milliner's   recipe   is   no  mysterious 
one ;  floats,  indeed,  on  the  very  surface  :  might 
even  be  taught,  one  would  suppose,  on  a  few 
trials,  to  the  humblest  capacity.     Our  readers 
may  perhaps  recollect  Zacharias  Werner,  and 
some  short  allusion,  in  our  First  Number,  to  a 
highly  terrific  piece  of  his,  entitled  The  Twenty- 
fourth  of  February.     A  more  detailed  account 
of  the   matter  may  be  found  in  Madame  de 
Stael's  Alkmagne;  in  the  Chapter  which  treats 
of  that  infatuated  Zacharias  generally.     It  is  a 
story  of  a  Swiss  peasant  and  bankrupt,  called 
Kurt  Kuruh,  if  we  mistake  not;  and  of  his 
wife,  and  a  rich  travelling   stranger,  lodged 
with  them ;  which  latter  is,  in  the  night  of  the 
Twenty-fourth  of  February,  wilfully  and  felo- 
niously  murdered    by   the    two  former,   and 
proves  himself  in  the  act  of  dying  to  be  their 
own  only  son,  who  had  returned  home  to  make 
them  all  comfortable,  could  they  only  have  had 
a  little  patience.     But  the  foul  deed  is  already 
accomplished,  with  a  rusty  knife  or  scythe; 
and  nothing  of  course   remains  but  for  the 
whole  batch  to  go  to  perdition.     For  it  was 
written,  as  the  Arabs  say,  "  on  the  iron  leaf;" 
these  Kuruhs  are  doomed  men ;  old  Kuruh,  the 
grandfather,  had  committed  some  sin  or  other; 
for  which,  like  the  sons  of  Atreus,  his  descend- 
ants are  "  prosecuted  with  the  utmost  rigour :" 
nay,  so  punctilious  is  Destiny,  that  this  very 
Twenty-fourth  of  February,  the  day  when  that 
old  sin  was  enacted,  is  still  a  fatal  day  with 
the  family ;  and  this  very  knife  or  scythe,  the 
criminal  tool  on  that  former  occasion,  is  ever 
the  instrument  of  new  crime  and  punishment; 
the  Kuruhs,  during  all  that  half  century,  never 
having  carried  it  to  the  smithy  to  make  hob- 
nails; but  kept  it  hanging  on  a  peg,  most  inju- 
diciously we  think,  almost  as  a  sort  of  bait 
and  bonus  to  Satan,  a  ready-made  fulcrum  for 
whatever  machinery  he  might  bring  to  bear 
against  them.     This  is  the  tragic  lesson  taught 
in  Werner's  Twenty-fourth  of  February ;  and,  as 
the  whole   dramatis  personce  are    either  stuck 
through  with  old  iron,  or  hanged  in  hemp,  it  is 
surely   taught  with   some   considerable    em- 
phasis. 

Werner's  Play  was  brought  out  at  Weimar, 
in  1809;  under  the  direction  or  pernnission,  as 
he  brags,  of  the  great  Goethe  himself;  and 
seems  to  have  produced  no  faint  impression 
on  a  discerning  public.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  piece 
nowise  destitute  of  substance  and  a  certain 
coarse  vigour;  and  if  any  one  has  so  obstinate 
a  heart  that  he  must  absolutely  stand  in  a 
slaughter-house,  or  within  wind  of  the  gallows 
before  tears  will  come,  it  may  have  a  very 
comfortable  effect  on  him.  One  symptom  of 
merit  it  must  be  admitted  to  exhibit, — an  adap- 
tation to  the  general  taste ;  for  the  small  fibre 
of  originality,  which  exists  here,  has  already 
shot  forth  into  a  whole  wood  of  imitations. 
We  understand  that  the  Fate-line  is  now  quite 
an  established  branch  of  dramatic  business  in 
Germany:  they  have  their  Fate-dramatists,  just 
as  we  have  our  gingham-weavers,  and  inkle- 
weavers.  Of  this  Fate-manufacture  we  have 
already  seen  one  sample  in  Grillparzer's  Jlhn- 
frau;  but  by  far  the  most  extensive  Fate- 
inanufacturer,  the  head  and  prince  of  all  Fate- 


dramatists,  is  the  Dr.  Milliner,  at  present  un- 
der consideration.  Milliner  deals  in  Fate  and 
Fate  only;  it  is  the  basis  and  staple  of  his 
whole  tragedy-goods ;  cut  off  this  one  princi- 
ple, you  annihilate  his  raw  material,  and  he 
can  manufacture  no  more. 

Milliner   acknowledges   his   obligations   to 
Werner ;   but,   we    think,    not    half  warmly 
enough.     Werner  was  in  fact  the  making  of 
him;  great  as  he  has  now  become,  our  Doctor 
is  nothing  but  a  mere  misletoe  growing  from 
that  poor  oak,  itself  already  half-dead;   had 
there  been  no  Twenfy-fourth  of  February,  there 
were   then    no    Twenty-ninth   of  February,   no 
Schuld,   no    Mbandserinn,   most    probably    no 
Konig  Yrtgurd.    For  the  reader  is  to  under- 
stand that  Dr.  Milliner,  already  a  middle-aged, 
and  as  yet  a  perfectly  undramatic  man,  began 
business  with  a  direct  copy  of  this    Twenty- 
fourth;  a  thing  proceeding  by   Destiny,  and 
ending  in  murder,  by  a  knife  or  scythe,  as  in 
the  Kuruh  case ;  with  one  improvement,  in- 
deed, that  there  was  a  grinding-stone    intro- 
duced into  the  scene,  and  the  spectator  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  knife  previously 
whetted.     The  Author  too  was  honest  enough 
publicly  to  admit  his  imitation  ;  for  he  named 
this  Play,  the  Twenty-ninth  of  February ;  and, 
in  his  Preface,  gave  thanks,  though  somewhat 
reluctantly,  to  Werner,  as  to  his  master  and 
originator.     For  some  inscrutable  reason,  this 
Twenty-ninth  was  not  sent  to  the  green-grocer, 
but   became    popular:    there   was   even    the 
weakest   of  parodies  written   on   it,   entitled 
Eumenides  Diister,  (Eumenides  Gloomy,)  which 
Milliner  has  reprinted ;  there  was  likewise  "  a 
wish  expressed"  that  the  termination  might 
be  made   joyous,  not  grievous ;  with  which 
wish  also,  the  indefatigable  wright  has  com- 
plied ;  and  so,  for  the  benefit  of  weak  nerves, 
we    have    the    Wahn,  (Delusion,)  which    still 
ends  in  tears,  but  glad  ones.     In  short,  our 
Doctor  has  a  peculiar  merit  with  this  Twenty- 
ninth  of  his  ;  for  who  but  he  could  have  cut  a 
second  and  a  third  face  on  the  same  cherry- 
stone,  said  cherry-stone   having   first  to   be 
borrowed,  or  indeed  half-stolen  1 

At  this  point,  however,  Dr.  Milliner  ap- 
parently began  to  set  up  for  himself;  and  ever 
henceforth  he  endeavours  to  persuade  his  own 
mind  and  ours  that  his  debt  to  Werner  ter- 
minates here.  Nevertheless  clear  it  is  that 
fresh  debt  was  every  day  contracting.  For 
had  not  this  one  Wernerean  idea  taken  com- 
plete hold  of  the  Doctor's  mind, — so  that  he 
was  quite  possessed  with  it;  had,  we  might 
say,  no  other  tragic  idea  whatever?  That  a 
man,  on  a  certain  day  of  the  month,  shall  fall 
into  crime ;  for  which  an  invisible  Fate  shall 
silently  pursue  him;  punishing  the  transgres- 
sion, most  probably  on  the  same  day  of  the 
month,  annually  (unless,  as  in  the  Twenty- 
ninth,  it  be  leap-year,  and  Fate  in  this  may  be, 
to  a  certain  extent,  bilked;  and  never  resting 
till  the  poor  wight  himself,  and  perhaps  his 
last  descendant,  shall  be  swept  away  with  the 
besom  of  destruction  :  such,  more  or  less  dis- 
guised, frequently  without  any  disguise,  is  the 
tragic  essence,  the  vital  principle,  natural 
or  galvanic  we  are  not  deciding,  of  all  Dr. 
Milliner's  Dramas.    Thus,  in  that  everlasting 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


139 


Twenty-ninth  of  February,  we  have  the  principle 
ill  its  naked  state :  some  old  Woodcutter  or 
Forester  has  fallen  into  deadly  sin  with  his 
wife's  sister,  long  ago,  on  that  intercalary  day; 
and  so  his  whole  progeny  must,  wittingly  or 
unwittingly,  proceed  in  incest  and  murder; 
the  day  of  the  catastrophe  regularly  occurring, 
every  four  years,  on  that  same  Twenty-ninth  ; 
till  happily  the  whole  are  murdered,  and  there 
is  an  end.  So  likewise  in  the  Schuld,  (Guilt,)  a 
much  more  ambitious  performance,  we  have 
exactly  the  same  doctrine  of  an  anniversary ; 
and  the  interest  once  more  turns  on  that 
delicate  business  of  murder  and  incest.  In  the 
Jlbandsetinn,  (Fair  Albanese,)  again,  which 
may  have  the  credit,  such  as  it  is,  of  being 
Miillner's  best  Play,  we  find  the  Fate-theory  a 
little  coloured ;  as  if  the  drug  had  begun  to 
disgust,  and  the  Doctor  would  hide  it  in  a 
spoonful  of  syrup  :  it  is  a  dying  man's  curse 
that  operates  on  the  criminal;  which  curse, 
being  strengthened  by  a  sin  of  very  old  stand- 
ing in  the  family  of  the  cursee,  takes  singular 
effect;  the  parties  only  weathering  parricide, 
fratricide,  and  the  old  story  of  incest,  by  two 
self-banishments,  and  two  very  decisive  self- 
murders.  Nay,  it  seems  as  if  our  Doctor 
positively  could  not  act  at  all  without  this 
Fate-panacea:  in  Konig  Yngurd,  we  might 
almost  think  that  he  had  made  such  an  at- 
tempt, and  found  that  it  would  not  do.  This 
Konig  Yngurd,  an  imaginary  Peasant-King  of 
Norway,  is  meant,  as  we  are  kindly  informed, 
to  present  us  with  some  adumbration  of  Na- 
poleon Bonaparte ;  and  truly,  for  the  two  or 
three  first  Acts,  he  goes  along  with  no  small 
gallantry,  in  what  drill-sergeants  call  a  dash- 
ing or  swashing  style ;  a  very  virtuous  kind 
of  man,  and  as  bold  as  Ruy  Diaz  or  any  other 
Christian :  when  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a 
battle,  far  on  in  the  Play,  he  is  seized  with 
some  caprice,  or  whimsical  qualm ;  retires  to 
a  solitary  place,  among  rocks,  and  there,  in 
the  most  gratuitous  manner,  delivers  himself 
over,  viva  voce,  to  the  Devil ;  who  indeed  does 
not  appear  personally  to  take  seisin  of  him, 
but  yet,  as  afterwards  comes  to  light,  has  with 
great  readiness  accepted  the  gift.  For  now 
Yngurd  grows  dreadfully  sulky  and  wicked, 
does  little  henceforth  but  bully  men  and  kill 
them ;  till  at  length,  the  measure  of  his  ini- 
quities being  full,  he  himself  is  bullied  and 
killed;  and  the  Author,  carried  through  by 
this  his  sovereign  tragic  elixir,  contrary  to  ex- 
pectation, terminates  his  piece  with  reasonable 
comfort. 

This,  then,  is  Dr.  Miillner's  dramatic  mys- 
tery; this  is  the  one  patent  hook  by  which  he 
would  hang  his  clay  tragedies  on  the  upper 
spiritual  world;  and  so  establish  for  himself 
a  free  communication,  almost  as  if  by  block- 
and-tackle,  between  the  visible  Prose  Earth 
and  the  invisible  Poetic  Heaven.  The  greater 
or  less  merit  of  this  his  invention,  or  rather 
improvement,  for  Werner  is  the  real  patentee, 
has  given  rise,  we  understand,  to  extensive 
argument.  The  small  deer  of  criticism  seem 
to  be  much  divided  in  opinion  on  this  point ; 
and  the  higher  orders,  as  we  have  stated,  de- 
clining to  throw  any  light  whatever  on  it,  the 
•ubject  is  still  mooting  with  great  animation. 


For  our  own  share,  we  confess  that  we  incline 
to  rank  it  as  a  recipe  for  dramatic  tears,  a 
shade  higher  than  the  Page's  split  onion  in 
the  Taming  of  the  Shrevj.  Craftily  hid  in  the 
handkerchief,  this  onion  was  sufficient  for  the 
deception  of  Christopher  Sly ;  in  that  way  at- 
taining its  object ;  which,  abo,  the  Fate-inven- 
tion seems  to  have  done  with  the  Christopher 
Slys  of  Germany,  and  these  not  one  but  many, 
and  therefore  somewhat  harder  to  deceive. 
To  this  onion-superiority  we  think  Dr.  M.  is 
fairly  entitled  ;  and  with  this  it  were,  perhaps, 
good  for  him  that  he  remained  content. 

Dr.  Milliner's  Fate-scheme  has  been  attacked 
by  certain  of  his  traducers  on  the  score  of  its 
hostility  to  the  Christian  religion.  Languish- 
ing, indeed,  should  we  reckon  the  condition 
of  the  Christian  religion  to  be,  could  Dr.  Milli- 
ner's play-joinery  produce  any  perceptible 
effect  on  it.  Nevertheless,  we  may  remark, 
since  the  matter  is  in  hand,  that  this  business 
of  Fate  does  seem  to  us  nowise  a  Christian 
doctrine ;  not  even  a  Mohammedan  or  Heatherk 
one.  The  Fate  of  the  Greeks,  though  a  false, 
was  a  lofty  hypothesis,  and  harmonized  suf- 
ficiently with  the  whole  sensual  and  material 
structure  of  their  theology:  a  ground  of  deep- 
est black,  on  which  that  gorgeous  phantas- 
magoria was  fitly  enough  painted.  Besides, 
with  them,  the  avenging  Power  dwelt,  at  least 
in  its  visible  manifestations,  among  the  high 
places  of  the  earth ;  visiting  only  kingly  houses, 
and  world's  criminals,  from  whom  it  might  be 
supposed  the  world,  but  for  such  miraculous  in- 
terferences, could  have  exacted  no  vengeance, 
or  found  no  protection  and  purification.  Never, 
that  we  recollect  of,  did  the  Erinnyes  become 
mere  sheriffs'-officers,  and  Fate  a  justice  of 
the  peace,  haling  poor  drudges  to  the  tread- 
mill for  robbery  of  henroosts,  or  scattering  the 
earth  with  steel-traps  to  keep  down  poaching. 
And  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  revealed 
Providence  of  these  days ;  that  power  whose 
path  is  emphatically  through  the  great  deep; 
his  doings  and  plans  manifested,  in  complete- 
ness, not  by  the  year,  or  by  the  century,  on  in- 
dividuals or  on  nations,  but  stretching  through 
eternity,  and  over  the  infinitude  which  he  rules 
and  sustains  1 

But  there  needs  no  recourse  to  theological 
arguments  for  judging  this  Fate-tenet  of  Dr. 
Miillner's.  Its  value,  as  a  dramatic  principle, 
may  be  estimated,  it  seems  to  us,  by  this  one 
consideration :  that  in  these  days  no  person  of 
either  sex  in  the  slightest  degree  believes  it; 
that  Dr.  Milliner  himself  does  not  believe  it. 
We  are  not  contending  that  fiction  should  be- 
come fact,  or  that  no  dramatic  incident  is 
genuine,  unless  it  could  be  sworn  to  before  a 
jury;  but  simply  that  fiction  should  not  be 
falsehood  and  delirium.  How  shall  any  one 
in  the  drama,  or  in  poetry  of  any  sort,  present 
a  consistent  philosophy  of  life,  which  is  the 
soul  and  ultimate  essence  of  all  poetrj',  if  he 
and  every  mortal  know  that  the  whole  moral 
basis  of  his  ideal  world  is  a  lie?  And  is  if 
other  than  a  lie  that  man's  life  is,  or  was,  or 
could  be,  grounded  on  this  pettifogging  princi- 
ple of  a  Fate  that  pursues  woodcutters  and 
cowherds  with  miraculous  visitations,  on  stated 
days  of  the  month  ]    Can  we,  with  any  profit. 


140 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


hold  the  mirror  up  to  Nature  in  this  wise  ? 
When  our  mirror  is  no  mirror,  but  only  as  it 
were  a  nursery  saucepan,  and  that  long  since 
grown  rusty  1 

We  might  add,  were  it  of*  any  moment  in 
this  case,  that  we  reckon  Dr.  Milliner's  tragic 
knack  altogether  insufficient  for  a  still  more 
comprehensive  reason ;  simply  for  the  reason 
that  it  is  a  knack,  a  recipe,  or  secret  of  the 
craft,  which,  could  it  be  never  so  excellent, 
must  by  repeated  use  degenerate  into  a  man- 
nerism, and  therefore  into  a  nuisance.  But 
herein  lies  the  difference  between  creation 
and  manufacture;  the  latter  has  its  manipula- 
tions, its  secret  processes,  which  can  be  learned 
by  apprenticeship;  the  former  has  not.  For 
in  poetry  we  have  heard  of  no  secret  possess- 
ing the  smallest  effectual  virtue,  except  this 
one  general  secret :  that  the  poet  be  a  man  of 
a  purer,  higher,  richer  nature  than  other  men  ; 
which  higher  nature  shall  itself,  after  earnest 
inquiry,  have  taught  him  the  proper  form  for 
imbodying  its  inspirations,  as  indeed  the  im- 
perishable beauty  of  these  will  shine,  with 
more  or  less  distinctness,  through  any  form 
whatever. 

Had  Dr.  MuUner  any  visible  pretension  to 
this  last  great  secret,  it  might  be  a  duty  to 
dwell  longer  and  more  gravely  on  his  minor 
ones,  however  false  and  poor.  As  he  has  no 
such  pretension,  it  appears  to  us  that  for  the 
present  we  may  take  our  leave.  To  give  any 
further  analysis  of  his  individual  dramas  would 
be  an  easy  task,  but  a  stupid  and  thankless 
one.  A  Harrison's  watch,  though  this  too  is 
but  an  earthly  machine,  may  be  taken  asunder 
with  some  prospect  of  scientific  advantage; 
but  who  would  spend  time  in  screwing  and 
unscrewing  the  mechanism  of  ten  pepper- 
mills  1  Neither  shall  we  offer  any  extract,  as 
a  specimen  of  the  diction  and  sentiment  that 
reigns  in  these  dramas.  We  have  said  already 
that  it  is  fair,  well-ordered  stage-sentiment  this 
of  his;  that  the  diction  too  is  good,  well- 
scanned,  grammatical  diction;  no  fault  to  be 
found  with  either,  except  that  they  pretend  to 
be  poetry,  and  are  throughout  the  most  un- 
adulterated prose.  To  exhibit  this  fact  in 
extracts  would  be  a  vain  undertaking.  Not 
the  few  sprigs  of  heath,  but  the  thousand  acres 
of  it,  characterize  the  wilderness.  Let  any 
one  who  covets  a  trim  heath-nosegay,  clutch 
at  random  into  Milliner's  setren  volumes;  for 
ourselves,  we  would  not  deal  further  in  that 
article. 

Besides  his  dramatic  labours.  Dr.  Milliner  is 
known  to  the  public  as  a  journalist.  For  some 
considerable  time,  he  has  edited  a  literary  news- 
paper of  his  own  originating,  the  Mitternacht- 
Blatt  (Midnight  Paper) ;  stray  leaves  of  which 
we  occasionally  look  into.  In  this  last  capacity, 
we  are  happy  to  observe,  he  shows  to  much 
more  advantage ;  indeed,  the  journalistic  office 
seems  quite  natural  to  him ;  and  would  he  take 
any  advice  from  us,  which  he  will  not,  here 
were  the  arena  in  which,  and  not  in  the  Fate- 
drama,  he  would  exclusively  continue  to  fence, 
for  his  bread  or  glory.  He  is  not  without  a 
vein  of  small  wit ;  a  certain  degree  of  drollery 
there  is,  and  grinning  half-risible,  half-impu- 
dent ;  he  has  a  fair  hand  at  the  feebler  sort  o^ 


'  lampoon :  the  German  Joe  Millers  also  seem 
.  familiar  to  him,  and  his  skill  in  the  riddle  is 
j  respectable;  so  that  altogether,  as  we  said,  he 
I  makes  a  superior  figure  in  this  line,  which  in- 
\  deed  is  but  despicably  managed  in  Germany, 
;  and  his  Mittemacht-Blalt  is,  by  several  degrees, 
I  the  most  readable  paper  of  its  kind  we  meet  with 
j  in  that  country.    Not  that  we,  in  the  abstract, 
much  admire  Dr.  Milliner's  newspaper   pro- 
cedure ;  his  style  is  merely  the  common-tavern- 
style,  familiar  enough  in  our  own  periodical 
literature;  riotous,  blustering,  with  some  tinc- 
ture of  blackguardism  ;  a  half-dishonest  style, 
and  smells  considerably  of  tobacco  and  spiritu- 
ous liquor.     Neither  do  we  find   that  there  is 
the  smallest  fraction  of  valuable  knowledge  or 
opinion  communicated  in  the  Midnight  Paper; 
indeed,  except  it  be  the  knowledge  and  opinion 
that  Dr.  Mullner  is  a  great  dramatist,  and  that  all 
who  presume  to  think  otherwise  are  insufficient 
members   of  society,  we  cannot   charge  our 
memory  with  having  gathered  any  knowledge 
from   it  whatever.     It  may  be,  too,  that  Dr. 
Mullner  is  not  perfectly  original  in  his  journal- 
istic manner:  we  have  sometimes  felt  as  if  his 
light  were,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  borrowed  one  ; 
a  rushlight  kindled  at  the  great  pitch  link  of 
our  own  Blackwood^ s  Magazine.     But  on   this 
point  we  cannot  take  upon  us  to  decide. 

One  of  MQllner's  regular  journalistic  articles 
is  the  Kricgszeitung,  or  War-intelligence,  of  all 
the  paper-battles,  feuds,  defiances,  and  private 
assassinations,  chiefly  dramatic,  which  occur 
in  the  more  distracted  portion  of  the  German 
Literary  Republic.  This  Kricgszeitung  Dr. 
Mullner  evidently  writes  with  great  gusto,  in 
a  lively  braggadocia  manner,  especially  when 
touching  on  his  own  exploits ;  yet  to  us,  it  is 
far  the  most  melancholy  part  of  the  Mittemaeht- 
Blatt.  Alas !  this  is  not  what  we  search  for  in 
a  German  newspaper;  how  "Herr  Sapphir,  or 
Herr  Carbuncle,  or  so  many  other  Herren 
Dousterswivel,  are  all  busily  molesting  one 
another !  We  ourselves  are  pacific  men ;  make 
a  point  "  to  shun  discrepant  circles  rather  than 
seek  them:"  and  how  sad  is  it  to  hear  of  so 
many  illustrious-obscure  persons  living  in 
foreign  parts,  and  hear  only,  what  was  well 
known  without  hearing,  that  they  also  are  in- 
stinct with  the  spirit  of  Satan  !  For  what  is 
the  bone  that  these  Journalists,  in  Berlin  and 
elsewere,  are  worrying  over;  what  is  the  ulti- 
mate purpose  of  all  this  barking  and  snarling? 
Sheer  love  of  fight,  you  would  say ;  simply  to 
make  one  another's  life  a  little  bitterer,  as  if 
Fate  had  not  been  cross  enough  to  the  hap- 
piest of  them.  Were  there  any  perceptible 
subject  of  dispute,  any  doctrine  to  advocate, 
even  a  false  one,  it  would  be  something;  but 
so  far  as  we  can  discover,  whether  from  Sap- 
phire and  Company,  or  the  "  Nabob  of  Weis- 
senfels,"  (our  own  worthy  Doctor,)  there  is 
none.  And  is  this  their  appointed  function  1 
Are  Editors  scattered  over  the  country,  and 
supplied  with  victuals  and  fuel,  purely  to  bite 
one  another?  Certainly  not.  But  these  Journal- 
ists, we  think,  are  like  the  Academician's 
colony  of  spiders.  This  French  virtuoso  had 
found  that  cobwebs  were  worth  something, 
could  even  be  woven  into  silk  stockings : 
whereupon,  be  exhibits  a  very  handsome  pai? 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS* 


Uk 


of  cobweb  hose  to  the  Academy,  is  encouraged 
to  proceed  with  the  manufacture,  and  so  col- 
lects some  half-bushel  of  spiders,  and  puts 
them  down  in  a  spacious  loft,  with  every  con- 
venience for  making  silk.  But  will  the  vicious 
creatures  spin  a  thread?  In  place  of  it,  they 
take  to  fighting  with  their  whole  vigour, 
in  contempt  of  the  poor  Academician's  utmost 
exertions  to  part  them :  and  end  not,  till  there 
is  simply  one  spider  left  living,  and  not  a  shred 
of  cobweb  woven,  or  thenceforth  to  be  ex- 
pected! Could  the  weavers  of  paragraphs, 
like  these  of  the  cobweb,  fairly  exterminate 
and  silence  one  another,  it  would  perhaps  be 
a  little  more  supportable.  But  an  Editor  is 
made  of  sterner  stuff.  In  general  cases,  in- 
deed, when  the  brains  are  out,  the  man  will 
die  :  but  it  is  a  well  known  fact  in  Journalistics, 
that  a  man  may  not  only  live,  but  support  wife 
and  children  by  his  labours,  in  this  line,  years 
after  the  brain  (if  there  ever  was  any)  has 
been  completely  abstracted,  or  reduced,  by 
time  and  hard  usage,  into  a  state  of  dry 
powder.  What  then  is  to  be  done  1  Is  there 
no  end  to  this  brawling;  and  will  the  unpro- 
fitable noise  endure  for  ever?  By  way  of 
palliative,  we  have  sometimes  imagined  that  a 
Congress  of  all  German  Editors  might  be  ap- 
pointed, by  proclamation,  in  some  central  spot, 
say  the  Niirnberg  Market-place,  if  it  would 
hold  them  all :  here  we  would  humbly  suggest 
that  the  whole  Journalistik  might  assemble  on 
a  given  day,  and  under  the  eye  of  proper 
marshals,  sufliciently  and  satisfactorily  horse- 
whip one  another  simultaneously,  each  his 
neighbour,  till  the  very  toughest  had  enough 
both  of  whipping  and  of  being  whipped.  In 
this  way,  it  seems  probable,  little  or  no  injus- 
tice would  be  done :  and  each  Journalist, 
cleared  of  gall,  for  several  months,  might  re- 
turn home  in  a  more  composed  frame  of  mind, 
and  betake  himself  with  new  alacrity  to  the 
real  duties  of  his  office. 

But,  enough!  enough!  The  humour  of 
these  men  may  be  infectious ;  it  is  not  good 
for  us  to  be  here.  Wandering  over  the  Ely- 
sian  fields  of  German  Literature,  not  watch- 
ing the  gloomy  discords  of  its  Tartarus,  is 
what  we  wish  to  be  employed  in.  Let  the 
iron  gate  again  close,  and  shut  in  the  pallid 
kingdoms  from  view;  we  gladly  revisit  the 


upper  air.  Not  in  despite  towards  the  German 
nation,  which  we  love  honestly,  have  we  spo- 
ken thus  of  these  its  Playwrights  and  Jour- 
nalists. Alas!  when  we  look  around  us  at 
home,  we  feel  too  well  that  the  Germans  might 
say  to  us, — Neighbour,  sweep  thy  own  floor  ! 
Neither  is  it  with  any  hope  of  bettering  the 
existence  of  these  three  individual  Poetasters, 
still  less  with  the  smallest  shadow  of  wish  to 
make  it  more  miserable,  that  we  have  spoken. 
After  all,  there  must  be  Playwrights,  as  we 
have  said :  and  these  are  among  the  best  of 
the  class.  So  long  as  it  pleases  them  to  manu- 
facture in  this  line,  and  any  body  of  German 
Thebans  to  pay  them,  in  groschen  or  plaudits, 
for  their  ware,  let  both  parties  persist  in  sa 
doing,  and  fair  befall  them  !  But  the  duty  of 
Foreign  Reviewers  is  of  a  two-fold  sort.  For 
not  only  are  we  stationed  on  the  coast  of  the 
country,  as  watchers  and  spials,  to  report 
whatsoever  remarkable  thing  becomes  visible 
in  the  distance ;  but  we  stand  there  also  as  a 
sort  of  Tide-waiters  and  Preventive-service- 
men, to  contend,  with  our  utmost  vigour,  that 
no  improper  article  be  landed.  These  offices, 
it  would  seem,  as  in  the  material  world,  so 
also  in  the  literary  and  spiritual,  usually  fall 
to  the  lot  of  aged,  invalided,  impoverished,  or 
otherwise  decayed  persons  ;  but  this  is  little  to 
the  matter.  As  true  British  subjects,  with 
ready  will,  though  it  may  be,  with  our  last 
strength,  we  are  here  to  discharge  that  double 
duty.  Movements,  we  observe,  are  making 
along  the  beach,  and  signals  out  sea-wards,  as 
if  these  Klingemauns  and  Milliners  were  to 
be  landed  on  our  soil:  but  through  the 
strength  of  heaven  this  shall  not  be  done,  till 
the  "most  thinking  people"  know  what  it  is 
that  is  landing.  For  the  rest,  if  any  one  wishes 
to  import  that  sort  of  produce,  and  finds  it 
nourishing  for  his  inward  man,  let  him  do  so, 
and  welcome.  Only  let  him  understand  that 
it  is  not  German  Literature  he  is  swallowing, 
but  the  froth  and  scum  of  German  Literature ; 
which  scum,  if  he  will  only  wait,  we  can  fur- 
ther promise  him  that  he  may,  ere  long,  enjoy 
in  the  new,  and  perhaps  cheaper,  form  of  sedi- 
ment. And  so  let  every  one  be  active  for  him- 
self. 

JVoch  ist  es  Tag^  da  rilhre  sick  der  Mann, 
Die  JVacht  tritt  ein,  wo  niemand  wirken  kann. 


143 


CARLYLE-S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


VOLTAIRE.* 


[Foreign  Review,  1829.] 


Could  ambition  always  choose  its  own  path 
and  were  will  in  human  undertakings  s5rhony 
mous  with  faculty,  all  truly  ambitious  men* 
would  be  men  of  letters.  Certainly,  if  we 
examine  that  love  of  power,  which  enters  so 
largely  into  most  practical  calculations,  nay» 
which  our  Utilitarian  friends  have  recognised 
as  the  sole  end  and  origin,  both  motive  and 
reward,  of  all  earthly  enterprises,  animating* 
alike  the  philanthropist,  the  conqueror,  the 
money-changer,  and  the  missionary,  we  shall 
find  that  all  other  arenas  of  ambition,  com- 
pared with  this  rich  and  boundless  one  of 
Literature,  meaning  thereby  whatever  respects 
the  promulgation  of  Thought,  are  poor,  limited, 
and  ineffectual.  For  dull,  unreflective,  mere- 
ly instinctive  as  the  ordinary  man  may  seem, 
he  has  nevertheless,  as  a  quite  indispensable 
appendage,  a  head  that  in  some  degree  con- 
siders and  computes  ;  a  lamp  or  rushlight  of 
understanding  has  been  given  him,  which, 
through  whatever  dim,  besmoked,  and  strange- 
ly diffractive  media  it  may  shine,  is  the  ulti- 
mate guiding  light  of  his  whole  path :  and 
here,  as  well  as  there,  now  as  at  all  times  in 
man's  history,  Opinion  rules  the  world. 


"'Ctrridus  it  is,  moreover,  to  consider,  in  this 
respect,  how  different  appearance  is  from 
reality,  and  under  what  singular  shape  and 
circumstances  the  truly  most  important  man 
of  any  given  period  might  be  found.  Could 
some  Asmodeus,  by  simply  waiving  his  arm, 
open  asunder  the  meaning  of  the  Present, 
even  so  far  as  the  Future  will  disclose  it,  how 
much  more  marvellous  a  sight  should  we 
have,  than  that  mere  bodily  one  through  the 
roofs  of  Madrid  !  For  we  know  not  what  we 
are,  any  more  than  what  we  shall  be.  It  is  a 
high,  solemn,  almost  awful  thought  for  every 
individual  man,  that  his  earthly  influence, 
which  has  had  a  commencement,  will  never 
through  all  ages,  were  he  the  very  meanest 
of  us,  have  an  end  !  What  is  done  is  done  ; 
has  already  blended  itself  with  the  boundless, 
ever-living,  ever-working  Universe,  and  will 
also  work  there,  for  good  or  for  evil,  openly 
or  secretly,  throughout  all  time.  But  the  life 
of  every  man  is  as  the  well-spring  of  a  stream, 
whose  small  beginnings  are  indeed  plain  to 
all,  but  whose  ulterior  course  and  destination, 
as  it  winds  through  the  expanses  of  infinite 
years,  only  the  Omniscient  can  discern.  Will 
it  mingle  with  neighbouring  rivulets,  as  a 
tributary;  or  receive  them  as  their  sovereign  1 

*  Memoires  sur  Voltaire,  et  sur  ses  Ouvra^es,  par  Long- 
charnp  et  fVagniire,  ses  Secretaires ;  snivis  de  divers 
K^crif.s  inedits  de  la  Marquise  du  Chdtelet,  du  President 
Ilenault,  c^c,  tons  relatifs  fi  Voltaire.  (Memoirs  coii- 
cernins  Voltaire  and  his  Works,  liy  Longchamp  and 
Wagni6re,  his  Secretaries ;  with  various  unpublished 
pieces  by  the  Marquise  du  Chdtelet,  &c.,  all  relating  to 
Voltaire,)    2  Tomes.    Paris,  1826. 


|ls  it  to  be  a  nameless  brook,  and  will  its  tiny 
Waters,  among  millions  of  other  brooks  and 
Hlls,  increase  the  current  of  some  world's- 
Hverl  Or  is  it  to  be  itself  a  Rhine  or  Danaw, 
rwhose  goings  forth  are  to  the  uttermost  lands, 
Its  flood  an  everlasting  boundary-line  on  the 
jglobe  itself,  the  bulwark  and  highway  of 
whole  kingdoms  and  continents  1  We  know 
not :  only  in  either  case,  we  know  its  path  is 
to  the  great  ocean :  its  waters,  were  they  but 
a  handful,  are  here,  and  cannot  be  annihilated 
^r  permanently  held  back. 

As  little  can  we  prognosticate,  with  any 
certainty,  the  future  influences  from  the  pre- 
sent aspects  of  an  individual.  How  many 
Demagogues,  Croesuses,  Conquerors  fill  their 
own  age  with  joy  or  terror,  with  a  tumult  that 
promises  to  be  perennial ;  and  in  the  next 
age  die  away  into  insignificance  and  oblivion  ! 
i  These  are  the  forests  of  gourds,  that  overtop 
the  infant  cedars  and  aloe-trees,  but,  like  the 
•Prophet's  gourd,  wither  on  the  third  day. 
What  was  it  to  the  Pharaohs  of  Egypt,  in  that 
;old  era,  if  Jethro  the  Midianitish  priest  and 
'grazier  accepted  the  Hebrew  outlaw  as  his 
fherdsman  1  Yet  the  Pharaohs,  with  all  their 
"jchariots  of  war,  are  buried  deep  in  the  v;recks 
of  time;  and  that  Moses  still  lives,  not  atnong 
his  own  tribe  only,  but  in  the  hearts  and  daily 
business  of  all  civilized  nations.  Or  figure 
Mahomet,  in  his  youthful  years,  "  travelling  to 
the  horse-fairs  of  Syria !"  Nay,  to  take  an 
infinitely  higher  instance,  who  has  ever  for- 
gotten those  lines  of  Tacitus  ;  inserted  as  a 
small,  transitory,  altogether  trifling  circum- 
stance in  the  history  of  such  a  potentate  as 
Nero  1  To  us  it  is  the  most  earnest,  sad,  and 
sternly  significant  passage  that  we  know  to 
exist  in  writing :  Ergo  abolendo  rumori  Nero 
suhdidit  rcos,  et  qucesitissvmis  pasnis  affecit,  quos 
per  flagitia  invisos,  vulgus  Christianos  appclla- 
bat.  Auctor  nominis  ejus  CanisTus,  qui,  Tiberio 
imperitante,  per  Procuratorem  Pontium  Pilatum 
supplicio  affeclus  erat.  Piepressaque  in  prcescns 
exitiabilis  super stitio  rursus  erumpebat,  non  modo 
per  JudcBam  origincm  ejus  mali,  sed  per  urbem 
ctiam,  quo  cuncta  undiqiie  atrocia  aut  pudenda 
confluunt,  cekbranturque.  "  So,  for  the  quieting 
of  this  rumour,*  Nero  judicially  charged  with 
the  crime,  and  punished  with  most  studied 
severities,  that  class,  hated  for  their  general 
wickedness,  whom  the  vulgar  call  Christians. 
The  originator  of  that  name  was  one  Christ, 
who,  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  suffered  death 
by  sentence  of  the  procurator,  Pontius  Pilate. 
The  baneful  superstition,  thereby  repressed 
for  the  time,  again  broke  out,  not  only  over 
Judea,  the  native  soil  of  that  mischief,  but 
in  the  City  also,  where  from  every  side  all 

*  Of  his  having  set  fire  to  Rome. 


VOLTAIRE. 


143 


Rtrocious  and  abominable  things  collect  and  j 
flourish."*  Tacitus  was  the  wisest,  most  pene- 1 
trating  man  of  his  generation ;  and  to  such 
depth,  and  no  deeper,  has  he  seen  into  this 
transaction,  the  most  important  that  has  oc- 
curred or  can  occur  in  the  annals  of  mankind. 
Nor  is  it  only  to  those  prim^ive  ages,  when 
religions  took  their  rise,  an^a  man  of  pure 
and  high  mind  appeared  i)jbt  merely  as  a 
teacher  and  philosopher,  but  as  a  priest  and 
prophet,  that  our  observation  applies.  The 
same  uncertainty,  in  estim^ing  present  things 
and  men,  holds  more  or  lejls  in  all  times ;  for 
in  all  times,  even  in  thosb  which  seem  most 
trivial,  and  open  to  research,  human  society 
rests  on  inscrutably  dee*  foundations;  which 
he  is  of  all  others  th/  most  mistaken,  who 
fancies  he  has  exploroH  to  the  bottom.  Neither 
is  that  sequence,  wh|ch  we  love  to  speak  of 
as  "a  chain  of  causes,"  properly  to  be  figured 
as  a  "  chain,"  or  line,  but  rather  as  a  tissue, 
or  superficies  of  innumerable  lines,  extending 
in  breadth  as  well  as  in  length,  and  with  a 
complexity,  which  will  foil  and  utterly  be- 
wilder the  most  assiduous  computation.  In 
fact,  the  wisest  of  us  must,  for  by  far  the  most 
part,  judge  like  the  simplest;  estimate  im- 
portance by  mere  magnitude,  and  expect  that 
what  strongly  affects  our  own  generation,  will 
strongly  affect  those  that  are  to  follow.  In  this 
way  it  is  that  conquerors  and  political  revo- 
lutionists come  to  figure  as  so  mighty  in  their 
influences;  whereas  truly  there  is  no  class  of 
persons,  creating  such  an  uproar  in  the  world, 
who  in  the  long  run  produce  so  very  slight  an 
impression  on  its  affairs.  When  Tamerlane 
had  finished  building  his  pyramid  of  seventy 
thousand  human  skulls,  and  was  seen  "  stand- 
ing at  the  gate  Damascus,  glittering,  in  steel, 
with  his  battle-axe  on  his  shoulder,"  till  his 
fierce  hosts  filed  out  to  new  victories  and  new 
carnage,  the  pale  onlooker  might  have  fancied 
that  Nature  was  in  her  death-throes ;  for  havoc 
and  despair  had  taken  possession  of  the  earth, 
the  sun  of  manhood  seemed  setting  in  seas  of 
blood.  Yet,  it  might  be,  on  that  very  gala-day 
of  Tamerlane,  a  little  boy  was  playing  nine- 
pins on  the  streets  of  Mentz,  whose  history 
was  more  important  to  men  than  that  of 
twenty  Tamerlanes.  The  Tartar  Khan,  with 
his  shaggy  demons  of  the  wilderness,  "  passed 
away  like  a  whirlwind"  to  be  forgotten  for 
ever ;'  and  that  German  artisan  has  wrought 
a  benefit,  which  is  yet  immeasurably  expand- 
ing itself,  and  will  continue  to  expand  itself 
through  all  countries  and  through  all  times. 
What  are  the  conquests  and  expeditions  of  the 
whole  corporation  of  captains,  from  Walter 
the  Pennyless  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  com- 
pared with  these  "  movable  types  "  of  Johannes 
Faust  1  Truly,  it  is  a  mortifying  thing  for 
your  Conqueror  to  reflect,  how  perishable  is 
the  metal  which  he  hammers  with  such  vio- 
lence :  how  the  kind  earth  will  soon  shroud 
up  his  bloody  footprints;  and  all  that  he 
achieved  and  skilfully  piled  together  will  be 
but  like  his  own  "  canvas  city  "  of  a  camp, — 
this  evening  loud  with  life,  to-morrow  all 
struck  and  vanished,  "a  few  earth-pits  and 


*  Tacit.  Annal.  xv.  44. 


heaps  of  straw  !"  For  here,  as  always,  it 
continues  true,  that  the  deepest  force  is  the 
stillest;  that,  as  in  the  Fable,  the  mild  shining 
of  the  sun  shall  silently  accomplish  what  the 
fierce  blustering  of  the  tempest  has  in  vain 
essayed.  Above  all,  it  is  ever  to  be  kept  in 
mind,  that  not  by  material,  but  by  moral  power, 
are  men  and  their  actions  governed.  How 
noiseless  is  thought !  No  rolling  of  drums,  no 
tramp  of  squadrons,  or  immeasurable  tumult 
of  baggage- wagons,  attends  its  movements:  in 
what  obscure  and  sequestered  places  may  the 
head  be  meditating,  which  is  one  day  to  be 
crowned  with  more  than  imperial  authority; 
for  Kings  and  Emperors  will  be  among  its 
ministering  servants;  it  will  rule  not  over, 
but  in  all  heads,  and  with  these  its  solitary 
combinations  of  ideas,  as  with  magic  formulas 
bend  the  world  to  its  will !  The  time  may 
come,  when  Napoleon  himself  will  be  better 
known  for  his  laws  than  for  his  battles;  and 
the  victory  of  Waterloo  prove  less  momentous 
than  the  opening  of  the  first  Mechanics'  In- 
stitute. 

We  have  been  led  into  such  rather  trite  re- 
flections, by  these  volumes  of  Memoirs  on  Vol- 
taire ;  a  man  in  whose  history  the  relative  im- 
portance of  intellectual  and  physical  power  is 
again  curiously  evinced.  This  also  was  a 
private  person,  by  birth  nowise  an  elevated 
one  ;  yet  so  far  as  present  knowledge  will  ena- 
ble us  to  judge,  it  may  be  said,  that  to  abstract 
Voltaire  and  his  activity  from  the  eighteenth 
century,  were  to  produce  a  greater  difference 
in  the  existing  figure  of  things,  than  the  want 
of  any  other  individual,  up  to  this  day,  could 
have  occasioned.  Nay,  with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  Luther,  there  is,  perhaps,  in  these 
modern  ages,  no  other  man  of  a  merely  intel- 
lectual character,  whose  influence  and  reputa- 
tion have  become  so  entirely  European  as  that 
of  Voltaire.  Indeed,  like  the  great  German 
Reformer's,  his  doctrines  too,  almost  from  the 
first,  have  afl^ected  not  only  the  belief  of  the 
thinking  world,  silently  propagating  themselves 
from  mind  to  mind  ;  but  in  a  high  degree  also, 
the  conduct  of  the  active  and  political  world ; 
entering  as  a  distinct  element  into  some  of  the 
most  fearful  civil  convulsions  which  European 
history  has  on  record. 

Doubtless,  to  his  own  contemporaries,to  such 
of  them  at  least  as  had  any  insight  into  the 
actual  state  of  men's  minds,  Voltaire  already 
appeared  as  a  note-worthy  and  decidedly  his- 
torical personage  :  yet,  perhaps,  not  the  wildest 
of  his  admirers  ventured  to  assign  him  such  a 
magnitude  as  he  now  figures  in,  even  with  his 
adversaries  and  detractors.  He  has  grown  in 
apparent  importance,  as  we  receded  from  him, 
as  the  nature  of  his  endeavours  became  more 
and  more  visible  in  their  results.  For,  unlike 
many  great  men,  but  like  all  great  agitators, 
Voltaire  everywhere  shows  himself  emphati- 
cally as  the  man  of  his  century:  uniting  in  his 
own  person  whatever  spiritual  accomplish- 
ments were  most  valued  by  that  age ;  at  the 
same  time,  with  no  depth  to  discern  its  ulterior 
tendencies,  still  less  with  any  magnanimity  to 
attempt  withstanding  these,  his  greatness  and 
his  littleness  alike  fitted  him  to  produce  an  im- 
mediate effect ;  for  he  leads  whither  the  mirfti- 


144 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tude  was  of  itself  dimly  minded  to  run,  and 
keeps  the  van  not  less  by  skill  in  commanding, 
than  by  cunning  in  obeying.  Besides,  now 
that  we  look  on  the  matter  from  some  distance, 
the  efforts  of  a  thousand  coadjutors  and  disci- 
ples, nay,  a  series  of  mighty  political  vicissi- 
tudes, in  the  production  of  which  these  efforts 
had  but  a  subsidiary  share,  have  all  come,  na- 
turally in  such  a  case,  to  appear  as  if  exclu- 
sively his  work ;  so  that  he  rises  before  us  as 
the  paragon  and  epitome  of  a  whole  spiritual 
period,  now  almost  passed  away,  yet  remarka- 
ble in  itself,  and  more  than  ever  interesting  to 
us,  who  seem  to  stand,  as  it  were,  on  the  con- 
fines of  a  new  and  better  one. 

Nay,  had  we  forgotten  that  ours  is  the  "  Age 
of  the  Press,"  when  he  who  runs  may  not  only 
read,  but  furnish  us  with  reading ;  and  simply 
counted  the  books,  and  scattered  leaves,  thick 
as  the  autumnal  in  Vallombrosa,  that  have  been 
written  and  printed  concerning  this  man,  we 
might  almost  fancy  him  the  most  important 
person,  not  of  the  eighteenth  century,  but  of  all 
the  centuries  from  Noah's  flood  downwards. 
We  have  Lives  of  Voltaire  by  friend  and  by  foe: 
Condorcet,  Duvernet,  Lepan,  have  each  given 
us  a  whole ;  portions,  documen  ts,  and  all  manner 
of  authentic  or  spurious  contributions  have 
been  supplied  by  innumerable  hands  ;  of  which 
we  mention  only  the  labours  of  his  various 
secretaries  :  Collini's,  published  some  twenty 
years  ago,  and  now  these  two  massive  octavos 
from  Longchamp  and  Wagniere.  To  say  no- 
thing of  the  Baron  de  Grimm's  Collections, 
unparalleled  in  more  than  one  respect ;  or  of 
the  six-and-thirty  volumes  of  scurrilous  eaves- 
dropping, long  since  printed  under  the  title  of 
Memoires  de  Bachaumont ;  or  of  the  daily  and 
hourly  attacks  and  defences  that  appeared 
separately  in  his  lifetime,  and  all  the  judicial 
pieces,  whether  in  the  style  of  apotheosis  or 
of  excommunication,  that  have  seen  the  light 
since  then;  a  mass  of  fugitive  writings,  the 
very  diamond  edition  of  which  might  fill  whole 
libraries.  The  peculiar  talent  of  the  French 
in  all  narrative,  at  least  in  all  anecdotic,  de- 
partments, rendering  most  of  these  works  ex- 
tremely readable,  still  further  favoured  their 
circulation,  both  at  home  and  abroad :  so  that 
now,  in  most  countries,  Voltaire  has  been  read 
of  and  talked  of,  till  his  name  and  life  have 
grown  familiar  like  those  of  a  village  acquaint- 
ance. In  England,  at  least,  where  for  almost 
a  century  the  study  of  foreign  literature  has, 
we  may  say,  confined  itself  to  that  of  the  French, 
with  a  slight  intermixture  from  the  elder  Ita- 
lians, Voltaire's  writings  and  such  writings  as 
treated  of  him,  were  little  likely  to  want  readers. 
We  suppose,  there  is  no  literary  era,  not  even 
any  domestic  one,  concerning  which  English- 
men in  general  have  such  information,  at  least 
have  gathered  so  many  anecdotes  and  opinions, 
as  concerning  this  of  Voltaire.  Nor  have  native 
additions  to  the  stock  been  wanting,  and  these 
of  a  due  variety  in  purport  and  kind :  maledic- 
tions, expostulations,  and  dreadful  death-scenes, 
painted  like  Spanish  Sanbenitos,  by  weak  well- 
meaning  persons  of  the  hostile  class ;  eulogies, 
generally  of  the  gayer  sort,  by  open  or  secret 
friends  :  all  this  has  been  long  and  extensively 
carried  on  among  us.    There  is  even  an  Eng- 


lish Life  of  Voltaire;*  nay,  we  remember  to 
have  seen  portions  of  his  writings  cited,  in  ter^ 
rorum,  and  with  criticisms,  in  some  pamphlet, 
"  by  a  country  gentleman,"  either  on  the  Edu- 
cation of  the  People,  or  else  on  the  question  of 
Preserving  the  Game. 

With  the  "  Age  of  the  Press,"  and  such  mani- 
festations of  it  on  this  subject,  we  are  far  from 
quarrelling.  We  have  read  great  part  of  these 
thousand-and-first  "  Memoirs  on  Voltaire,"  by 
Longchamp  and  Wagniere,  not  without  satis- 
faction; and  can  cheerfully  look  forward  to 
still  other  "  Memoirs"  following  in  their  train. 
Nothing  can  be  more  in  the  course  of  nature 
than  the  wish  to  satisfy  one's  self  with  know- 
ledge of  all  sorts  about  any  distinguished  per- 
son, especially  of  our  own  era  ;  the  true  study 
of  his  character,  his  spiritual  individuality, 
and  peculiar  manner  of  existence,  is  full  of 
instruction  for  all  mankind  :  even  that  of  his 
looks,  sayings,  habitudes,  and  indifferent  ac- 
tions, were  not  the  records  of  them  generally 
lies,  is  rather  to  be  commended;  nay,  are  not 
such  lies  themselves,  when  they  keep  within 
bounds,  and  the  subject  of  them  has  been  dead 
for  some  time,  equal  to  snipe-shooting,  or  Col- 
burn-Novels,  at  least  little  inferior  in  the  great 
art  of  getting  done  with  life,  or,  as  it  is  tech- 
nically called,  killing  time  1  For  our  own 
part,  we  say, — would  that  every  Johnson  in 
the  world  had  his  veridical  Boswell,  or  leash 
of  Boswells !  We  could  then  tolerate  his 
Hawkins  also,  though  not  veridical.  With 
regard  to  Voltaire,  in  particular,  it  seems  to 
us  not  only  innocent  but  profitable,  that  the 
whole  truth  regarding  him  should  be  well  un- 
derstood. Surely,  the  biography  of  such  a 
man,  who,  to  say  no  more  of  him,  spent  his 
best  efforts,  and  as  many  still  think,  success- 
fully, in  assaulting  the  Christian  religion,  must 
be  a  matter  of  considerable  import;  what  he 
did,  and  what  he  could  not  do ;  how  he  did  it, 
or  attempted  it,  that  is,  with  what  degree  of 
strength,  clearness,  especially  with  what  moral 
intents,  what  theories  and  feelings  on  man  and 
man's  life,  are  questions  that  will  bear  some 
discussing.  To  Voltaire,  individually,  for  the 
last  fifty-one  years,  the  discussion  has  been 
indifferent  enough;  and  to  us  it  is  a  discussion 
not  on  one  remarkable  person  only,  and  chiefly 
for  the  curious  or  studious,  but  involving  con- 
siderations of  highest  moment  to  all  men,  and 
inquiries  which  the  utmost  compass  of  our 
philosophy  will  be  unable  to  embrace. 

Here,  accordingly,  we  are  about  to  offer 
some  further  observations  on  this  qucestio 
vexala ;  not  without  hope  that  the  reader  may 
accept  them  in  good  part.  Doubtless,  when 
we  look  at  the  whole  bearings  of  the  matter, 
there  seems  little  prospect  of  any  unanimity 
respecting  it,  either  now,  or  within  a  calcula- 
ble period :  it  is  probable  that  many  will  con- 
tinue, for  a  long  time,  to  speak  of  this  "  uni- 


♦  "  By  Frank  Hall  Standish,  Esq."  (London,  1821)  :  a 
work,  which  we  can  recommend  only  to  such  as  feel 
themselves  in  extreme  want  of  information  on  this  sub- 
ject, and,  except  in  their  own  languafre,  unable  to  acquire 
any.  It  is  written  very  badly,  thoui;h  with  sincerity, 
and  not  without  considerable  indications  of  talent ;  to  all 
appearance,  by  a  minor,  many  of  whose  statements  and 
opinions  (for  he  seems  an  inquiring,  honest-hearted, 
rather  decisive  character)  must  have  begun  to  astonish 
even  himself,  several  years  ago. 


VOLTAIRE. 


146 


versal  genius,"  this  "  apostle  of  Reason,"  and 
"father  of  sound  Philosophy ;"  and  many  again 
of  this  "monster  of  impiety,"  this  "sophist," 
and  "atheist,"  and  "ape-demon;"  or,  like  the 
late  Dr.  Clarke  of  Cambridge,  dismiss  him  more 
briefly  with  information  that  he  is  "  a  driveller :" 
neither  is  it  essential  that  these  two  parties 
should,  on  the  spur  of  the  instant,  reconcile 
themselves  herein.  Nevertheless,  truth  is 
better  than  error,  were  it  only  "  on  Hannibal's 
vinegar."  It  may  be  expected  that  men's 
opinions  concerning  Voltaire,  which  is  of  some 
moment,  and  concerning  Voltairism^  which  is 
of  almost  boundless  moment,  will,  if  they  can-  j 
not  meet,  gradually  at  every  new  comparison  I 
approach  towards  meeting ;  and  what  is  still 
more  desirable,  towards  meeting  somewhere 
nearer  the  truth  than  they  actually  stand. 

With  honest  wishes  to  promote  such  ap- 
proximation, there  is  one  condition,  which, 
above  all  others,  in  this  inquiry,  we  must  beg 
the  reader  to  impose  on  himself:  the  duty  of 
fairness  towards  Voltaire,  of  Tolerance  to- 
wards him,  as  towards  all  men.  This,  truly, 
is  a  duty,  which  we  have  the  happiness  to  hear 
daily  inculcated ;  yet  which,  it  has  been  well 
said,  no  mortal  is  at  bottom  disposed  to  prac- 
tise. Nevertheless,  if  we  really  desire  to  un- 
derstand the  truth  on  any  subject,  not  merely, 
as  is  much  more  common,  to  confirm  our  al- 
ready existing  opinions,  and  gratify  this  and 
the  other  pitiful  claim  of  vanity  or  malice  in 
respect  of  it,  tolerance  may  be  regarded  as  the 
most  indispensable  of  all  prerequisites ;  the 
condition,  indeed,  by  which  alone  any  real 
progress  in  the  question  becomes  possible.  In 
respect  of  our  fellow-men,  and  all  real  insight 
into  their  characters,  this  is  especially  true. 
No  character,  we  may  affirm,  was  ever  rightly 
understood,  till  it  had  first  been  regarded  with  a 
certain  feeling,  not  of  tolerance  only,  but  of 
sympathy.  For  here,  more  than  in  any  other 
case,  it  is  verified  that  the  heart  sees  farther 
than  the  head.  Let  us  be  sure,  our  enemy  is 
not  that  hateful  being  we  are  too  apt  to  paint 
him.  His  vices  and  basenesses  lie  combined 
in  far  other  order  before  his  own  mind,  than 
before  ours ;  and  under  colours  which  palliate 
them,  nay,  perhaps,  exhibit  them  as  virtues. 
Were  he  the  wretch  of  our  imagining,  his  life 
would  be  a  burden  to  himself;  for  it  is  not  by 
bread  alone  that  the  basest  mortal  lives ;  a  cer- 
tain approval  of  conscience  is  equally  essen- 
tial even  to  physical  existence;  is  the  fine 
all-pervading  cement  by  which  that  wondrous 
union,  a  Self,  is  held  together.  Since  the  man, 
therefore,  is  not  in  Bedlam,  and  has  not  shot 
or  hanged  himself,  let  us  take  comfort,  and 
conclude  that  he  is  one  of  two  things:  either 
a  vicious  dog,  in  man's  guise,  to  be  muzzled, 
and  mourned  over,  and  greatly  marvelled  at ; 
or  a  real  man,  and,  consequently,  not  without 
moral  worth,  which  is  to  be  enlightened,  and 
so  far  approved  of.  But  to  judge  rightly  of 
his  character,  we  must  learn  to  look  at  it,"  not 
less  with  his  eyes,  than  with  our  own ;  we 
must  learn  to  pity  him,  to  see  him  as  a  fellow- 
creature,  in  a  word,  to  love  him,  or  his  real 
spiritual  nature  will  ever  be  mistaken  by  us. 
In  interpreting  Voltaire,  accordingly,  it  will  be 
needful  to  bear  some  things  carefully  in  mind, 
19 


and  to  keep  many  other  things  as  carefully  in 
abeyance.  Let  us  forget  that  our  opinions 
were  ever  assailed  by  him,  or  ever  defended; 
that  we  have  to  thank  him,  or  upbraid  him,  for 
pain  or  for  pleasure ;  let  us  forget  that  we  are 
Deists,  or  Millenarians,  Bishops,  or  Radical 
Reformers,  and  remember  only  that  we  are 
men.  This  is  a  European  subject,  or  there 
never  was  one ;  and  must,  if  we  would  in  the 
least  comprehend  it,  be  looked  at  neither  from 
the  parish  belfry,  nor  any  Peterloo  Platform ; 
but,  if  possible,  from  some  natural  and  infi- 
nitely higher  point  of  vision.  *•— • 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  that  throughout  the 
last  fifty  years  of  his  life,  Voltaire  was  seldom 
or  never  named,  even  by  his  detractors,  with- 
out the  epithet  "  great"  being  appended  to  him ; 
so  that,  had  the  syllables  suited  such  a  junc- 
tion, as  they  did  in  the  happier  case  of  Charle- 
Magne,  we  might  almost  have  expected  that, 
not  Voltaire,  but  Voltaire'ce-grand-homme  would 
be  his  designation  with  posterity.  However, 
posterity  is  much  more  stinted  in  its  allow- 
ances on  that  score  ;  and  a  multitude  of  things 
remain  to  be  adjusted,  and  questions  of  very 
dubious  issue  to  be  gone  into,  before  such 
coronation  titles  can  be  conceded  with  any 
permanence.  The  million,  even  the  wiser 
part  of  them,  are  apt  to  lose  their  discretion, 
when  "  tumultuously  assembled;"  for  a  small 
object,  near  at  hand,  may  subtend  a  large 
angle  ;  and  often  a  Pennenden  Heath  has  been 
mistaken  for  a  Field  of  Runnymede ;  whereby 
the  couplet  on  that  immortal  Dalhousie  proves 
to  be  the  emblem  of  many  a  man's  real  for- 
tune with  the  public : 

And  thou,  Dalhousie,  the  great  God  of  war, 
Lieutenant.CoIonel  to  the  Earl  of  Mar ; 
the  latter  end  corresponding  poorly  with  the 
beginning.  To  ascertain  what  was  the  true 
significance  of  Voltaire's  history,  both  as  re- 
spects himself  and  the  world ;  what  was  his 
specific  character  and  value  as  a  man ;  what 
has  been  the  character  and  value  of  his  in- 
fluence on  society,  of  his  appearance  as  an  ac- 
tive agent  in  the  culture  of  Europe;  all  this  leads 
us  into  much  deeper  investigations;  on  the 
settlement  of  which,  however,  the  whole  busi- 
ness turns. 

To  our  own  view,  we  confess,  on  looking  at  ^ 
Voltaire's  life,  the  chief  quality  that  shows 
itself  is  one  for  which  adroitness  seems  the 
fitter  name.  Greatness  implies  several  condi- 
tions, the  existence  of  which,  in  his  case,  it 
might  be  difficult  to  demonstrate;  but  of  his 
claim  to  this  other  praise  there  can  be  no  dis- 
puting. Whatever  be  his  aims,  high  or  low, 
just  or  the  contrary,  he  is  at  all  times,  and  to 
the  utmost  degree,  expert  in  pursuing  them. 
It  is  to  be  observed,  moreover,  that  his  aims  in 
general  were  not  of  a  simple  sort,  and  the 
attainment  of  them  easy :  few  literary  men 
have  had  a  course  so  diversified  with  vicissi- 
tudes as  Voltaire's.  His  life  is  not  spent  in  a 
corner,  like  that  of  a  studious  recluse,  but  on 
the  open  theatre  of  the  world ;  in  an  age  full 
of  commotion,  when  society  is  rending  itself 
asunder.  Superstition  already  armed  for  deadly 
battle  against  Unbelief;  in  which  battle  he 
himself  plays  a  distinguished  part.  From  his 
earliest  years,  we  find  him  in  perpetual  com- 
N 


146 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


munication  with  the  higher  personages  of 
his  time,  often  with  the  highest:  it  is  in  circles 
of  authority,  of  reputation,  at  lowest,  of  fashion 
and  rank,  that  he  lives  and  works.  Ninon  de 
I'Enclos  leaves  the  boy  a  legacy  to  buy  books ; 
he  is  still  young,  when  he  can  say  of  his  supper 
companions,  "  We  are  all  Princes  or  Poets." 
In  after  life,  he  exhibits  himself  in  company 
or  correspondence  with  all  manner  of  princi- 
palities and  powers,  from  Queen  Caroline  of 
England  to  the  Empress  Catherine  of  Russia, 
from  Pope  Benedict  to  Frederic  the  Great. 
Meanwhile,  shifting  from  side  to  side  of  Europe, 
hiding  in  the  country,  or  living  sumptuously 
in  capital  cities,  he  quits  not  his  pen,  with 
which,  as  with  some  enchanter's  rod,  more 
potent  than  any  king's  sceptre,  he  turns  and 
winds  the  mighty  machine  of  European  Opi- 
nion; approves  himself,  as  his  schoolmaster 
had  predicted,  the  Coryphee  du  Deisme ;  and, 
not  content  with  this  elevation,  strives,  and 
nowise  ineffectually,  to  unite  with  it  a  poetical, 
historical,  philosophic,  and  even  scientific  pre- 
eminence. Nay,  we  may  add,  a  pecuniary 
one  ;  for  he  speculates  in  the  funds,  diligently 
solicits  pensions  and  promotions,  trades  to 
America,  is  long  a  regular  victualling-contrac- 
tor for  armies;  and  thus,  by  one  means  and 
another,  independently  of  literature,  which 
would  never  yield  much  money,  raises  his  in- 
come from  800  francs  a-year  to  more  than 
centuple  that  sum.*  And  now,  having,  besides 
all  this  commercial  and  economical  business, 
written  some  thirty  quartos,  the  most  popular 
that  were  ever  written,  he  returns  after  long 
exile  to  his  native  city,  to  be  welcomed  there  al- 
most as  a  religious  idol ;  and  closes  a  life,  pros- 
perous alike  in  the  building  of  country-seats, 
and  the  composition  of  Henriades  and  Philoso- 
phical Dictionaries,  by  the  most  appropriate 
demise ;  by  drowning,  as  it  were,  in  an  ocean 
of  applause,  so  that  as  he  lived  for  fame,  he 
may  be  said  to  have  died  of  it. 

Such  various,  complete  success,  granted 
only  to  a  small  portion  of  men  in  any  age  of 
the  world,  presupposes,  at  least,  with  every 
allowance  for  good  fortune,  an  almost  un- 
rivalled expertness  of  management.  There 
must  have  been  a  great  talent  of  some  kind  at 
work  here  :  a  cause  proportionate  to  the  effect. 
It  is  wonderful,  truly,  to  observe  with  what 
perfect  skill  Voltaire  steers  his  course  through 
so  many  conflicting  circumstances:  how  he 
weathers  this  Cape  Horn, darts  lightly  through 
that  Mahlstrom;  always  either  sinks  his 
enemy,  or  shuns  him ;  here  waters,  and  careens, 
and  traffics  with  the  rich  savages ;  there  lies 
[land-locked  till  the  hurricane  is  overblown ; 
and  so,  in  spite  of  all  billows,  and  sea-monsters, 
and  hostile  fleets,  finishes  his  long  Manilla 
■voyage,  with  streamers  flying,  and  deck  piled 
with  ingots !  To  say  nothing  of  his  literary 
character,  of  which  -this  same  dexterous  ad- 
dress will  also  be  found  to  be  a  main  feature, 
let  us  glance  only  at  the  general  aspect  of  his 
conduct,  as  manifested  both  in  his  writings 
ajid  actions.  By  turns,  and  ever  at  the  right 
season,  he  is  imperious  and  obsequious ;  now 
shoots  abroad,  from  the  mountain  tops,  Hype- 


*  See  Tome  ii.  p.  328  of  these  Mivwires. 


rion-like,  his  keen,  innumerable  shafts;  anoil/ 
when  danger  is  advancing,  flies  to  obscure 
nooks;  or,  if  taken  in  the  fact,  swears  it  was 
but  in  sport,  and  that  he  is  the  peaceablest  of 
men.  He  bends  to  occasion ;  can,  to  a  certain 
extent,  blow  hot  or  blow  cold;  and  never  at-  , 
tempts  force,  where  cunning  will  serve  his^  I 
turn.  The  beagles  of  the  Hierarchy  and  of 
the  Monarchy,  proverbially  quick  of  scent,  and 
sharp  of  tooth,  are  out  in  quest  of  him ;  but  this 
is  a  lion-fox  which  cannot  be  captured.  By 
wiles  and  a  thousand  doublings,  he  utterly  dis- 
tracts his  pursuers ;  he  can  burrow  in  the 
earth,  and  all  trace  of  him  is  gone.*  With  a 
strange  system  of  anonymity  and  publicity,  of 
denial  and  assertion,  of  Mystification  in  all 
senses,  has  Voltaire  surrounded  himself.  He 
can  raise  no  standing  armies  for  his  defence, 
yet  he  too  is  a  "European  power,"  and  not 
undefended;  an  invisible,  impregnable,  though 
hitherto  unrecognised  bulwark,  that  of  Public 
Opinion,  defends  him.  With  great  art,  he 
maintains  this  stronghold;  though  ever  and 
anon  sallying  Out  from  it,  far  beyond  the  per- 
mitted limits.  But  he  has  his  coat  of  darkness, 
and  his  shoes  of  swiftness,  like  that  other 
Killer  of  Giants.  We  find  Voltaire  a  supple 
courtier,  or  a  sharp  satirist;  he  can  talk  blas- 
phemy, and  build  churches,  according  to  the 
signs  of  the  times.  Frederic  the  Great  is  not 
too  high  for  his  diplomacy,  nor  the  poor  Prin- 
ter of  his  Zadig  too  low  ;f  he  manages  the 
Cardinal  Fleuri,  and  the  Cure  of  St.  Sulpice; 
and  laughs  in  his  sleeve  at  all  the  world.  We 
should  pronounce  him  to  be  one  of  the  best 
politicians  on  record;  as  we  have  said,  the 
arfroiYesf  of  all  literary  men. 

At  the  same  time,  Voltaire's  worst  enemies*  j 
it  seems  to  us,  will  not  deny  that  he  had^ 
naturally  a  keen  sense  for  rectitude,  indeed,  for 
all  virtue  :  the  utmost  vivacity  of  temperament 
characterizes  him;  his  quick  susceptibility  for 
every  form  of  beauty  is  moral  as  well  as  in- 
tellectual. Nor  was  his  practice  without  in- 
dubitable and  highly  creditable  proofs  of  this. 
To  the  help-needing  he  was  at  all  times  a 
ready  benefactor :  many  were  the  hungry  ad- 
venturers who  profited  of  his  bounty,  and  then 
bit  the  hand  that  had  fed  them.  If  we  enume- 
rate his  generous  acts,  from  the  case  of  the 
Abbe  Desfontaines  down  to  that  of  the  widow 
Calas,  and  the  Serfs  of  Saint  Claude,  we  shall 
find  that  few  private  men  have  had  so  wide  a 
circle  of  charity,  and  have  watched  over  it  so 
well.  Should  it  be  objected  that  love  of  repu- 
tation entered  largely  into  these  proceedings, 
Voltaire  can  afford  a  handsome  deduction  on 
that  head :  should  the  uncharitable  even  cal- 
culate that  love  of  reputation  was  the  sole 
motive,  we  can  only  remind  them  that  love  of 
suck  reputation  is  itself  the  effect  of  a  social, 
humane  disposition  ;  and  wish,  as  an  immense 

*  Of  one  such  "taking  to  cover,"  we  have  a  curious 
and  rather  ridiculous  account  in  this  work,  by  Long- 
champ.  It  was  with  the  Duchess  du  Maine  that  he 
sought  shelter,  and  on  a  very  slight  occasion  :  neverthe- 
less he  had  to  lie  perdue,  for  two  months,  at  the  Castle 
of  Sceaux;  and,  with  closed  windows,  and  burning 
candles  in  daylight,  compose  Zadig,  Babouc,  Memnon, 
(fee,  for  his  amusement. 

f  See  in  Longchamp  (pp.  154—163)  how  by  natural 
legerdemain,  a  knave  may  be  caught,  and  the  change 
rendu  ii,  des  imprimeurs  infidcles. 


VOLTAIRE. 


147 


improvement,  that  all  men  were  animated  with 
it.  Voltaire  was  not  without  his  experience 
of  human  baseness ;  but  he  still  had  a  fellow- 
feeling  for  human  sufferings;  and  delighted, 
were  it  only  as  an  honest  luxury,  to  relieve 
them.  His  attachments  seem  remarkably 
constant  and  lasting :  even  such  sots  as  Thiriot, 
whom  nothing  but  habit  could  have  endeared 
to  him,  he  continues,  and  after  repeated  in- 
juries, to  treat  and  regard  as  friends.  To  his 
equals  we  do  not  observe  him  envious,  at  least 
not  palpably  and  despicably  so ;  though  this,  we 
should  add,  might  be  in  him,  who  was  from  the 
first  so  paramountly  popular,  no  such  hard 
attainment.  Against  Montesquieu,  perhaps 
against  him  alone,  he  cannot  help  entertaining 
a  small  secret  grudge ;  yet  ever  in  public  he 
does  him  the  amplest  justice :  VArlequin  Gro- 
tius  of  the  fire-side  becomes,  on  all  grave  occa- 
sions, the  author  of  the  Esprit  des  Loix. 
Neither  to  his  enemies,  and  even  betrayers,  is 
Voltaire  implacable  or  meanly  vindictive :  the 
instant  of  their  submission  is  also  the  instant 
of  his  forgiveness ;  their  hostility  itself  pro- 
vokes only  casual  sallies  from  him ;  his  heart 
is  too  kindly,  indeed  too  light,  to  cherish  any 
i  rancour,  any  continuation  of  revenge.  If  he 
I  has  not  the  virtue  to  forgive,  he  is  seldom 
'.without  the  prudence  to  forget:  if,  in  his  life- 
long contentions,  he  cannot  treat  his  opponents 
with  any  magnanimity,  he  seldom,  or  perhaps 
never  once,  treats  them  quite  basely ;  seldom 
or  never  with  that  absolute  unfairness  which 
the  law  of  retaliation  might  so  often  have 
seemed  to  justify.  We  would  say  that,  if  not 
heroic,  he  is  at  all  times  a  perfectly  civilized 
man;  which,  considering  that  his  war  was 
with  exasperated  theologians,  and  a  "war  to 
the  knife,"  on  their  part,  may  be  looked  upon 
as  rather  a  surprising  circumstance.  He  ex- 
hibits many  minor  virtues,  a  due  appreciation 
of  the  highest;  and  fewer  faults  than,  in  his 
situation,  might  have  been  expected,  and  per- 
haps pardoned. 

(  All  this  is  well,  and  may  fit  out  a  highly  ex- 
pert and  much  esteemed  man  of  business,  in 
the  widest  sense  of  that  term ;  but  is  still  far 
from  constituting  a  "  great  character."  In  fact, 
there  is  one  deficiency  in  Voltaire's  original 
structure,  which,  it  appears  to  us,  must  be 
quite  fatal  to  such  claims  for  him :  we  mean 
his  inborn  levity  of  nature,  his  entire  want  of 
Earnestness.  Voltaire  was  by  birth  a  Mocker, 
and  light  Pococurante :  which  natural  disposi- 
tion his  way  of  life  confirmed  into  a  predomi- 
nant, indeed  all-pervading  habit.  Far  be  it 
from  us  to  say,  that  solemnity  is  an  essential 
of  greatness;  that  no  great  man  can  have 
other  than  a  rigid  vinegar  aspect  of  counte- 
nance, never  to  be  thawed  or  warmed  by  bil- 
lows of  mirth  !  There  are  things  in  this  world 
to  be  laughed  at,  as  well  as  things  to  be  ad- 
mired ;  and  his  is  no  complete  mind,  that  can- 
not give  to  each  sort  its  due.  Nevertheless, 
^  contempt  is  a  dangerous  element  to  sport  in  ; 
a  deadly  one,  if  we  habitually  live  in  it.  How, 
indeed,  to  take  the  lowest  view  of  this  matter, 
shall  a  man  accomplish  great  enterprises, — 
enduring  all  toil,  resisting  temptations,  laying 
aside  every  weight, — unless  he  zealously  love 
what  he  pursues  ]     The  faculty  of  love,  of 


admiration,  is  to  be  regarded  as  the  sign  and 
the  measure  of  high  souls  :  unwisely  directed, 
it  leads  to  many  evils;  but  without  it,  there 
cannot  be  any  good.  Ridicule,  on  the  othef/ 
hand,  is  indeed  a  faculty  much  prized  by  itsl 
possessors;  yet,  intrinsically,  it  is  a  small 
faculty  ;  we  may  say,  the  smallest  of  all  facuW 
ties  that  other  men  are  at  the  pains  to  repay! 
with  any  esteem.  It  is  directly  opposed  to' 
Thought,  to  Knowledge,  properly  so  called ; 
its  nourishment  and  essence  is  Denial,  which 
hovers  only  on  the  surface,  while  Knowledge 
dwells  far  below.  Moreover,  it  is  by  nature 
selfish  and  morally  trivial ;  it  cherishes  nothing 
but  our  Vanity,  which  may  in  general  be  left 
safely  enough  to  shift  for  itself.  Little  "  dis- 
course of  reason,"  in  any  sense,  is  implied  in 
Ridicule :  a  scoffing  man  is  in  no  lofty  mood, 
for  the  time ;  shows  more  of  the  imp  than  of 
the  angel.  This  too  when  his  scoffing  is  what 
we  call  just,  and  has  some  foundation  on 
truth :  while  again  the  laughter  of  fools,  that 
vain  sound,  said  in  Scripture  to  resemble  the 
"  crackling  of  thorns  under  the  pot," — which 
they  cannot  heat,  and  only  soil  and  begrime, — 
must  be  regarded,  in  these  latter  times,  as  a 
very  serious  addition  to  the  sum  of  human 
wretchedness ;  and  may  not  always,  when 
considering  the  Increase  of  Crime  in  the  Me- 
tropolis, escape  the  vigilance  of  Parliament. 

We  have,  oftener  than  once,  endeavoured 
to  attach  some  meaning  to  that  aphorism,  vul- 
garly imputed  to  Shaftesbury,  which,  however, 
we  can  find  nowhere  in  his  works,  that  ridicule 
is  the  test  of  truth.  But  of  all  chimeras,  that 
ever  advanced  themselves  in  the  shape  of  phi- 
losophical doctrines,  this  is  to  us  the  most 
formless  and  purely  inconceivable.  Did  or 
could  the  unassisted  human  faculties  ever  un- 
derstand it,  much  more  believe  it  1  Surely,  so 
far  as  the  common  mind  can  discern,  laughter 
seems  to  depend  not  less  on  the  laugher  than 
on  the  laughee;  and  who  gave  laughers  a  pa- 
tent to  be  always  just,  and  always  omniscient  ? 
If  the  philosophers  of  Nootka  Sound  were 
pleased  to  laugh  at  the  manoBuvres  of  Cook's 
seamen,  did  that  render  these  manoeuvres  use- 
less, and  were  the  seamen  to  stand  idle,  or  take 
to  leather  canoes,  till  the  laughter  abated  1  Let 
a  discerning  public  judge. 

But,  leaving  these  questions  for  the  present, 
we  may  observe  at  least  that  all  great  men 
have  been  careful  to  subordinate  this  talent  or 
habit  of  ridicule ;  nay,  in  the  ages  which  we 
consider  the  greatest,  most  of  the  arts  that 
contribute  to  it  have  been  thought  disgraceful 
for  freemen,  and  confined  to  the  exercise  of 
slaves.  With  Voltaire,  however,  there  is  no  such 
subordination  visible :  by  nature,  or  by  prac- 
tice, mockery  has  grown  to  be  the  irresistible 
bias  of  his  disposition ;  so  that  for  him,  in  all 
matters,  the  first  question  is  not  what  is  true, 
but  what  is  false  ;  not  what  is  to  be  loved,  and 
held  fast,  and  earnestly  laid  to  heart,  but  what 
is  to  be  contemned,  and  derided,  and  sportfully 
cast  out  of  doors.  Here  truly  he  earns  abun- 
dant triumph  as  an  image-breaker,  but  pockets 
little  real  wealth.  Vanity,  with  its  adjuncts, 
as  we  have  said,  finds  rich  solacement;  but 
for  aught  better,  there  is  not  much.  Reverence, 
the  highest  feeling  that  man's  nature  is  capa- 


148 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ble  of,  the  crown  of  his  whole  moral  manhood, 
and  precious,  like  fine  gold,  were  it  in  the  rudest 
forms,  he  seems  not  to  understand,  or  have 
heard  of,  even  by  credible  tradition.  The 
glory  of  knowing  and  believing  is  all  but  a 
stranger  to  him ;  only  with  that  of  question- 
ing and  qualifying  is  he  familiar.  Accord- 
ingly, he  sees  but  a  little  way  into  Nature  :  the 
mighty  All,  in  its  beauty,  and  infinite  myste- 
rious grandeur,  humbling  the  small  Me  into 
nothingness,  has  never  even  for  moments  been 
revealed  to  him ;  only  this  and  that  other  atom 
of  it,  and  the  differences  and  discrepancies  of 
these  two,  has  he  looked  into,  and  noted  down. 
His  theory  of  the  world,  his  picture  of  man 
and  man's  life,  is  little ;  for  a  Poet  and  Philoso- 
pher, even  pitiful.  Examine  it,  in  its  highest 
developments,  you  find  it  an  altogether  vulgar 
picture  ;  simply  a  reflex,  from  more  or  fewer 
mirrors  of  Self  and  the  poor  interests  of  Self. 
"  The  Divine  Idea,  that  which  lies  at  the  bot- 
tom of  Appearance,"  was  never  more  invisi- 
ble to  any  man.  He  reads  History  not  with  the 
eye  of  a  devout  Seer,  or  even  of  a  Critic ;  but 
through  a  pair  of  mere  anti-catholic  specta- 
cles. It  is  not  a  mighty  drama,  enacted  on  the 
theatre  of  Infinitude,  with  Suns  for  lamps,  and 
Eternity  as  a  back-ground;  whose  author  is 
God,  and  whose  purport  and  thousand-fold 
moral  lead  us  up  to  the  "  dark  with  excess  of 
light"  of  the  Throne  of  God;  but  a  poor  wea- 
risome debating-club  dispute,  spun  through 
ten  centuries,  between  the  Encydopedie  and  the 
Sorbonne,  Wisdom  or  folly,  nobleness  or  base- 
ness, are  merely  superstitious  or  unbelieving: 
God's  Universe  is  a  larger  Patrimony  of  St. 
Peter,  from  which  it  were  well  and  pleasant  to 
hunt  the  Pope. 

In  this  way,  Voltaire's  nature,  which  was 
originally  vehement  rather  than  deep,  came  in 
its  maturity,  in  spite  of  all  his  wonderful  gifts, 
to  be  positively  shallow.  We  find  no  heroism 
of  character  in  him,  from  first  to  last ;  nay, 
there  is  not,  that  we  know  of,  one  great  thought, 
in  all  his  six-and-thirty  quartos.  The  high 
worth  implanted  in  him  by  Nature,  and  still 
often  manifested  in  his  conduct,  does  not  shine 
there  like  a  light,  but  like  a  coruscation.  The 
enthusiasm,  proper  to  such  a  mind,  visits  him  ; 
but  it  has  no  abiding  virtue  in  his  thought,  no 
local  habitation  and  no  name.  There  is  in  him 
a  rapidity,  but  at  the  same  time  a  pettiness ;  a 
certain  violence,  and  fitful  abruptness,  which 
takes  from  him  all  dignity.  Of  his  emportemens 
and  tragi-comical  explosions,  a  thousand  an- 
ecdotes are  on  record ;  neither  is  he,  in  these 
cases,  a  terrific  volcano,  but  a  mere  bundle  of 
rockets.  He  is  nigh  shooting  poor  Dorn,  the 
Frankfort  constable  ;  actually  fires  a  pistol, 
into  the  lobby,  at  him ;  and  this,  three  days 
after  that  melancholy  business  of  the  "  (Euvre  de 
Poesie  du  Roi  nion  Maitre  "  had  been  finally  ad- 
justed. A  bookseller,  that,  with  the  natural 
instinct  of  fallen  mankind,  overcharges  him, 
receives  from  this  Philosopher,  by  way  of 
payment  at  sight,  a  slap  on  the  face.  Poor 
Longchamp,  with  considerable  tact,  and  a 
praiseworthy  air  of  second-table  respectability, 
details  various  scenes  of  this  kind :  how  Vol- 
taire dashed  away  his  combs,  and  maltreated 
his   wig,   and   otherwise   fiercely  comported 


himself,  the  very  first  morning:  how  once, 
having  a  keenness  of  appetite,  sharpened  by 
walking,  and  a  diet  of  weak  tea,  he  became 
uncommonly  anxious  for  supper;  and  Clairaut 
and  Madame  du  Chatelet,  sunk  in  algebraic 
calculations,  twice  promised  to  come  down, 
but  still  kept  the  dishes  cooling,  and  the  Phi- 
losopher at  last  desperately  battered  open  their 
locked  door  with  his  foot;  exclaiming  "  Vous 
etes  done  de  concert  pour  me  faire  niourir?  " — And 
yet  Voltaire  had  a  true  kindness  of  heart;  all 
his  domestics  and  dependents  loved  him,  and 
continued  with  him.  He  has  many  elements  of 
goodness,  but  floating  loosely;  nothing  is  com- 
bined in  steadfast  union.  It  is  true,  he  presents 
in  general  a  surface  of  smoothness,  of  cultured 
regularity  ;  yet,  under  it,  there  is  not  the  silent 
rock-bound  strength  of  a  World,  but  the  wild 
tumults  of  a  Chaos  are  ever  bursting  through. 
He  is  a  man  of  power,  but  not  of  beneficent 
authority  ;  we  fear,  but  cannot  reverence  him; 
we  feel  him  to  be  stronger,  not  higher. 

Much  of  this  spiritual  short-coming  and  per- 
version might  be  due  to  natural  defect :  but 
much  of  it  also  is  due  to  the  age  into  which 
he  was  cast.  It  was  an  age  of  discord  and 
division ;  the  approach  of  a  grand  crisis  in 
human  affairs.  Already  we  discern  in  it  all 
the  elements  of  the  French  Revolution;  and 
wonder,  so  easily  do  we  forget  how  entangled 
and  hidden  the  meaning  of  the  present  gene- 
rally is  to  us,  that  all  men  did  not  foresee  the 
comings  on  of  that  fearful  convulsion.  On 
the  one  hand,  a  high  all-attempting  activity  of 
Intellect :  the  most  peremptory  spirit  of  in- 
quiry abroad  on  every  subject;  things  human 
and  things  divine  alike  cited  without  mis- 
givings before  the  same  boastful  tribunal  of  so- 
called  Reason,  which  means  here  a  merely 
argumentative  Logic;  the  strong  in  mind  ex- 
cluded from  his  regular  influence  in  the  state, 
and  deeply  conscious  of  that  injury.  On  the 
other  hand,  a  privileged  few,  strong  in  the 
subjection  of  the  many,  yet  in  itself  weak;  a 
piebald,  and  for  most  part  altogether  decrepit 
battalion,  of  Clergy,  of  purblind  Nobility,  or 
rather  of  Courtiers,  for  as  yet  the  Nobility  is 
mostly  on  the  other  side :  these  cannot  fight 
with  Logic,  and  the  day  of  Persecution  is  well- 
nigh  done.  The  whole  force  of  law,  indeed, 
is  still  in  their  hands ;  but  the  far  deeper  force, 
which  alone  gives  efficacy  to  law,  is  hourly 
passing  away  from  them.  Hope  animates  one 
side;  fear  the  other;  and  the  battle  will  be 
fierce  and  desperate.  For  there  is  wit  without 
wisdom  on  the  part  of  the  self-styled  Philoso- 
phers ;  feebleness  with  exasperation  on  the 
part  of  their  opponents ;  pride  enough  on  all 
hands,  but  little  magnanimity';  perhaps  no- 
where any  pure  love  of  truth,  only  everywhere 
the  purest,  most  ardent  love  of  self.  In  such 
a  state  of  things,  there  lay  abundant  principles 
of  discord :  these  two  influences  hung  like 
fast-gathering  electric  clouds,  as  yet  on  op- 
posite sides  of  the  horizon,  but  with  a  malig- 
I  nity  of  aspect,  which  boded,  whenever  they 
',  might  meet,  a  sky  of  fire  and  blackness,  thun- 
derbolts to  waste  the  earth,  and  the  sun  and 
!  stars,  though  but  for  a  season,  to  be  blotted  out 
from  the  heavens.  For  there  is  no  conducting 
I  medium  to  unite  softly  these  hostile  elements ; 


VOLTAIRE. 


149 


there  is  no  true  virtue,  no  true  wisdom, 
on  the  one  side  or  on  the  other.  Never  per- 
haps, was  there  an  epoch,  in  the  history  of 
the  world,  when  universal  corruption  called 
so  loudly  for  reform  ;  and  they  who  undertook 
that  task  were  men  intrinsically  so  worthless. 
Not  by  Gracchi,  but  by  Catilines  ;  not  by  Lu- 
thers,  but  by  Aretines,  was  Europe  to  be  re- 
novated. The  task  has  been  a  long  and  bloody 
one;  and  is  still  far  from  done. 

In  this  condition  of  affairs,  what  side  such  a 
man  as  Voltaire  was  to  take  could  not  be  doubt- 
ful. Whether  he  ought  to  have  taken  either 
side ;  whether  he  should  not  rather  have 
stationed  himself  in  the  middle ;  the  partisan 
of  neither,  perhaps  hated  by  both;  acknow- 
ledging, and  forwarding,  and  striving  to  re- 
concile, what  truth  was  in  each ;  and  preach- 
ing forth  a  far  deeper  truth,  which,  if  his  own 
century  had  neglected  it,  had  persecuted  it, 
futufe  centuries  would  have  recognised  as 
priceless  :  all  this  was  another  question.  Of 
no  man,  however  gifted,  can  we  require  what 
he  has  not  to  give :  but  Voltaire  called  him- 
self Philosopher,  nay,  the  Philosopher.  And 
such  has  often,  indeed  generally,  been  the  fate 
of  great  men,  and  Lovers  of  Wisdom :  their 
own  age  and  country  have  treated  them  as  of 
no  account;  in  the  great  Corn-Exchange  of  the 
world,  their  pearls  have  seemed  but  spoiled 
barley,  and  been  ignominiously  rejected.  Weak 
in  adherents,  strong  only  in  their  faith,  in 
their  indestructible  consciousness  of  worth 
and  well-doing,  they  have  silently,  or  in  words, 
appealed  to  coming  ages,  when  their  own  ear 
would  indeed  be  shut  to  the  voice  of  love,  and 
of  hatred,  but  the  Truth  that  had  dwelt  in  them 
would  speak  with  a  voice  audible  to  all.  Bacon 
left  his  works  to  future  generations,  when 
some  centuries  should  have  elapsed.  "Is  it 
much  for  me,"  said  Kepler,  in  his  isolation, 
and  extreme  need,  "that  men  should  accept 
my  discovery  1  If  the  Almighty  waited  six 
thousand  years  for  one  to  see  what  He  had 
made,  I  may  surely  wait  two  hundred,  for  one 
to  understand  what  I  have  seen  1"  All  this, 
and  more,  is  implied  in  love  of  wisdom,  in 
genuine  seeking  of  truth ;  the  noblest  function 
that  can  be  appointed  for  a  man,  but  requiring 
also  the  noblest  man  to  fulfil  it. 

With  Voltaire,  however,  there  is  no  symptom, 
perhaps  there  was  no  conception,  of  such 
nobleness  ;  the  high  call  for  which,  indeed,  in 
the  existing  state  of  things,  his  intellect  may 
have  had  as  little  the  force  to  discern,  as  his 
heart  had  the  force  to  obey.  He  follows  a 
simpler  course.  Heedless  of  remoter  issues, 
he  adopts  the  cause  of  his  own  party  ;  of  that 
class  with  whom  he  lived,  and  was  most  anx- 
ious to  stand  well ;  he  enlists  in  their  ranks, 
not  without  hopes  that  he  may  one  day  rise  to 
be  their  general.  A  resolution  perfectly  ac- 
cordant with  his  prior  habits,  and  temper  of 
mind;  and  from  which  his  whole  subsequent 
procedure,  and  moral  aspect  as  a  man  natural- 
ly enough  evolves  itself.  Not  that  we  would 
say,  Voltaire  was  a  mere  prize-fighter;  one 
of  "Heaven's  Swiss,"  contending  for  a  cause 
which  he  only  half,  or  not  at  ail  approved  of. 
Far  from  it.  Doubtless  he  loved  truth,  doubt- 
less he  partially  felt  himself  to  be  advocating 


truth  ;  nay,  we  know  not  that  he  has  ever  yet, 
in  a  single  instance,  been  convicted  of  wilfully 
perverting  his  belief;  of  uttering,  in  all  his 
controversies,  one  deliberate  falsehood.  Nor 
should  this  negative  praise  seem  an  altogether 
slight  one,  for  greatly  were  it  to  be  wished 
that  even  the  best  of  his  better-intentioned  op- 
ponents had  always  deserved  the  like.  Never- 
theless, his  love  of  truth  is  not  that  deep,  in- 
finite love,  which  beseems  a  Philosopher ; 
which  many  ages  have  been  fortunate  enough 
to  witness  ;  nay,  of  which  his  own  age  had 
still  some  examples.  It  is  a  far  inferior  love, 
we  should  say,  to  that  of  poor  Jean  Jacques, 
half-sage,  half-maniac  as  he  was;  it  is  more  a 
prudent  calculation  than  a  passion.  Voltaire 
loves  Truth,  but  chiefly  of  the  triumphant 
sort;  we  have  no  instance  of  his  fighting  for 
a  quite  discrowned  and  outcast  Truth ;  it  is 
chiefly  when  she  walks  abroad,  in  distress,  it 
may  be,  but  still  with  queen-like  insignia,  and 
knighthoods  and  renown  are  to  be  earned  in 
her  battles,  that  he  defends  her,  that  he  charges 
gallantly  against  the  Cades  and  Tylers.  Nay, 
at  all  times,  belief  itself  seems,  with  him,  to 
be  less  the  product  of  Meditation  than  of  Argu- 
ment. His  first  question  with  regard  to  any 
doctrine,  perhaps  his  final  test  of  its  worth  and 
genuineness,  is:  can  others  be  convinced  of 
this  1  Can  I  truck  it,  in  the  market,  for  power  1 
"To  such  questioners,"  it  has  been  said, 
"  Truth,  who  buys  not,  and  sells  not,  goes  on 
her  way,  and  makes  no  answer." 

In  fact,  if  we  inquire  into  Voltaire's  ruling 
motive,  we  shall  find  that  it  was  at  bottom  but 
a  vulgar  one :  ambition,  the  desire  of  ruling, 
by  such  means  as  he  had,  over  other  men.  He 
acknowledges  no  higher  divinity  than  Public 
Opinion  ;  for  whatever  he  asserts  or  performs, 
the  number  of  votes  is  the  measure  of  strength 
and  value.  Yet  let  us  be  just  to  him;  let  us 
admit  that  he,  in  some  degree,  estimates  his 
votes,  as  well  as  counts  them.  If  love  of  fame, 
which,  especially  for  such  a  man,  we  can  only 
call  another  modification  of  Vanity,  is  always 
his  ruling  passion,  he  has  a  certain  taste  in 
gratifying  it.  His  vanity,  which  cannot  be 
extinguished,  is  ever  skilfully  concealed ;  even 
his  just  claims  are  never  boisterously  insisted 
on ;  throughout  his  whole  life  he  shows  no 
single  feature  of  the  quack.  Nevertheless, 
even  in  the  height  of  his  glory,  he  has  a 
strange  sensitiveness  to  the  judgment  of  the 
world :  could  he  have  contrived  a  Dionysius' 
Ear,  in  the  Rue  Traversiere,  we  should  have 
found  him  watching  at  it,  night  and  day.  Let 
but  any  little  evil-disposed  Abbe,  any  Freron, 
or  Piron, 

Pauvre  Piron,  qui  ne  fut  jamais  rien. 
Pas  mime  Jtcadimicien, 

write  a  libel  or  epigram  on  him,  what  a  fluster 

he  is  in  !     We  grant  he  forbore  much,  in  these 

cases;   manfully  consumed  his  own    spleen, 

and  sometimes  long  held  his  peace :  but  it  was 

his  part  to  have  always  done  so.    Why  should 

such  a  man  ruffle  himself  with  the  spite  of 

exceeding  small  persons  I     Why  not  let  these 

poor  devils  write ;  why  should  they  not  earn 

a  dishonest  penny,  at  his  expense,  if  they  had 

I  no  readier  wayl     But   Voltaire  cannot  part 

1  with  his  "  voices,"  his  "  most  sweet  voices  ;" 

X  2 


150 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


for  they  are  his  gods;  take  these,  and  what 
has  he  left]  Accordingly,  in  literature  and 
morals,  in  all  his  comings  and  goings,  we  find 
him  striving,  with  a  religious  care,  to  sail 
strictly  with  the  wind.  In  Art,  the  Parisian 
Parterre  is  his  court  of  last  appeal:  he  con- 
sults the  Cafe  de  Procope,  on  his  wisdom  or  his 
folly,  as  if  it  were  a  true  Delphic  Oracle.  The 
following  adventure  belongs  to  his  fifty-fourth 
year,  when  his  fame  might  long  have  seemed 
abundantly  established.  We  translate  from 
the  Sieur  Longchamp's  thin,  half-roguish, 
mildly  obsequious,  most  lackey-like  Narra- 
tive : 

"Judges  could  appreciate  the  merits  of  Se- 
miramis,  which  has  continued  on  the  stage,  and 
always  been  seen  there  with  pleasure.  Every 
one  knows  how  the  two  principal  parts  in  this 
piece  contributed  to  the  celebrity  of  two  great 
tragedians.  Mademoiselle  Dumesnil,  and  M.  le 
Kain.  The  enemies  of  M.  de  Voltaire  renewed 
their  attempts  in  the  subsequent  representa- 
tions ;  but  it  only  the  better  confirmed  his  tri- 
umph. Piron,  to  console  himself  for  the  de- 
feat of  his  party,  had  recourse  to  his  usual 
remedy;  pelting  the  piece  with  some  paltry 
epigrams,  which  did  it  no  harm. 

"  Nevertheless,  M.  de  Voltaire,  who  always 
loved  to  correct  his  works,  and  perfect  them, 
became  desirous  to  learn,  more  especially  and 
at  first  hand,  what  good  or  ill  the  public  were 
saying  of  his  Tragedy;  and  it  appeared  to  him 
that  he  could  nowhere,  learn  it  better  than  in 
the  Cafd  de  Procope,  which  was  also  called  the 
j9ntre  (cavern)  de  Procope,  because  it  was  very 
dark,  even  in  full  day,  and  ill-lighted  in  the 
evenings;  and  because  you  often  saw  there  a 
set  of  lank,  sallow  poets,  who  had  somewhat 
the  air  of  apparitions.  In  this  Cafe,  which 
fronts  the  Comedie  Francaise,'hsid  been  held,  for 
more  than  sixty  years,  the  tribunal  of  those 
self-called  Aristarchs,  who  fancied  they  could 
pass  sentence  without  appeal,  on  plays,  au- 
thors, and  actors.  M.  de  Voltaire  wished  to 
compeer  there,  but  in  disguise,  and  altogether 
incognito.  It  was  on  coming  out  from  the 
playhouse  that  the  judges  usually  proceeded 
thither,  to  open  what  they  called  their  great 
sessions.  On  the  second  night  of  Semiramis, 
he  borrowed  a  clergyman's  clothes;  dressed 
himself  in  cassock  and  long  clock:  black 
stockings,  girdle,  bands,  breviary  itself;  no- 
thing was  forgotten.  He  clapt  on  a  large 
peruke,  unpowdered,  very  ill  combed,  which 
covered  more  than  the  half  of  his  cheeks,  and 
left  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  end  of  a  long 
nose.  The  peruke  was  surmounted  by  a  large 
three-cornered  hat,  corners  half  bruised  in.  In 
this  equipment,  then,  the  author  of  Semiramis 
proceeded  on  foot  to  the  Cafe  de  Procope,  where 
he  squatted  himself  in  a  corner,  and  waiting 
for  the  end  of  the  play,  called  for  a  bavaroise, 
a  small  roll  of  bread,  and  the  gazette.  It  was 
not  long  till  those  familiars  of  the  Parterre 
and  tenants  of  the  Cafe  stept  in.  They  in- 
stantly began  discussing  the  new  Tragedy. 
Its  partisans  and  its  adversaries  pleaded  their 
cause,  with  warmth ;  each  giving  his  reasons. 
Impartial  persons  also  spoke  their  sentiment ; 
and  repeated  some  fine  verses  of  the  piece. 
During  all  this  time,  M.  de  Voltaire,  with 


spectacles  on  nose,  head  stooping  over  the 
gazette  which  he  pretended  to  be  reading,  was 
listening  to  the  debate:  profiting  by  reason- 
able observations,  suffering  much  to  hear  very- 
absurd  ones,  and  not  answer  them,  which  irri- 
tated him.  Thus,  during  an  hour  and  a  half, 
had  he  the  courage  and  patience  to  hear  Semi- 
ramis talked  of  and  babbled  of,  without  speak- 
ing a  word.  At  last,  all  these  pretended  judges 
of  the  fame  of  authors  having  gone  their 
ways,  without  converting  one  another,  M.  de 
Voltaire  also  went  off";  took  a  coach  in  the 
Rue  Mazarine,  and  returned  home  about  eleven 
o'clock.  Though  I  knew  of  his  disguise,  I 
confess  I  was  struck  and  almost  frightened  to 
see  him  accoutred  so.  I  took  him  for  a  spec- 
tre, or  shade  of  Ninus,  that  was  appearing  to 
me  :  or  at  least,  for  one  of  those  ancient  Irish 
debaters,  arrived  at  the  end  of  their  career, 
after  wearing  themselves  out  in  school-^syllo- 
gisms.  I  helped  him  to  doff"  all  that  apparatus, 
which  I  carried  next  morning  to  its  true 
owner, — a  doctor  of  the  Sarbonne." 

This  stroke  of  art,  which  cannot  in  any 
wise  pass  for  sublime,  might  have  its  uses  and 
rational  purpose  in  one  case,  and  only  in  one: 
if  Semiramis  was  meant  to  be  a  popular  show, 
that  was  to  live  or  die  by  its  first  impression 
on  the  idle  multitude ;  which  accordingly  we 
must  infer  to  have  been  its  real,  at  least  its 
chief  destination.  In  any  other  case,  we  can- 
not but  consider  this  Haroun-Alraschid  visit  to 
the  Cafe  de  Procope  as  questionable,  and  alto- 
gether inadequate.  If  Semiramis  was  a  Poem, 
a  living  Creation,  won  from  the  empyrean  by 
the  silent  power,  and  long-continued  Pro- 
methean toil  of  its  author,  what  could  the 
Cafd  de  Procope  know  of  it,  what  could  all 
Paris  know  of  it,  "on  the  second  night?" 
Had  it  been  a  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  they  might 
have  despised  it  till  after  the  fiftieth  year! 
True,  the  object  of  the  Poet  is,  and  must  be, 
to  "instruct  by  pleasing,"  yet  not  by  pleasing 
this  man  and  that  man;  only  by  pleasing  man, 
by  speaking  to  the  pure  nature  of  man,  can 
any  real  "  instruction,"  in  this  sense,  be  con- 
veyed. Vain  does  it  seem  to  search  for  a 
judgment  of  this  kind,  in  the  largest  Cafe,  in 
the  largest  Kingdom,  "  on  the  second  night." 
The  deep,  clear  consciousness  of  one  mind 
comes  infinitely  nearer  it,  than  the  loud  outcry 
of  a  million  that  have  no  such  consciousness  ; 
whose  "  talk,"  or  whose  "babble,"  but  distracts 
the  listener;  and  to  most  genuine  Poets  has, 
from  of  old,  been  in  a  great  measure  indiffer- 
ent. For  the  multitude  of  vt)ices  is  no  au- 
thority; a  thousand  voices  may  not,  strictly 
examined,  amount  to  one  vote.  Mankind  in 
this  world  are  divided  into  flocks,  and  fol- 
low their  several  bell-wethers.  Now,  it  is 
well  known,  let  the  bell-wether  rush  through 
any  gap,  the  rest  rush  after  him,  were  it  into 
bottomless  quagmires.  Nay,  so  conscientious 
are  sheep  in  this  particular,  as  a  quaint  natu- 
ralist and  moralist  has  noted,  "if  you  hold  a 
stick  upon  the  wether,  so  that  he  is  forced  to 
vault  in  his  passage,  the  whole  flock  will  do 
the  like,  when  the  stick  is  withdrawn;  and  the 
thousandth  sheep  shall  be  seen  vaulting  impe- 
tuously over  air,  as  the  firs't  did  over  an  other- 
wise impassable  barrier !"    A  further  peculiar- 


VOLTAIRE. 


161 


ity,  which,  in  consulting  Acts  of  Parliament, 
and  other  authentic  records,  not  only  as  regards 
"  Catholic  Disabilities,"  but  many  other  mat- 
ters, you  may  find  curiously  verified  in  the  hu- 
man species  also  ! — On  the  whole,  we  must  con- 
sider this  excursion  to  Procope's  literary  Cavern 
as  illustrating  Voltaire  in  rather  pleasant  style; 
but  nowise  much  to  his  honour.  Fame  seems 
a  far  too  high,  if  not  the  highest  object  with 
him ;  nay,  sometimes  even  popularity  is 
clutched  at ;  we  see  no  heavenly  polar-star  in 
this  voyage  of  his ;  but  only  the  guidance  of 
a  proverbially  uncertain  wind. 

Voltaire  reproachfully  says  of  St.  Louis, 
that  "  he  ought  to  have  been  above  his  age ;" 
but,  in  his  own  case,  we  can  find  few  symp- 
toms of  such  heroic  superiority.  The  same 
perpetual  appeal  to  his  contemporaries,  the 
same  intense  regard  to  reputation,  as  he  viewed 
it,  prescribes  for  him  both  his  enterprises  and 
his  manner  of  conducting  them.  His  aim  is 
to  please  the  more  enlightened,  at  least  the 
politer  part  of  the  world;  and  he  ofiers  them 
simply  what  they  most  wish  for,  be  it  in  the- 
atrical shows  for  their  pastime,  or  in  skeptical 
doctrines  for  their  edification.  For  this  latter 
purpose.  Ridicule  is  the  weapon  he  selects, 
and  it  suits  him  well.  This  was  not  the  age 
of  deep  thoughts;  no  Due  de  Richelieu,  no 
Prince  Conti,  no  Frederic  the  Great  would 
have  listened  to  such :  only  sportful  contempt, 
and  a  thin  conversational  logic  will  avail. 
There  may  be  wool-quilts,  which  the  lath- 
sword  of  Harlequin  will  pierce,  when  the  club 
of  Hercules  has  rebounded  from  them  in  vain. 
As  little  was  this  an  age  for  high  virtues ;  no 
heroism,  in  any  form,  is  required,  or  even  ac- 
knowledged; but  only,  in  all  forms,  a  certain 
bienseance.  To  this  rule,  also,  Voltaire  readily 
conforms ;  indeed,  he  finds  no  small  advantage 
in  it.  For  a  lax  public  morality  not  only  al- 
lows him  the  indulgence  of  many  a  little  private 
vice,  and  brings  him  in  this  and  the  other 
windfall  of  menus  plaisirs,  but  opens  him  the 
readiest  resource  in  many  enterprises  of  dan- 
ger. Of  all  men,  Voltaire  has  the  least  dispo- 
sition to  increase  the  Army  of  Martyrs.  No 
testimony  will  he  seal  with  his  blood;  scarcely 
any  will  he  so  much  as  sign  with  ink.  His 
obnoxious  doctrines,  as  we  have  remarked,  he 
publishes  under  a  thousand  concealments ; 
with  underplots  and  wheels  within  wheels ;  so 
that  his  whole  track  is  in  darkness,  only  his 
works  see  the  light.  No  Proteus  is  so  nimble, 
or  assumes  so  many  shapes  ;  if,  by  rare  chance, 
caught  sleeping,  he  whisks  through  the  small- 
est hole,  and  is  out  of  sight,  while  the  noose  is 
getting  ready.  Let  his  judges  take  him  to 
task,  he  will  shuffle  and  evade ;  if  directly 
questioned,  he  will  even  lie.  In  regard  to  this 
last  point,  the  Marquis  de  Condorcet  has  set 
up  a  defence  for  him,  which  has,  at  least,  the 
merit  of  being  frank  enough. 

"  The  necessity  of  lying  in  order  to  disavow 
any  work,"  says  he,  "  is  an  extremity  equally 
repugnant  to  conscience  and  nobleness  of 
character:  but  the  crime  lies  with  those  unjust 
men,  who  render  such  disavowal  necessary  to 
the  safety  of  him  whom  they  force  to  it.  If 
you  have  made  a  crime  of  what  is  not  one ; 
if,  by  absurd  or  by  arbitrary  laws,  you  have  in- 


fringed the  natural  right,  which  all  men  have, 
not  only  to  form  an  opinion,  but  to  render  it 
public;  then  you  deserve  to  lose  the  right 
which  every  man  has  of  hearing  the  truth 
from  the  mouth  of  another;  a  right,  which  is 
the  sole  basis  of  that  rigorous  obligation,  not 
to  lie.  If  it  is  not  permitted  to  deceive,  the 
reason  is,  that  to  deceive  any  one,  is  to  do  him 
a  wrong,  or  expose  yourself  to  do  him  one ; 
but  a  wrong  supposes  a  right;  and  no  one  has 
the  right  of  seeking  to  secure  himself  the 
means  of  committing  an  injustice." — Vie  de 
Voltaire,  p.  32. 

It  is  strange,  how  scientific  discoveries  do 
maintain  themselves:  here,  quite  in  other 
hands,  and  in  an  altogether  different  dialect, 
we  have  the  old  Catholic  doctrine,  if  it  ever 
was  more  than  a  Jesuitic  one,  "  that  faith  need 
not  be  kept  with  heretics."  Truth,  it  appears, 
is  too  precious  an  article  for  our  enemies ;  is 
fit  only  for  friends,  for  those  who  will  pay  us 
if  we  tell  it  them.  It  may  be  observed,  how- 
ever, that,  granting  Condorcet's  premises,  this 
doctrine  also  must  be  granted,  as  indeed  is 
usual  with  that  sharp-sighted  writer.  If  the 
doing  of  right  depends  on  the  receiving  of  it ; 
if  our  fellow-men,  in  this  world,  are  not  per- 
sons, but  mere  things,  that  for  services  bestowed 
will  return  services, — steam-engines  that  will 
manufacture  calico,  if  we  put  in  coals  and 
water, — then,  doubtless,  the  calico  ceasing,  our 
coals  and  water  may  also  rationally  cease ;  the 
questioner  threatening  to  injure  us  for  the 
truth,  we  may  rational^  tell  him  lies.  But  if, 
on  the  other  hand,  our  fellow-man  is  no  steam- 
engine,  but  a  man ;  united  with  us,  and  with 
all  men,  and  with  the  Maker  of  all  men,  in 
sacred,  mysterious,  indissoluble  bonds,  in  an 
all-embracing  Love,  that  encircles  alike  the 
seraph  and  the  glow-worm;  then  will  our  du- 
ties to  him  rest  on  quite  another  basis  than 
this  very  humble  one  of  quid  pro  quo;  and  the 
Marquis  de  Condorcet's  conclusion  will  be 
false ;  and  might,  in  its  practical  extensions, 
be  infinitely  pernicious. 

Such  principles  and  habits,  too  lightly 
adopted  by  Voltaire,  acted,  as  it  seems  to  us, 
with  hostile  effect  on  his  moral  nature,  not 
originally  of  the  noblest  sort,  but  which,  under 
other  influences,  might  have  attained  to  far 
greater  nobleness.  As  it  is,  we  see  in  him 
simply  a  Man  of  the  World,  such  as  Paris  and 
the  eighteenth  century  produced  and  approved 
of:  a  polite,  attractive,  most  cultivated,  but 
essentially  self-interested  man ;  not  without 
highly  amiable  qualities  ;  indeed,  with  a  gene- 
ral disposition  which  we  could  have  accepted 
without  disappointment  in  a  mere  Man  of  the 
World,  but  must  find  very  defective,  some- 
times altogether  out  of  place,  in  a  Poet  and 
Philosopher.  Above  this  character  of  a  Pa- 
risian "  honourable  man,"  he  seldom  or  never 
rises ;  nay,  sometimes  we  find  him  hovering 
on  the  very  lowest  boundaries  of  it,  or,  per- 
haps, even  fairly  below  it.  We  shall  nowise 
accuse  him  of  excessive  regard  for  money,  of 
any  wish  to  shine  by  the  influence  of  mere 
wealth:  let  those  commercial  speculations, 
including  even  the  victualing-contracts,  pass 
for  laudable  prudence,  for  love  of  independ- 
ence,  and  of   the  power  to  do  good.     But 


152 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


what  are  we  to  make  of  that  hunting  after 
pensions,  and  even  after  mere  titles  1  There 
is  an  assiduity  displayed  here,  which  some- 
times almost  verges  towards  sneaking.  Well 
might  it  provoke  the  scorn  of  Alfieri;  for 
there  is  nothing  better  than  the  spirit  of  "  a 
French  plebeian,"  apparent  in  it.  Much,  we 
know,  very  much  should  be  allowed  for  differ- 
ence of  national  manners,  which  in  general 
mainly  determine  the  meaning  of  such  things  : 
nevertheless,  to  our  insular  feelings,  that  fa- 
mous Trajan  est-il-content  ?  especially  when  we 
consider  who  the  Trajan  was,  will  always  re- 
main an  unfortunate  saying.  The  more  so,  as 
Trajan  himself  turned  his  back  on  it,  without 
answer;  declining,  indeed,  through  life,  to 
listen  to  the  voice  of  this  charmer,  or  disturb 
his  own  "  dme  paisible"  for  one  moment,  though 
with  the  best  philosopher  in  Nature.  Nay, 
Pompadour  herself  was  applied  to ;  and  even 
some  considerable  progress  made,  by  that  un- 
derground passage,  had  not  an  envious  hand 
too  soon  and  fatally  intervened.  D'Alembert 
says,  there  are  two  things  that  can  reach  the 
top  of  a  pyramid,  the  eagle  and  the  reptile. 
Apparently,  Voltaire  wished  to  combine  both 
methods ;  and  he  had,  with  one  of  them,  but 
indifferent  success. 

The  truth  is,  we  are  trying  Voltaire  by  too 
high  a  standard ;  comparing  him  with  an  ideal 
which  he  himself  never  strove  after,  perhaps 
never  seriously  aimed  at.  He  is  no  great  Man, 
but  only  a  great  Persijleuj- ;  a  man  for  whom 
life,  and  all  that  pertai*  to  it,  has,  at  best,  but 
a  despicable  meaning ;  who  meets  its  difficul- 
ties not  with  earnest  force,  but  with  gay  agility ; 
and  is  found  always  at  the  top,  less  by  power 
in  swimming,  than  by  lightness  in  floating. 
Take  him  in  this  character,  forgetting  that  any 
other  was  ever  ascribed  to  him,  and  we  find 
that  he  enacted  it  almost  to  perfection.  Never 
man  better  understood  the  whole  secret  of  Per- 
siflage; meaning,  thereby,  not  only  the  external 
faculty  of  polite  contempt,  but  that  art  of 
general  inward  contempt,  by  which  a  man  of 
this  sort  endeavours  to  subject  the  circum- 
stances of  his  Destiny  to  his  Volition,  and  be, 
what  is  the  instinctive  effort  of  all  men,  though 
in  the  midst  of  material  Necessity,  morally 
FreCj^Voltaire's  latent  derision  is  as  light, 
•^Sopious,  and  all-pervading  as  the  derision 
(  which  he  utters.  Nor  is  this  so  simple  an  at- 
\  tainment  as  we  might  fancy ;  a  certain  kind 
and  degree  of  Stoicism,  or  approach  to  Stoic- 
ism, is  necessary  for  the  completed  Persifleur; 
as  for  moral,  or  even  practical  completion,  in 
any  other  way.  The  most  indifferent-minded 
man  is  not  by  nature  indifferent  to  his  own 
pain  and  pleasure:  this  is  an  indifference, 
which  he  must  by  some  method  study  to  ac- 
quire, or  acquire  the  show  of;  and  which,  it  is 
fair  to  say,  Voltaire  manifests  in  a  rather  re- 
spectable degree.  Without  murmuring,  he 
has  reconciled  himself  to  most  things :  the 
human  lot,  in  this  lower  world,  seems  a  strange 
business,  yet,  on  the  whole,  with  more  of  the 
farce  in  it,  than  of  the  tragedy ;  to  him,  it  is 
nowise  heart-rending,  that  this  Planet  of  ours 
should  be  sent  sailing  through  Space,  like  a 
miserable,  aimless  Ship-of-Fools,  and  he  him- 
self be  a  fopl  among  the  rest,  and  only  a  very 


little  wiser  than  they.  He  does  not,  like  Boling- 
broke,  "patronise  Providence,"  1hotigh~««ch 
sayings,  as  Si  Dieu  n'existaii  pas  il  faudfaitTtn- 
venlcr,  seem  now  and  then  to  indicate  a  tendency 
of  that  sort:  but,  at  ail  events,  he  never  openly 
levies  war  against  Heaven  ;  well  knowing  that 
the  time  spent  in  frantic  malediction,  directed 
thither,  might  be  spent  otherwise  with  more 
profit.  There  is,  truly,  no  Werterism  in  him, 
either  in  its  bad  or  its  good  sense.  If  he  sees 
no  unspeakable  majesty  in  heaven  and  earth, 
neither  does  he  see  any  unsufferable  horror 
there.  His  view  of  the  world  is  a  cool,  gently 
scornful,  altogether  prosaic  one :  his  sublimest 
Apocalypse  of  Nature  lies  in  the  microscope 
and  telescope ;  the  Earth  is  a  place  for  pro- 
ducing corn  ;  the  Starry  Heavens  are  admirable 
as  a  nautical  time-keeper.  Yet,  like  a  prudent 
man,  he  has  adjusted  himself  to  his  condition, 
such  as  it  is :  he  does  not  chant  any  Miserere 
over  human  life,  calculating  that  no  charitable 
dole,  but  only  laughter,  would  be  the  reward 
of  such  an  enterprise  ;  does  not  hang  or  drown 
himself,  clearly  understanding  that  death  of 
itself  will  soon  sate  him  that  trouble.  Afflic- 
tion, it  is  true,  has  not  for  him  any  precious 
jewel  in  its  head ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  «in 
unmixed  nuisance;  yet,  happily,  not  one  to  be 
howled  over,  so  much  as  one  to  be  speedily 
removed  out  of  sight:  if  he  does  not  learu 
from  it  Humility,  and  the  sublime  lesson  of 
Resignation,  neither  does  it  teach  him  hard- 
heartedness,  and  sickly  discontent;  but  he 
bounds  lightly  over  it,  leaving  both  the  jewel 
and  the  toad  at  a  safe  distance  behind  hingt,,.-,.-^ 
Nor  was  Voltaire's  history  without  per- 
plexities enough  to  keep  this  principle  in  exer- 
cise ;  to  try  whether  in  life,  as  in  literature,  the 
ridiculum  were  really  better  than  the  acer.  We 
must  own,  that  on  no  occasion  does  it  alto- 
gether fail  him  ;  never  does  he  seem  perfectly 
at  a  nonplns ;  no  adventure  is  so  hideous,  that 
he  cannot,  in  the  long  run,  find  some  means 
to  laugh  at  it,  and  forget  it.  Take,  for  instance, 
that  last  ill-omened  visit  of  his  to  Frederic  the 
Great.  This  was,  probably,  the  most  mortify- 
ing incident  in  Voltaire's  whole  life:  an  open 
experiment,  in  the  sight  of  all  Europe,  to  ascer- 
tain whether  French  Philosophy  had  virtue 
enough  in  it  to  found  any  friendly  union,  in  such 
circumstances,  even  between  its  great  master 
and  his  most  illustrious  disciple  ;  and  an  ex- 
periment which  answered  in  the  negative,  as 
was  natural  enough  ;  for  Vanity  is  of  a  devisive 
not  of  a  uniting  nature ;  and  between  the  King 
of  Letters  and  the  King  of  Armies  there  existed 
no  other  tie.  They  should  have  kept  up  an 
interchange  of  flattery,  from  afar:  gravitating 
towards  one  another  like  celestial  luminaries, 
if  they  reckoned  themselves  such  ;  yet  always 
with  a  due  centrifugal  force  ;  for  if  either  shot 
madly  from  his  sphere,  nothing  but  collision, 
and  concussion,  and  mutual  recoil,  could  be 
the  consequence.  On  the  whole,  we  must  pity 
Frederic,  environejj  with  that  cluster  of  Philo- 
sophers :  doubtless  he  meant  rather  well ;  yet 
the  French  at  Rosbach,  with  guns  in  their 
hands,  were  but  a  small  matter,  compared  with 
these  French  in  Sans-Souci.  Maupertuis  sits 
sullen,  monosyllabi6;  gloomy  like  the  bear  of 
his  own  arctic  zone  :  Voltaire  is  the  mad  piper 


VOLTAIRE. 


153 


that  will  make  him  dance  to  tunes  and  amuse 
the  people.  In  this  roaly  circle,  with  its  para- 
sites and  bashaws,  what  heats  and  jealousies 
must  there  not  have  been;  what  secret  heart- 
burnings, smooth-faced  malice,  plottings,  coun- 
terplottings,  and  laurel-water  pharmacy,  in  all 
its  branches,  before  the  ring  of  etiquette  fairly 
burst  asunder,  and  the  establishment,  so  to 
speak,  exploded !  Yet  over  all  these  distress- 
ing matters  Voltaire  has  thrown  a  soft  veil  of 
gayety :  he  remembers  neither  Doctor  Akakia, 
nor  Doctor  Akakia's  patron,  with  any  ani- 
mosity; but  merely  as  actors  in  the  grand 
farce  of  life  along  with  him,  a  new  scene  of 
which  has  now  commenced,  quite  displacing 
the  other  from  the  stage.  The  arrest  at  Frank- 
fort, indeed,  is  a  sour  morsel ;  but  this,  too,  he 
swallows,  with  an  effort.  Frederic,  as  we  are 
given  to  understand,  had  these  whims  by  kind ; 
was,  indeed,  a  wonderful  scion  from  such  a 
stock ;  for  what  could  equal  the  avarice,  malice, 
and  rabid  snappishness  of  old  Frederic  Wil- 
liam, the  father  1 

"  He  had  a  minister  at  the  Hague,  named 
Luicius,"  says  the  wit:  "this  Luicius  was,  of 
all  royal  ministers  extant,  the  worst  paid.  The 
poor  man,  with  a  view  to  warm  himself,  had  a 
few  trees  cut  down,  in  the  garden  of  Honslardik, 
then  belonging  to  the  House  of  Prussia ;  im- 
mediately thereafter  he  received  despatches 
from  the  king,  his  master,  keeping  back  a 
year  of  his  salary.  Luicius,  in  despair,  cut  his 
throat  with  the  only  razor  he  had  (avec  le  seul 
rasoir  quil  cut :)  an  old  lackey  came  to  his  as- 
sistance, and  unfortunately  saved  his  life.  At 
an  after  period,  I  myself  saw  his  Excellency 
at  the  Hague,  and  gave  him  an  alms  at  the  gate 
of  that  Palace  called  La  Vieille  Cowr,  which 
belongs  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  and  where  this 
unhappy  Ambassador  had  lived  twelve  years." 

With  the  Roi-Philosophe  himself,  Voltaire  in 
a  little  while  recommences  correspondence  ; 
and  to  all  appearance,  proceeds  quietly  in  his 
office  of  "  buckwasher,"  that  is,  of  verse-cor- 
rector to  his  Majesty,  as  if  nothing  whatever 
had  happened. 

Again,  what  human  pen  can  describe  the 
troubles  this  unfortunate  Philosopher  had  with 
his  women  1  A  gadding  feather-brained,  ca- 
pricious, old-coquettish,  embittered,  and  em- 
bittering set  of  wantons  from  the  earliest  to  the 
last!  Widow  Denis,  for  example,  that  diso- 
bedient niece,  whom  he  rescued  from  fur- 
nished lodgings  and  spare  diet,  into  pomp  and 
plenty,  how  did  she  pester  the  last  stage  of  his 
existence,  for  twenty-four  years  long !  Blind 
to  the  peace  and  roses  of  Ferney :  ever  han- 
kering and  fretting  after  Parisian  display;  not 
without  flirtation,  though  advanced  in  life; 
losing  money  at  play,  and  purloining  where- 
with to  make  it  good ;  scolding  his  servants, 
quarrelling  with  his  secretaries,  so  that  the  too- 
indulgent  uncle  must  turn  off  his  beloved  Col- 
lini,  nay,,  almost  be  run  through  the  body  by 
him,  for  her  sake  !  The  good  Wagniere,  who 
succeeded  this  fiery  Italian  in  the  secretaryship, 
and  loved  Voltaire  with  a  most  creditable  affec- 
tion, cannot,  though  a  simple,  humble,  and  quite 
philanthropic  man,  speak  of  Madame  Denis 
without  visible  overflowings  of  gall.  He  openly 
accuses  her  of  hastening  her  uncle's  death  by  her 


importunate  stratagems  to  keep  him  in  Paris, 
where  was  her  heaven.  Indeed  it  is  clear  that,  his 
goods  and  chattels  once  made  sure  of,  her  chief 
care  was  that  so  fiery  a  patient  might  die  soon 
enough;  or,  at  best,  according  to  her  own  con- 
fession, "  how  she  was  to  get  him  buried."  We 
have  known  superannuated  grooms,  nay  effete 
saddle-horses,  regarded  with  more  real  sympa- 
thy in  their  home,  than  was  the  best  of  uncles 
by  the  worst  of  nieces.  Had  not  this  surprising 
old  man  retained  the  sharpest  judgment,  and 
the  gayest,  easiest  temper,  his  last  days,  and 
last  years,  must  have  been  a  continued  scene 
of  violence  and  tribulation. 

Little  better,  worse  in  several  respects, 
though  at  a  time  when  he  could  better  endure 
it,  was  the  far-famed  Marquise  du  Chatelet. 
Many  a  tempestuous  day  and  wakeful  night 
had  he  with  that  scientific  and  too-fascinating 
shrew.  She  speculated  in  mathematics  and 
metaphysics ;  but  was  an  adept  also  in  iar, 
very  far  different  acquirements.  Setting  aside 
its  whole  criminality,  which,  indeed,  perhaps 
went  for  little  there,  this  literay  amour  wears 
but  a  mixed  aspect;  short  sun-gleams,  with 
long  tropical  tornadoes ;  touches  of  guitar- 
music,  soon  followed  by  Lisbon  earthquakes. 
Marmontel,  we  remember,  speaks  of  Arwires  being 
used,  at  least  brandished,  and  for  quite  other 
purposes  than  carving.  Madame  la  Marquise 
was  no  saint,  in  any  sense ;  but  rather  a  So- 
crates' spouse,  who  would  keep  patience,  and 
the  whole  philosophy  of  gayety,  in  constant 
practice,  I^ike  Queen  Elizabeth,  if  she  had 
the  talents  of  a  man,  she  had  more  than  the 
caprices  of  a  woman. 

We  shall  take  only  one  item,  and  that  a  small 
one,  in  this  mountain  of  misery:  her  strange 
habits  and  methods  of  locomotion.  She  is 
perpetually  travelling:  a  peaceful  philosopher 
is  lugged  over  the  world,  to  Cirey,  to  Lune- 
ville,  to  that  pied  a  terre  in  Paris ;  resistance 
avails  not ;  here,  as  in  so  many  other  cases, 
il  faut  se  ranger.  Sometimes,  precisely  on  the 
eve  of  such  departure,  her  domestics,  exas- 
perated by  hunger  and  ill  usage,  will  strike 
work,  in  a  body ;  and  a  new  set  has  to  be  col- 
lected at  an  hour's  warning.  Then  Madame 
has  been  known  to  keep  the  postilion  crack- 
ing and  sacre-ing  at  the  gate,  from  dawn  till 
dewy  eve,  simply  because-  she  was  playing 
cards,  and  the  games  went  against  her.  But 
figure  a  lean  and  vivid-tempered  philosopher 
starting  from  Paris  at  last;  under  cloud  of 
night,  for  it  is  always  at  night;  during  hard 
frost;  in  a  huge  lumbering  coach,  or  rather 
wagon,  compared  with  which,  indeed,  the  ge- 
nerality of  modern  wagons  were  a  luxurious 
conveyance.  With  four  starved,  and  perhaps 
spavined  hacks,  he  slowly  sets  forth,  "under a 
mountain  of  bandboxes:"  at  his  side  sits  the 
wandering  virago ;  in  front  of  him,  a  serving- 
maid,  with  additional  bandboxes  "  et  clivers  effets 
de  sa  mailresscJ'  At  the  next  stage,  the  posti- 
lions have  to  be  beat  up ;  they  come  out  swear- 
ing. Cloaks  and  fur-pelisses  avail  little 
against  the  January-cold;  "time  and  hours'* 
are,  once  more,  the  only  hope :  but  lo,  at  the 
tenth  mile,  this  Tyburn-coach  breaks  down ! 
One  many-voiced  discordant  wail  shrieks 
through  the  solitude,  making  night  hideous,'— 


154 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


but  in  vain ;  the  axle-tree  has  given  way,  the 
vehicle  has  overset,  and  marchionesses,  cham- 
bermaids, bandboxes,  and  philosophers,  are 
weltering  in  inextricable  Chaos. 

"  The  carriage  was  in  the  stage  next  Nangis, 
about  half-way  to  that  town,  when  the  hind 
axle-tree  broke,  and  it  tumbled  on  the  road,  to 
M.  de  Voltaire's  side :  Madame  du  Chatelet,  and 
her  maid,  fell  above  him,  with  all  the  bundles 
and  bandboxes,  for  these  were  not  tied  to  the 
front,  but  only  piled  up  on  both  hands  of  the 
maid ;  and  so  observing  the  laws  of  equilibrium 
and  gravitation  of  bodies,  they  rushed  towards 
the  corner  where  M.  de  Voltaire  lay  squeezed 
together.  Under  so  many  burdens,  which  half- 
suffocated  him,  he  kept  shouting  bitterly  (pons- 
sait  des  cris  aigus)  ;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
change  place ;  all  had  to  remain  as  it  was,  till 
the  two  lackeys,  one  of  whom  was  hurt  by  the 
fall,  could  come  up,  with  the  postilion,  to  dis- 
encumber the  vehicle:  they  first  drew  out  all 
the  luggage,  next  the  women,  then  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. Nothing  could  be  got  out  except  by  the 
top,  that  is,  by  the  coach-door,  which  now 
opened  upwards :  one  of  the  lackeys  and  a 
postilion  clambering  aloft,  and  fixing  them- 
selves on  the  body  of  the  vehicle,  drew  them 
up,  as  from  a  well ;  seizing  the  first  limb  that 
came  to  hand,  whether  arm,  or  leg :  and  then 
passed  them  down  to  the  two  stationed  below, 
who  set  them  finally  on  the  ground." — Vol.  ii. 
p.  166. 

What  would  Dr.  Kitchener,  with  his  Travel- 
ler's Oracle,  have  said  to  all  this  ]  For  there  is 
snow  on  the  ground ;  and  four  peasants  must 
be  roused  from  a  village  half  a  league  off,  be- 
fore that  accursed  vehicle  can  so  much  as  be 
lifted  from  its  beam  ends  !  Vain  is  it  for  Long- 
champ,  far  in  advance,  sheltered  in  an  hospi- 
table though  half-dismantled  chateau,  to  pluck 
pigeons  and  be  in  haste  to  roast  them :  they  will 
never,  never  be  eaten  to  supper,  scarcely  to 
breakfast  next  morning! — Nor  is  it  now  only, 
but  several  times,  that  this  unhappy  axle-tree 
plays  them  foul;  nay  once,  beggared  by  Ma- 
dame's  gambling,  they  have  not  cash  to  pay 
for  mending  it,  and  the  smith,  though  they  are 
in  keenest  flight,  almost  for  their  lives,  will  not 
trust  them. 

We  imagine  that  these  are  trying  things  for 
any  philosopher.  Of  the  thousand  other  more 
private  and  perennial  grievances ;  of  certain 
discoveries  and  explanations,  especially,  which 
it  still  seems  surprising  that  human  philoso- 
phy could  have  tolerated,  we  make  no  mention; 
indeed,  with  regard  to  the  latter,  i&w  earthly 
considerations  could  tempt  a  Reviewer  of  sen- 
sibility to  mention  them  in  this  place. 

The  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  and  her  husband, 
have  been  much  wondered  at  in  England :  the 
calm  magnanimity  with  which  M.  le  Marquis 
conforms  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  to  the 
wishes  of  his  helpmate,  and  leaves  her,  he  him- 
self meanwhile  fighting,  or  at  least  drilling,  for 
his  King,  to  range  over  Space,  in  quest  of  loves 
and  lovers ;  his  friendly  discretion,  in  this  parti- 
cular; no  less  so,  his  blithe  benignant  gullibili- 
ty, the  instant  a  contretems  defamille  renders  his 
countenance  needful, — have  had  all  justice 
done  them  among  us.  His  lady,  too,  is  a  won- 
der ,  offers  no  mean  study  to  psychologists : 


she  is  a  fair  experiment  to  try  how  far  that  De- 
licacy, which  we  reckon  innate  in  females, 
is  only  incidental  and  the  product  of  fashion ; 
how  far  a  woman,  not  merely  immodest,  but 
without  the  slightest  fig-leaf  of  common  de- 
cency remaining,  with  the  whole  character,  in 
short,  of  a.  male  debauchee,  may  still  have  any 
moral  worth  as  a  woman.  We  ourselves  have 
wondered  a  little  over  both  these  parties ;  and 
over  the  goal  towards  which  so  strange  a  "pro- 
gress of  society"  might  be  tending.  But  still 
more  wonderful,  not  without  a  shade  of  the 
sublime, has  appeared  to  us  the  cheerful  thral- 
dom of  this  maltreated  philosopher  ;  and  with 
what  exhaustless  patience,  not  being  wedded, 
he  endured  all  these  forced-marches,  whims, 
irascibilities,  delinquencies,  and  thousand-fold 
unreasons  ;  braving  "  the  battle  and  the  breeze," 
on  that  wild  Bay  of  Biscay,  for  such  a  period. 
Fifteen  long  years,  and  was  not  mad,  or  a 
suicide  at  the  end  of  them  !  But  the  like  fate, 
it  would  seem,  though  worthy  D'Israeli  has 
omitted  to  enumerate  it  in  his  Calamities  of  Au- 
thors, is  not  unknown  in  literature.  Pope  also 
had  his  Mrs.  Martha  Blount ;  and,  in  themidsi 
of  that  warfare  with  united  Duncedom,  his 
daily  tale  of  Egyptian  bricks  to  bake.  Let  us 
pity  the  lot  of  genius,  in  this  sublunary  sphere ! 

Every  one  knows  the  earthly  termination  of 
Madame  la  Marquise  ;  and  how,  by  a  strange, 
almost  satirical  Nemesis,  she  was  taken  in  her 
own  nets,  and  her  worst  sin  became  her  final 
punishment.  To  no  purpose  was  the  un- 
paralleled credulity  of  M.  le  Marquis;  to  no 
purpose,  the  amplest  toleration,  and  even  help 
ful  knavery  of  M.  de  Voltaire  :  "  les  assiduites 
de  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,^''  and  the  unimaginable 
consultations  to  which  they  gave  rise  at  Cirey, 
were  frightfully  parodied  in  the  end.  The  last 
scene  was  at  Luneville,  in  the  peaceable  court 
of  King  Stanislaus. 

"  Seeing  that  the  aromatic-vinegar  did  no 
good,  we  tried  to  recover  her  from  that  sudden 
lethargy  by  rubbing  her  feet,  and  striking  in 
the  palms  of  her  hands;  but  it  was  of  no  use: 
she  had  ceased  to  be.  The  maid  was  sent  off 
to  Madame  de  Boufflers'  apartment,  to  inform 
the  company  that  Madame  du  Chatelet  was 
worse.  Instantly  they  all  rose  from  the  sup- 
per-table :  M.  du  Chatelet,  M.  de  Voltaire,  and 
the  other  guests  rushed  into  the  room.  So 
soon  as  they  understood  the  truth,  there  was  a 
deep  consternation ;  to  tears,  to  cries,  suc- 
ceeded a  mournful  silence.  The  husband  was 
led  away,  the  other  individuals  went  out  suc- 
cessively, expressing  the  keenest  sorrow.  M. 
de  Voltaire  and  M.  de  Saint-Lambert  remained 
the  last  by  the  bedside,  from  which  they  could 
not  be  drawn  away.  At  length,  the  former, 
absorbed  in  deep  grief,  left  the  room,  and  with 
difficulty  reached  the  main  door  of  the  Castle, 
not  knowing  whither  he  went.  Arrived  there, 
he  fell  down  at  the  foot  of  the  outer  stairs,  and 
near  the  box  of  a  sentry,  where  his  head  came 
on  the  pavement.  His  lackey,  who  was  follow- 
ing, seeing  him  fall  and  struggle  on  the  ground, 
ran  forward  and  tried  to  lift  him.  At  this 
moment,  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,  retiring  by  the 
same  way,  also  arrived;  and  observing  M.  de 
Voltaire  in  that  situation,  hastened  to  assist 
the  lackey.    No  sooner  was  M.  de  Voltaire  on 


VOLTAIRE. 


155 


his  feet,  than  opening  his  eyes,  dimmed  with 
tears,  and  recognising  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,  he 
said  to  him,  with  sobs  and  the  most  pathetic 
accent :  '  Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  you  that  have 
killed  her!'  Then,  all  on  a  sudden,  as  if  he 
were  starting  from  a  deep  sleep,  he  exclaimed 
in  the  tone  of  reproach  and  despair  :  '  Eh !  mon 
Dieu!  Monsieur,  de  quoi  vov.s  avisiez-vous  de  lui 
faireun  en/ant?'  They  parted  thereupon,  with- 
out adding  a  single  word ;  and  retired  to  their 
several  apartments,  overwhelmed  and  almost 
aniyhilated  by  the  excess  of  their  sorrow." — 
Vol.  ii.  p.  250. 

Among  all  threnetical  discourses  on  record, 
this  last,  between  men  overwhelmed  and  almost 
annihilated  by  the  excess  of  their  sorrow,  has 
probably  an  unexampled  character.  Some  days 
afterwards,  the  first  paroxysm  of  "reproach 
and  despair"  being  somewhat  assuaged,  the 
sorrowing  widower,  not  the  glad  legal  one, 
composed  this  quatrain: 

Uunivers  a  perdu  la  sublime  Emilie. 

Elle  aima  les  plaisirs,  les  arts,  la  vMti  : 

Les  dieux,  en  lui  donnant  leur  ame  et  leur  ginie, 

J^'avaient  ffardi  pour  eux  que  V immortality. 

After  which,  reflecting,  perhaps,  that  with 
this  sublime  Emilie,  so  meritoriously  singular 
in  loving  pleasure,  "  his  happiness  had  been 
chiefly  on  paper,"  he,  like  the  bereaved  Uni- 
verse, consoled  himself,  and  went  on  his  way. 

Woman,  it  has  been  sufficiently  demon- 
strated, was  given  to  man  as  a  benefit,  and  for 
mutual  support;  a  precious  ornament  and 
staff  whereupon  to  lean  in  many  trying  situa- 
tions :  but  to  Voltaire  she  proved,  so  unlucky 
was  he  in  this  matter,  little  else  than  a  broken 
reed,  which  only  ran  into  his  hand.  We  con- 
fess that  looking  over  the  manifold  trials  of 
this  poor  philosopher  with  the  softer,  or  as  he 
may  have  reckoned  it,  the  harder  sex, — from 
that  Dutchwoman  who  published  his  juvenile 
letters,  to  the  Niece  Denis,  who  as  good  as 
killed  him  with  racketing, — we  see,  in  this 
one  province,  very  great  scope  for  almost  all 
the  cardinal  virtues.  And  these  internal  con- 
vulsions add  an  incessant  series  of  contro- 
versies and  persecutions,  political,  religious, 
literary,  from  without;  and  we  have  a  life 
quite  rent  asunder,  horrent  with  asperities  and 
chasms,  where  even  a  stout  traveller  might 
have  faltered.  Over  all  which  Chamouni- 
needles  and  Staubbach-Falls,  the  great  Persi- 
fleur  skims  along  in  this  his  little  poetical  air- 
ship, more  softly  than  if  he  travelled  the 
smoothest  of  merely  prosaic  roads. 

Leaving  out  of  view  the  worth  or  worthless- 
ness  of  such  a  temper  of  mind,  we  are  bound, 
in  all  seriousness,  to  say,  both  that  it  seems  to 
have  been  Voltaire's  highest  conception  of 
moral  excellence,  and  that  he  has  pursued  and 
realized  it  with  no  small  success.  One  great 
praise  therefore  he  deserves, — that  of  unity 
with  himself;  that  of  having  an  aim,  and  stead- 
fastly endeavouring  after  it,  nay,  as  we  have 
found,  of  attaining  it;  for  his  ideal  Voltaire 
seems,  to  an  unusual  degree,  manifested,  made 
practically  apparent,  in  the  real  one.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  this  attainment  of  Persi- 
Jleur,  in  the  wide  sense  we  here  give  it,  was 
of  all  others  the  most  admired  and  sought 
after  in  Voltaire's  age  and  country;  nay,  in 


our  own  age  and  country,  we  have  still  in- 
numerable admirers  of  it,  and  unwearied 
seekers  after  it,  on  every  hand  of  us :  never- 
theless, we  cannot  but  believe  that  its  acme  is 
past;  that  the  best  sense  of  our  generation 
has  already  weighed  its  significance,  and  found 
it  wanting.  Voltaire  himself,  it  seems  to  us, 
were  he  alive  at  this  day,  would  find  oiher 
tasks  than  that  of  mockery,  especially  of 
mockery  in  that  style  :  it  is  not  by  Derision 
and  Denial,  but  by  far  deeper,  more  earnest, 
diviner  means  that.aught  truly  great  has  been 
effected  for  mankind;  that  the  fabric  of  man's 
life  has  been  reared,  through  long  centuries, 
to  its  present  height.  If  we  admit  that  this 
chief  of  Persifleurs  had  a  steady,  conscious  aim 
in  life,  the  still  higher  praise  of  having  had  a 
right  or  noble  aim  cannot  be  conceded  him 
without  many  limitations,  and  may,  plausibly 
enough,  be  altogether  denied. 

At  the  same  time,  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  that 
amid  all  these  blighting  influences,  Voltaire 
maintains  a  certain  indestructible  humanity 
of  nature  ;  a  soul  never  deaf  to  the  cry  of 
wretchedness  ;  never  utterly  blind  to  the  light 
of  truth,  beauty,  goodness.  It  is  even,  in  some 
measure,  poetically  interesting  to  observe  this 
fine  contradiction  in  him:  the  heart  acting 
without  directions  from  the  head,  or  perhaps 
against  its  directions  ;  the  man  virtuous,  as  it 
were,  in  spite  of  himself.  For  at  all  events,  it 
will  be  granted  that,  as  a  private  man,  his 
existence  was  beneficial,  not  hurtful,  to  his 
fellow-men :  the  Calases,  the  Sirvens,  and  so 
many  orphans  and  outcasts  whom  he  cherished 
and  protected,  ought  to  cover  a  multitude  of 
sins.  It  was  his  own  sentiment,  and,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, a  sincere  one : 

J'ai  fait  un  peu  de  Men ;  c'est  mon  meilleur  ouvrage. 

Perhaps  there  are  few  men,  with  such  princi- 
ples and  such  temptations  as  his  were,  that 
could  have  led  such  a  life ;  few  that  could 
have  done  his  work,  and  come  through  it  with 
cleaner  hands.  If  we  call  him  the  greatest 
of  all  Persifleurs,  let  us  add  that,  morally  speak- 
ing also,  he  is  the  best :  if  he  excels  all  men 
in  universality,  sincerity,  polished  clearness  of 
mockery,  he  perhaps  combines  with  it  as 
much  worth  of  heart  as,  in  any  man,  that 
habit  can  admit  of. 

It  is  now  wellnigh  time  that  we  should  quit 
this  part  of  our  subject:  nevertheless,  in  seek- 
ftig  to  form  some  picture  of  Voltaire's  practi- 
cal life,  and  the  character,  outward  as  well  as 
inward,  of  his  appearance  in  society,  our 
readers  will  not  grudge  us  a  few  glances  at  the 
last  and  most  striking  scene  he  enacted  there. 
To  our  view,  that  final  visit  to  Paris  has  a 
strange  half-frivolous,  half-fateful  aspect ;  there 
is,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  dramatic  justice  in 
this  catastrophe,  that  he,  who  had  all  his  life 
hungered  and  thirsted  after  public  favour,should 
at  length  die  by  excess  of  it;  should  find  the 
door  of  his  Heaven-on-earth  unexpectedly 
thrown  wide  open,  and  enter  there,  only  to  be, 
as  he  himself  said,  ♦'  smothered  under  roses." 
Had  Paris  any  suitable  theogony  or  theology, 
as  Rome  and  Athens  had,  this  might  almost 
be  reckoned,  as  those  ancients  accounted  of 
death  by  lightning,  a  sacred  death,  a  death 


156 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


from  the  gods;  from  their  many-headed  god, 
PopuLARiTT.  In  the  benignant  quietude  of 
Ferney,  Voltaire  had  lived  long,  and,  as  his 
friends  calculated,  might  still  have  lived  long ; 
but  a  series  of  trifling  causes  lured  him  to 
Paris,  and  in  three  months  he  is  no  more.  At 
all  hours  of  his  history,  he  might  have  said 
with  Alexander:  "0  Athenians,  what  toil  do 
I  undergo  to  please  you ;"  and  the  last  plea- 
sure, his  Athenians  demand  of  him,  is  that  he 
would  die  for  them. 

Considered  with  reference  to  the  world  at 
large,  this  journey  is  further  remarkable.  It 
is  the  most  splendid  triumph  of  that  nature 
recorded  in  these  ages  ;  the  loudest  and  show- 
iest homage  ever  paid  to  what  we  moderns 
call  Literature;  to  a  man  that  had  merely 
thought,  and  published  his  thoughts.  Much 
false  tumult,  no  doubt,  there  was  in  it;  yet 
also  a  certain  deeper  significance.  It  is  inte- 
resting to  see  how  universal  and  eternal  in 
man  is  love  of  wisdom ;  how  the  highest  and 
the  lowest,  how  supercilious  princes,  and  rude 
peasants,  and  all  men  must  alike  show  honour 
to  Wisdom,  or  the  appearance  of  Wisdom;  nay, 
properly  speaking,  can  show  honour  to  nothing 
else.  For  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  all  Xerxes's 
hosts  to  bend  one  thought  of  our  proud  heart : 
these  "may  destroy  the  case  of  Anaxarchus ; 
himself  they  cannot  reach ;"  only  to  spiritual 
worth  can  the  spirit  do  reverence ;  only  in  a 
soul  deeper  and  better  than  ours  can  we  see 
any  heavenly  mystery,  and  in  humbling  our- 
selves feel  ourselves  exalted.  That  the  so 
ebullient  enthusiasm  of  the  French  was  in 
this  case  perfectly  well  directed,  we  cannot 
undertake  to  say;  yet  we  rejoice  to  see  and 
know  that  such  a  principle  exists  perennially 
in  man's  inmost  bosom  ;  that  there  is  no  heart 
so  sunk  and  stupified,  none  so  withered  and 
pampered,  but  the  felt  presence  of  a  nobler 
heart  will  inspire  it  and  lead  it  captive. 

Few  royal  progresses,  few  Roman  triumphs, 
have  equalled  this  long  triumph  of  Voltaire. 
On  his  journey,  at  Bourg-en-Bresse,  "he  was 
recognised,"  says  Wagniere,  "while  the  horses 
were  changing,  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
whole  town  crowded  about  the  carriage;  so 
that  he  was  forced  to  lock  himself  for  some 
time  in  a  room  of  the  inn."  The  Maitre-de- 
poste  ordered  his  postilion  to  yoke  better 
horses,  and  said  to  him  with  a  broad  oath  : 
"  Va  bon  train,  creve  mes  chevaux,  je  m'  en  f — ; 
tu  mines  M.  de  Voltaire."  At  Dijon,  there  were 
persons  of  distinction  that  wished  even  to 
dress  themselves  as  waiters,  that  they  might 
serve  him  at  supper,  and  see  him  by  this  stra- 
tagem. 

"At  the  barrier  of  Paris,"  continues  Wag- 
niere, "the  officers  asked  if  we  had  nothing 
with  us  contrary  to  the  King's  regulations : 
"  On  my  word,  gentlemen,"  (Mafoi,  Messieurs,) 
replied  M.  de  Voltaire,  "I  believe  there  is 
nothing  contraband  here  except  myself."  I 
alighted  from  the  carriage,  that  the  inspector 
might  more  readily  examine  it.  One  of  the 
guards  said  to  his  comrade  :  C'est  pardieu !  M. 
de  Voltaire.  He  plucked  at  the  coat  of  the  per- 
son who  was  searching,  and  repeated  the  same 
words,  looking  fixedly  at  me.  I  could  not  help 
laughing;  then  all  gazing  with  the  greatest 


astonishment  mingled  with  respect,  begged  M. 
de  Voltaire  to  pass  on  whither  he  pleased." — 
Vol.  i.  p.  121. 

Intelligence  soon  circulated  over  Paris; 
scarcely  could  the  arrival  of  Kien-Long,  or  the 
Grand  Lama  of  Thibet,  have  excited  greater 
ferment.  Poor  Longchamp,  demitted  or  rather 
dismissed  from  Voltaire's  service,  eight-and- 
twenty  years  before,  and  now,  as  a  retired 
map-dealer  (having  resigned  in  favour  of  his 
son)  living  quietly  '^dans  un  petit  logement  a 
part,"  a  fine  smooth,  garrulous  old  man, — 
heard  the  news  next  morning  in  his  remote 
logement,  in  the  Estrapade ;  and  instantly  hud- 
dled on  his  clothes,  though  he  had  not  been  out 
for  two  days,  to  go  and  see  what  truth  was  in  it. 

"Several  persons  of  my  acquaintance,  whom 
I  met,  told  me  that  they  had  heard  the  same. 
I  went  purposely  to  the  Cafe  Procope,  where 
this  news  formed  the  subject  of  conversation 
among  several  politicians,  or  men  of  letters, 
who  talked  of  it  with  warmth.  To  assure  my- 
self still  further,  I  walked  thence  towards  the 
Quai  des  Theatins,  where  he  had  alighted  the 
night  before,  and,  as  was  said,  taken  up  his 
lodging  in  a  mansion  near  the  church.  Coming 
out  from  the  Rue  de  la  Seine,  I  saw  afar  off",  a 
great  number  of  people  gathered  on  the  Quai, 
not  far  from  the  Pont-Royal.  Approaching 
nearer,  I  observed  that  this  crowd  was  col- 
lected in  front  of  the  Marquis  de  Villette's 
Hotel,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Beaune. 
I  inquired  what  the  matter  was.  The  people 
answered  me,  that  M.  de  Voltaire  was  in  that 
house ;  and  they  were  waiting  to  see  him  when 
he  came  out.  They  were  not  sure,  however, 
whether  he  would  come  out  that  day ;  for  it 
was  natural  to  think  that  an  old  man  of  eighty- 
four  might  need  a  day  or  two  of  rest.  From 
that  moment,  I  no  longer  doubted  the  arrival 
of  M.  de  Voltaire  in  Paris."— Vol.  ii.  p.  353. 

By  dint  of  address,  Longchamp,  in  process 
of  time,  contrived  to  see  his  old  master;  had 
an  interview  of  ten  minutes ;  was  for  falling 
at  his  feet;  and  wept,  with  sad  presentiments, 
at  parting.  Ten  such  minutes  were  a  great 
matter;  for  Voltaire  had  his  levees,  and 
couchees,  more  crowded  than  those  of  any 
Emperor;  princes  and  peers  thronged  his  ante- 
chamber ;  and  when  he  went  abroad,  his  car- 
riage was  as  the  nucleus  of  a  comet,  whose 
train  extended  over  whole  districts  of  the  city. 
He  himself,  says  Wagniere,  expressed  dissatis- 
faction at  much  of  this.  Nevertheless,  there 
were  some  plaudits,  which,  as  he  confessed, 
went  to  his  heart.  Condorcet  mentions  that 
once  a  person  in  the  crowd  inquiring  who  this 
great  man  was,  a  poor  woman  answered, 
^'  C\st  sauveur  des  Calas."  Of  a  quite  different 
sort  was  the  tribute  paid  him  by  a  quack,  in 
the  Place  Louis  XV.,  haranguing  a  mixed 
multitude  on  the  art  of  juggling  with  cards; 
"  Here  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  is  a  trick  I  learned 
at  Ferney,  from  that  great  man  who  makes  so 
much  noise  among  you,  that  famous  M.  de 
Voltaire,  the  master  of  us  all!"  In  fact,  mere 
gaping  curiosity,  and  even  ridicule  was  abroad 
as  well  as  real  enthusiasm.  The  clergy  too 
were  recoiling  into  ominous  groups ;  already 
some  Jesuitic  drums  eccelesiastic  had  beat  to 
arms. 


VOLTAIRE. 


157 


Piguring  the  lean,  tottering,  lonely  old  man 
in  the  midst  of  all  this,  how  he  looks  into  it, 
clear  and  alert,  though  no  longer  strong  and 
calm,  we  feel  drawn  towards  him  by  some  tie 
of  affection,  of  kindly  sympathy.  Longchamp 
says,  he  appeared  "  extremely  worn,  though 
still  in  the  possession  of  all  his  senses,  and 
with  a  very  firm  voice."  The  following  little 
sketch,  by  a  hostile  journalist  of  the  day,  has 
fixed  itself  deeply  with  us  : — 

"M.  de  VoUaire  appeared  in  full  dress,  on 
Tuesday,  for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  in 
Paris.  He  had  on  a  red  coat  lined  with  er- 
mine ;  a  large  peruke,  in  the  fashion  of  Louis 
XIV.,  black,  unpowdered;  and  in  which  his 
withered  figure  was  so  buried  that  you  saw 
only  his  two  eyes  shining  like  carbuncles. 
His  head  was  surmounted  by  a  square  red  cap 
in  the  form  of  a  crown,  which  seemed  only 
laid  on.  He  had,  in  his  hand,  a  small  nibbed 
cane;  and  the  public  of  Paris,  not  accustomed 
to  see  him  in  this  accoutrement,  laughed  a 
good  deal.  This  personage,  singular  in  all, 
wishes  doubtless  to  have  nothing  in  common 
with  ordinary  men." — Vol.  ii.  p.  466. 

This  head — this  wondrous  microcosm  in 
the  Grande  pcrugue  a  la  Louis  XIV. — was  so 
soon  to  be  distenanted  of  all  its  cunning  gifts ; 
these  eyes,  shining  like  carbuncles,  were  so 
soon  to  be  closed  in  long  night! — We  must 
now  give  the  coronation  ceremony,  of  which 
the  reader  may  have  heard  so  much:  borrow- 
ing from  this  same  skeptical  hand,  which, 
however,  is  vouched  for  by  Wagniere  ;  as,  in- 
deed. La  Harpe's  more  heroical  narrative  of 
that  occurrence  is  well  known,  and  hardly  dif- 
fers from  the  following,  except  in  style : — 

"  On  Monday,  M.  de  Voltaire,  resolving  to 
enjoy  the  triumph  which  had  been  so  long 
promised  him,  mounted  his  carriage,  that  azure- 
coloured  vehicle,  bespangled  with  gold  stars, 
which  a  wag  called  the  chariot  of  the  empy- 
rean ;  and  so  repaired  to  the  Academic  Fran- 
gaise,  which  that  day  had  a  special  meeting. 
Twenty-two  members  were  present.  None  of 
the  prelates,  abbes,  or  other  ecclesiastics,  who 
belong  to  it,  would  attend,  or  take  part  in  these 
singular  deliberations.  The  sole  exceptions 
were  the  Abbes  de  Boismont  and  Milot;  the 
one  a  court  rake-hell  (roue),  with  nothing  but 
the  guise  of  his  profession,  the  other  a  varlet 
(cuistre),  having  no  favour  to  look  for,  either 
from  the  Court  or  the  Church. 

"The  Academic  went  out  to  meet  M.  de 
Voltaire:  he  was  led  to  the  director's  seat, 
which  that  office-bearer  and  the  meeting  in- 
vited him  to  accept.  His  portrait  had  been 
hung  up  above  it.  The  company,  without 
drawing  lots,  as  is  the  custom,  proceeded  to 
work,  and  named  him,  by  acclamation.  Direc- 
tor for  the  April  quarter.  The  old  man,  once 
set  a  going,  was  about  to  talk  a  great  deal ; 
but  they  told  him,  that  they  valued  his  health 
too  much  to  hear  him, — that  they  would  reduce 
him  to  silence.  M.  d'Alembert  accordingly 
occupied  the  session,  by  reading  his  Ehge  de 
Despreaux,  which  had  already  been  communi- 
cated on  a  public  occasion,  and  where  he  had 
inserted  various  flattering  things  for  the  pre- 
sent visiter. 
«  M.  de  Voltaire  then  signified  a  wish  to  visit 


the  Secretary  of  the  Academic,  whose  apart- 
ments are  above.  With  this  gentleman  he 
stayed  some  time ;  and  at  last  set  out  for  the 
Comedie  Frangaise.  The  court  of  the  Louvre, 
vast  as  it  is,  was  full  of  people  waiting  for 
him.  So  soon  as  his  notable  vehicle  came  in 
sight,  the  cry  arose,  Le  Vo'da  !  The  Savoyards, 
the  apple-women,  all  the  rabble  of  the  quarter, 
had  assembled  there:  and  the  acclamations, 
Vive  Voltaire!  resounded  as  if  they  would  never 
end.  The  Marquis  de  Villette,  who  had  ar- 
rived before,  came  to  hand  him  out  of  his  car- 
riage, where  the  Procureur  Clos  was  seated 
beside  him :  both  these  gave  him  their  arms, 
and  could  scarcely  extricate  him  from  the 
press.  On  his  entering  the  playhouse,  a  crowd 
of  more  elegance,  and  seized  with  true  enthu- 
siasm for  genius,  surrounded  him:  the  ladies, 
above  all,  threw  themselves  in  his  way,  and 
stopped  it,  the  better  to  look  at  him ;  some 
were  seen  squeezing  forward  to  touch  his 
clothes;  some  plucking  hair  from  his  fur. 
M.  le  Due  de  Chartres,  not  caring  to  advance 
too  near,  showed,  though  at  a  distance,  no  less 
curiosity  than  others. 

"  The  saint,  or  rather  the  god,  of  the  evening, 
was  to  occupy  the  box  belonging  to  the  Gentle- 
men of  the  Bedchamber,*  opposite  that  of  the 
Counte  d'Artois.  Madame  Denis  and  Madame 
de  Villette  were  already  there;  and  the  pit 
was  in  convulsions  of  joy,  awaiting  the  mo- 
ment when  the  poet  should  appear.  There 
was  no  end  till  he  placed  himself  on  the  front 
seat,  beside  the  ladies.  Then  rose  a  cry :  La 
Couronne!  and  Brizard,  the  actor,  came  and 
put  the  garland  on  his  head.  "  Ah,  Heaven  ! 
will  you  kill  me  then  ]"  (.Ah,  Dieu  !  vous  voidez 
done  me  faire  mourir !)  cried  M.  de  Voltaire, 
weeping  with  joy,  and  resisting  this  honour. 
He  took  the  crown  in  his  hand,  and  presented 
it  to  Belle-et-bonne :  ■[  she  withstood;  and  the 
Prince  de  Beauvau,  seizing  the  laurel,  replaced 
it  on  the  head  of  our  Sophocles,  who  could 
refuse  no  longer. 

"The  piece  (Irene)  was  played,  and  with 
more  applause  than  usual,  though  scarcely 
with  enough  to  correspond  to  this  triumph  of 
its  author.  Meanwhile  the  players  were  in 
straits  as  to  what  they  should  do  ;  and  diiring 
their  deliberations  the  tragedy  ended ;  the 
curtain  fell,  and  the  tumult  of  the  people  was 
extreme,  till  it  rose  again,  disclosing  a  show 
like  that  of  the  Centenaire.  M.  de  Voltaire's 
bust,  which  had  been  placed  shortly  before  in 
the  foyer  (green-room)  of  the  Comedie  Fran- 
jaise,  had  been  brought  upon  the  stage,  and 
elevated  on  a  pedestal ;  the  whole  body  of 
comedians  stood  round  it  in  a  semicircle,  with 
palms  and  garlands  in  their  hands :  there  was 
a  crown  already  on  the  bust.  The  pealing  of 
musical  flourishes,  of  drums,  of  trumpets,  had 
announced  the  ceremony;  and  Madame  Vestris 
held  in  her  hand  a  paper,  which  was  soon 
understood  to  contain  verses,  lately  composed 
by  the  Marquis  de  Saint-Marc.  She  recited 
them  with  an  emphasis  proportioned  to  the 
extravagance  of  the  scene.  They  ran  as 
follows : — 


*  He  himself,  as  is  perhaps  too  well  known,  was  one. 
I  The  Marquise  de  Villette,  a  foster-cbiid  of  his. 

o 


158 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


^MZ  yeux  de  Paris  enchanti, 

Regois  en  ce  jour  un  hommag-e, 

Que  confirmera  d'age  en  age 

La  severe  postSriti! 
JVora  tu  n'as  pas  besoin  d^atteindre  au  noir  rivage 
Pour  jouir  des  honneurs  de  V immortalite : 

Voltaire,  regois  la  eouronne 

Que  Von  vient  de  te  presenter  ; 

II  est  beau  de  la  miriter, 

Quandc'est  la  France  qui  la  donne  !* 

"  This  was  encored :  the  actress  recited  it 
again,  Next,  each  of  them  went  forward  and 
laid  his  garland  round  the  bust.  Mademoiselle 
Fanier,  in  a  fanatical  ecstasy,  kissed  it,  and  all 
the  others  imitated  her. 

"This  long  ceremony,  accompanied  with 
infinite  vivats,  being  over,  the  curtain  again 
dropped ;  and  when  it  rose  for  Nanine,  one  of 
M.  de  Voltaire's  comedies,  his  bust  was  seen 
on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  stage,  where  it 
remained  during  the  whole  play. 

*'  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois  did  not  choose  to 
show  himself  too  openly;  but  being  informed, 
according  to  his  orders,  as  soon  as  M.  de  Vol- 
taire appeared  in  the  theatre,  he  had  gone 
thither  incognito ;  and  it  is  thought  that  the 
old  man,  once  when  he  went  out  for  a  moment, 
had  the  honour  of  a.  short  interview  with  his 
Royal  Highness. 

"  Nanine  finished,  comes  a  new  hurly-burly, 
— a  new  trial  for  the  modesty  of  our  philoso- 
pher !  He  had  got  into  his  carriage,  but  the 
people  would  not  let  him  go;  they  threw  them- 
selves on  the  horses,  they  kissed  them  :  some 
young  poets  even  cried  to  unyoke  these  ani- 
mals, and  draw  the  modern  Apollo  home  with 
their  own  arms ;  unhappily,  there  were  not 
enthusiasts  enough  to  volunteer  this  service, 
and  he  at  last  got  leave  to  depart,  not  without 
vivats,  which  he  may  have  heard  on  the  Pont- 
Royal,  and  even  in  his  own  house.  .  .  . 

"  M.  de  Voltaire,  on  reaching  home,  wept 
anew ;  and  modestly  protested  that  if  he  had 
known  the  people  tvere  to  play  so  many  follies, 
he  would  not  have  gone." — Vol.  ii. 

On  all  these  wonderful  proceedings  we  shall 
leave  our  readers  to  their  own  reflections;  re- 
marking only,  that  this  happened  on  the  30th 
of  March,  (1778,)  and  on  the  30th  of  May, 
about  the  same  hour,  the  object  of  such  ex- 
traordinary adulation  was  in  the  article  of 
death ;  the  hearse  already  prepared  to  receive 
his  remains,  for  which  even  a  grave  had  to  be 
stolen.  "He  expired,"  says  Wagniere,  "about 
a  quarter  past  eleven  at  night,  with  the  most 
perfect  tranquillity,  after  having  suffered  the 
cruellest  pains,  in  consequence  of  those  fatal 
drugs,  which  his  own  imprudence,  and  es- 
pecially that  of  the  persons  who  should  have 
looked  to  it,  made  him  swallow.  Ten  minutes 
before  his  last  breath,  he  took  the  hand  of 
Morand,  his  valet-de-chambre,  who  was  watch- 
ing by  him,  pressed  it  and  said  Mieu,  mon  cher 
Morand,  je  me  meurs,  (Adieu,  my  dear  Morand, 
I  am  gone.)  These  are  the  last  words  uttered 
by  M.  de  Vollaire."f 


♦As  Dryden  said   of  Swift,  so   may  we   say:    Our 

cousin  Saint-Marc  has  no  turn  for  poetry. 

^     fOn  this  sickness  of  Voltaire,  and  his  death-bed  de- 

.pnrfnient,  many  foolish  books  have  been  written;  con- 

jSeerninn;  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  s:iy  any  thing.  The 

'^onductof  the  Parisian  clergy,  on  that  occasion,  seems 


We  have  still  to  consider  this  man  in  his 
specially  intellectual  capacity,  which,  as  with 
every  man  of  letters,  is  to  be  regarded  as  the 
clearest,  and,  to  all  practical  intents,  the  most 
important  aspect  of  him.  Voltaire's  intellectual 
endowment  and  acquirement,  his  talent  or 
genius  as  a  literary  man,  lies  opened  to  us  in 
a  series  of  Writings,  unexampled,  as  we  be- 
lieve, in  two  respects ;  their  extent,  and  their 
diversity.  Perhaps  there  is  no  writer,  not  a 
mere  compiler,  but  writing  from  his  own  in- 
vention or  elaboration,  who  has  left  so  many 
volumes  behind  him;  and  if  to  the  merely 
arithmetical,  we  add  a  critical  estimate,  the 
singularity  is  still  greater  ;  for  these  volumes 
are  not  written  without  an  appearance  of  due 
care  and  preparation ;  perhaps  there  is  not 
one  altogether  feeble  and  confused  treatise, 
nay,  one  feeble  and  confused  sentence,  to  be 
found  in  them.  As  to  variety,  again,  they 
range  nearly  over  all  human  subjects;  from 
Theology  down  to  Domestic  Economy ;  from 
the  Familiar  Letter  to  the  Political  History; 
from  the  Pasquinade  to  the  Epic  Poem.  Some 
strange  gift,  or  union  of  gifts,  must  have  been 
at  work  here;  for  the  result  is,  at  least,  in  the 
highest  degree  uncommon,  and  to  be  wondered 
at,  if  not  to  be  admired. 

If  through  all  this  many-coloured  versatility, 
we  try  to  decipher  the  essential,  distinctive 
features  of  Voltaire's  intellect,  it  seems  to  us 
ihat  we  find  there  a  counterpart  to  our  theory 
of  his  moral  character;  as,  indeed,  if  that 
theory  was  accurate,  we  must  do:  for  the 
thinking  and  the  moral  nature,  distinguished 
by  the  necessities  of  speech,  have  no  such  dis- 
tinction in  themselves ;  but,  rightly  examined, 
exhibit  in  every  case  the  strictest  sympathy 

totally  unworthy  of  their  cloth ;  nor  was  their  reward, 
so  far  as  concerns  these  individuals,  inappropriate  :  that 
of  finding  themselves  once  more  bilked,  once  more 
persifles  by  that  strange  old  man,  in  his  last  decrepitude, 
who,  in  his  strength,  had  wrought  them  and  others  so 
many  griefs.  Surely  the  parting  agonies  of  a  fellow 
mortal,  when  the  spirit  of  our  brother,  rapt  in  the 
whirlwinds  and  thick  ghastly  vapors  of  death,  clutches 
blindly  for  help,  and  no  help  is  there,  are  not  the  scenes 
where  a  wise  faith  would  seek  to  exult,  when  it  can  no 
longer  hope  to  alleviate  1  For  the  rest,  to  touch  further 
on  those  their  idle  tales  of  dying  horrors,  remorse,  and 
the  like  ;  to  write  of  such,  to  believe  them,  or  disbelieve 
them,  or  in  any  wise  discuss  them,  were  but  a  continua- 
tion of  the  same  ineptitude.  He,  who,  after  the  im- 
perturbable exit  of  so  many  Cartouches  and  Thurtells, 
in  every  age  of  the  world,  can  continue  to  regard  the 
manner  of  a  man's  death  as  a  test  of  his  religious 
orthodoxy,  may  boast  himself  impregnable  to  merely 
terrestrial  logic.  Voltaire  had  enough  of  suffering,  and 
of  mean  enough  suffering,  to  encounter,  without  any 
addition  from  theological  despair.  His  last  interview 
with  the  clergy,  who  had  been  sent  for  by  his  friends, 
that  the  rites  of  burial  might  not  be  denied  him,  is  thus 
described  by  Wagniere  as  it  has  been  by  all  other 
credible  reporters  of  it  :— 

"Two  days  before  that  mournful  deatJtj,  M.  I'Abbc 
Mignot,  his  nephew,  went  to  seek  the  Cur6  of  Saint- 
Sulpice  and  the  Abbe  Guatier,  and  brought  them  into 
his  uncle's  sick-room  ;  who,  being  informed  that  the 
Abb6  Guatier  was  there,  "Ah,  well!"  said  he,  "give 
him  my  compliments  and  my  thanks."  The  Abbe 
spoke  some  words  to  him  exhorting  him  to  patience. 
The  Curfe  of  Saint-Sulpice  then  came  forward,  having 
announced  himself,  and  asked  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  elevat- 
ing his  voice,  if  he  acknowledged  the  divinity  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ?  The  sick  man  pushed  one  of  his 
hands  against  the  Cure's  calotte,  (coif,)  shoving  him 
back,  and  cried,  turning  abruptly  to  the  other  side,  "  Let 
me  die  in  peace!"  {Laissez-rnoi  vtnurir  enpaixl)  The 
Cure  seemingly  considered  his  person  soiled,  and  his 
coif  dishonoured,  by  the  touch  of  a  philosopher.  He 
made  the  sick  nurse  give  him  a  little  brushing,  and  then 
went  out  with  the  Abbe  Guatier."— Vol.  i.  p.  161. 


VOLTAIRE. 


159 


and  correspondence ;  are,  indeed,  but  different 
phases  of  the  same  indissoluble  unity, — a  liv- 
ing mind.  In  life,  Voltaire  was  found  to  be 
without  good  claim  to  the  title  of  philosopher; 
and  now,  in  literature,  and  for  similar  reasons, 
we  find  in  him  the  same  deficiencies.  Here, 
too,  it  is  not  greatness,  but  the  very  extreme 
of  expertness,  that  we  recognise ;  not  strength, 
so  much  as  agility ;  not  depth,  but  superficial 
extent.  That  truly  surprising  ability  seems 
rather  the  unparalleled  combination  of  many 
common  talents,  than  the  exercise  of  any  finer 
or  higher  one:  for  here,  too,  the  want  of 
earnestness,  of  intense  continuance,  is  fatal  to 
him.  He  has  the  eye  of  a  lynx ;  sees  deeper, 
at  the  first  glance,  than  any  other  man ;  but 
no  second  glance  is  given.  Thus  Truth, 
which,  to  the  philospher,  has  from  of  old  been 
said  to  live  in  a  well,  remains  for  the  most 
part  hidden  from  him ;  we  may  say  for  ever 
hidden,  if  we  take  the  highest,  and  only  philo- 
sophical species  of  Truth ;  for  this  does  not 
reveal  itself  to  any  mortal,  without  quite 
another  sort  of  meditation  than  Voltaire  ever 
seems  to  have  bestowed  on  it.  In  fact,  his 
deductions  are  uniformly  of  a  forensic,  argu- 
mentative, immediately  practical  nature;  often 
true,  we  will  admit,  so  far  as  they  go ;  but  not 
the  whole  truth ;  and  false,  when  taken  for  the 
whole.  In  regard  to  feeling,  it  is  the  same 
with  him :  he  is,  in  general,  humane,  mildly 
affectionate,  not  without  touches  of  nobleness ; 
but  light,  fitful,  discontinuous  ;  "  a  smart  free- 
thinker, all  things  in  an  hour."  He  is  no  Poet 
and  Philosopher,  but  a  popular  sweet  Singer 
and  Haranguer;  in  all  senses,  and  in  all 
styles,  Concionator,  which,  for  the  most  part, 
will  turn  out  to  be  an  altogether  different 
character.  It  is  true,  in  this  last  province 
he  stands  unrivalled;  for  such  an  audience, 
the  most  fit  and  perfectly  persuasive  of  all 
preachers  :  but  in  many  far  higher  provinces, 
he  is  neither  perfect  nor  unrivalled ;  has  been 
often  surpassed ;  was  surpassed  even  in  his 
own  age  and  nation.  For  a  decisive,  thorough- 
going, in  any  measure  gigantic,  force  of 
thought,  he  is  far  inferior  to  Diderot;  with  all 
the  liveliness,  he  has  not  the  soft  elegance; 
with  more  than  the  wit,  he  has  but  a  small 
portion  of  the  wisdom  that  belonged  to  Fonte- 
nelle :  as  in  real  sensibilit)^  so  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  it,  in  pathos,  loftiness,  and  earnest 
eloquence,  he  cannot,  making  all  fair  abate- 
ments, and  there  are  many,  be  compared  with 
Rousseau. 

Doubtless,  an  astonishing  fertility,  quick- 
ness, address ;  an  openness  also,  and  univer- 
sal susceptibility  of  mind,  must  have  belonged 
to  him.  As  little  can  we  deny  that  he  mani- 
fests an  assiduous  perseverance,  a  capability 
of  long-continued  exertion,  strange  in  so  vola- 
tile a  man ;  and  consummate  skill  in  hus- 
banding and  wisely  directing  his  exertion. 
The  very  knowledge  he  had  amassed,  granting, 
which  is  but  partly  true,  that  it  was  super- 
ficial, remembered  knowledge,  might  have  dis- 
tinguished him  as  a  mere  Dutch  commentator. 
From  Newton's  Principia  to  the  Shaster  and 
Vechnn,  nothing  has  escaped  him;  he  has 
glanced  into  all  literatures  and  all  sciences ; 
nay,   studied   in   them,  for  he  can   speak  a 


rational  word  on  all.  It  is  known,  for  instance, 
that  he  understood  Newton  when  no  other 
man  in  France  understood  him;  indeed,  his 
countrymen  may  call  Voltaire  their  discoverer 
of  intellectual  England, — a  discovery,  it  is 
true,  rather  of  the  Curtis  than  of  the  Columbus 
sort,  yet  one  which  in  his  day  still  remained 
to  be  made.  Nay,  from  all  sides  he  brings 
new  light  into  his  country:  now,  for  the  first 
time,  to  the  upturned  wondering  eyes  of 
Frenchmen  in  general,  does  it  become  clear 
that  Thought  has  actually  a  kind  of  existence 
in  other  kingdoms ;  that  some  glimmerings  of 
civilization  had  dawned  here  and  there  on  the 
human  species,  prior  to  the  Siede  de  Louis 
Quatorze.  Of  Voltaire's  acquaintance  with 
History,  at  least  with  what  he  called  History, 
be  it  civil,  religious,  or  literary;  of  his  in- 
describable collection  of  facts,  gathered  from 
all  sources, — from  European  Chronicles  and  . 
State  Papers,  from  eastern  Zends  and  Jewish 
Talmuds,  we  need  not  remind  any  reader.  It 
has  been  objected  that  his  information  was 
often  borrowed  at  second-hand;  that  he  had 
his  plodders  and  pioneers,  whom,  as  living 
dictionaries,  he  skilfully  consulted  in  time  of 
need.  This  also  seems  to  be  partly  true,  but 
deducts  little  from  our  estimate  of  him:  for 
the  skill  so  to  borrow  is  even  rarer  than  the 
power  to  lend.  Voltaire's  knowledge  is  not  a 
mere  show-room  of  curiosities,  but  truly  a 
museum  for  purposes  of  teaching :  every  ob- 
ject is  in  its  place,  and  there  for  its  uses  ;  no- 
where do  we  find  confusion,  or  vain  display ; 
everywhere  intention,  instructiveness,  and  the 
clearest  order. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  very  power  of  Order,  of 
rapid,  perspicuous  Arrangement,  that  lies  at 
the  root  of  Voltaire's  best  gifts ;  or  rather,  we 
should  say,  it  is  that  keen,  accurate  intellectual 
vision,  from  which,  to  a  mind  of  any  intensity, 
Order  naturally  arises.  This  clear  quick 
vision,  and  the  methodic  arrangement  which 
springs  from  it,  are  looked  upon  as  peculiarly 
French  qualities;  and  Voltaire,  at  all  times, 
manifests  them  in  a  more  than  French  degree. 
Let  him  but  cast  his  eye  over  any  subject,  in  a 
moment  he  sees,  though  indeed  only  to  a  short 
depth,  yet  with  instinctive  decision,  where  the 
main  bearings  of  it  for  that  short  depth  lie ; 
what  is,  or  appears  to  be,  its  logical  coherence ; 
how  causes  connect  themselves  with  effects ; 
how  the  whole  is  to  be  seized,  and  in  lucid 
sequence  represented  to  his  own  or  to  other 
minds.  In  this  respect,  moreover,  it  is  happy 
for  him  that,  below  the  short  depth  alluded  to, 
his  view  does  not  properly  grow  dim,  but  alto- 
gether terminates;  thus  there  is  nothing  further 
to  occasion  him  misgivings;  has  he  not 
already  sounded  into  that  basis  of  bottomless 
Darkness  on  which  all  things  firmly  restl 
What  lies  below  is  delusion,  imagination,  some 
form  of  Superstition  or  Folly;  which  he, 
nothing  doubting,  altogether  casts  away.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  is  the  most  intelligible  of  writers ; 
everywhere  transparent  at  a  glance.  There 
is  no  delineation  or  disquisition  of  his,  that  has 
not  its  whole  purport  written  on  its  forehead ; 
all  is  precise,  all  is  rightly  adjusted;  that  keen 
spirit  of  Order  shows  itself  in  the  whole,  and 
in  every  line  of  the  whole.  ^ 


160 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


If  we  say  that  this  power  of  Arrangement,  as 
applied  both  to  the  acquisition  and  to  the  com- 
munication of  ideas,  is  Voltaire's  most  ser- 
viceable faculty  in  all  his  enterprises,  we  say 
nothing  singular:  for  take  the  word  in  its 
largest  acceptation,  and  it  comprehends  the 
whole  office  of  Understanding,  logically  so 
called;  is  the  means  whereby  man  accom- 
plishes whatever,  in  the  way  of  outward  force, 
has  been  made  possible  for  him ;  conquers  all 
practical  obstacles,  and  rises  to  be  the  "  king 
of  this  lower  world."  It  is  the  organ  of  all  that 
Knowledge  which  can  properly  be  reckoned 
synonymous  with  Power;  for  hereby  man 
strikes,  with  wise  aim,  into  the  infinite  agencies 
of  Nature,  and  muhiplies  his  own  small 
strength  to  unlimited  degrees.  It  has  been 
said  also  that  man  may  rise  to  be  the  **  god  of 
this  lower  world;"  but  that  is  a  far  loftier 
height,  not  attainable  by  such  powerful  know- 
ledge, but  by  quite  another  sort,  for  which 
Voltaire  in  particular  shows  hardly  any  apti- 
tude. 

In  truth,  readily  as  we  have  recognised  his 
spirit  of  Method,  with  its  many  uses,  we  are 
far  from  ascribing  to  him  any  perceptible  por- 
tion of  that  greatest  praise  in  thinking,  or  in 
writing,  the  praise  of  philosophic,  still  less  of 
poetic  Method,  which,  especially  the  latter,  must 
be  the  fruit  of  deep  feeling  as  well  as  of  clear 
vision, — of  genius  as  well  as  of  talent;  and  is 
much  more  likely  to  be  found  in  the  composi- 
tions of  a  Hooker,  or  a  Shakspeare,  than  of  a 
Voltaire.  The  Method  discernible  in  Voltaire, 
and  this  on  all  subjects  whatever,  is  a  purely 
business  Method.  The  order  that  arises  from 
it  is  not  Beauty,  but,  at  best.  Regularity.  His 
objects  do  not  lie  round  him  in  pictorial,  not 
always  in  scientific  grouping;  but  rather  in 
commodious  rows,  where  each  may  be  seen 
and  come  at,  like  goods  in  a  well-kept  ware- 
house. We  might  say  there  is  not  the  deep 
natural  symmetry  of  a  forest  oak,  but  the  simple 
artificial  symmetry  of  a  parlor  chandelier. 
Compare,  for  example,  the  plan  of  the  Hen- 
riade  to  that  of  our  so  barbarous  Hamlet.  The 
plan  of  the  former  is  a  geometrical  diagram 
by  Fermat;  that  of  the  latter  a  cartoon  by 
Raphael.  The  Henriade,  as  we  see  it  com- 
pleted, is  a  polished,  square-built  Tuileries; 
Hamlet  is  a  mysterious,  star-paved  Valhalla, 
and  dwelling  of  the  gods. 

Nevertheless,  Voltaire's  style  of  Method  is, 
as  we  have  said,  a  business  one ;  and  for  his 
purposes,  more  available  than  any  other.  It 
carries  him  swiftly  through  his  work,  and 
carries  his  reader  swiftly  through  it;  there 
is  a  prompt  intelligence  between  the  two; 
the  whole  meaning  is  communicated  clearly, 
and  comprehended  without  efi^ort.  From  this 
also  it  may  follow,  that  Voltaire  will  please 
the  young  more  than  he  does  the  old;  that  the 
first  perusal  of  him  will  please  better  than  the 
second,  if  indeed  any  second  be  thought  neces- 
sary. But  what  merit  (and  it  is  considerable) 
the  pleasure  and  profit  of  this  first  perusal  pre- 
supposes, must  be  honestly  allowed  him.  Here- 
in it  seems  to  us  lies  the  grand  quality  in  all 
his  performances.  Those  Histories  of  his,  for 
instance,  are  felt,  in  spite  of  their  sparkling 
rapidity,  and  knowing  air  of  philosophic  in- 


sight, to  be  among  the  shallowest  of  all  histo- 
ries ;  mere  beadrolls  of  exterior  occurrences, 
of  battles,  edifices,  enactments,  and  other  quite 
superficial  phenomena ;  yet  being  clear  bead- 
rolls,  well  adapted  for  memory,  and  recited  in 
a  lively  tone,  we  listen  with  satisfaction,  and 
learn  somewhat;  learn  much,  if  we  began 
knowing  nothing.  Nay,  sometimes  the  sum- 
mary, in  its  skilful  though  crowded  arrange- 
ment, and  brilliant  well-defined  outlines,  has 
almost  a  poetical  as  well  as  a  didactic  merit. 
Charles  the  Twelfth  may  still  pass  for  a  model  in 
that  often-attempted  species  of  Biography  :  the 
clearest  details  are  given  in  the  fewest  words  ; 
we  have  sketches  of  strange  men  and  strange 
countries,  of  wars,  adventures,  negotiations, 
in  a  style  which,  for  graphic  brevity,  rivals 
that  of  Sallust.  It  is  a  line-engraving,  on  a 
reduced  scale,  of  that  Swede  and  his  mad  life  ; 
without  colours,  yet  not  without  the  fore- 
shortenings  and  perspective  observances, — 
nay,  not  altogether  without  the  deeper  har- 
monies which  belong  to  a  true  Picture.  In  re- 
spect of  composition,  whatever  may  be  said  of 
its  accuracy  or  worth  otherwise,  we  cannot  but 
reckon  it  greatly  the  best  of  Voltaire's  Histo- 
ries. 

In  his  other  prose  works,  in  his  Novels,  and 
innumerable  Essays  and  fugitive  pieces,  the 
same  clearness  of  order,  the  same  rapid  pre- 
cision of  view,  again  forms  a  distinguishing 
merit.  His  Zadigs  and  Baboucs  and  Candides, 
which,  considered  as  products  of  imagination, 
perhaps  rank  higher  with  foreigners  than  any 
of  his  professedly  poetical  performances,  are 
instinct  with  this  sort  of  intellectual  life :  the 
sharpest  glances,  though  from  an  oblique  point 
of  sight,  into  at  least  the  surface  of  human  life, 
into  the  old  familiar  world  of  business,  which 
truly  from  his  oblique  station,  looks  oblique 
enough,  and  yields  store  of  ridiculous  combi- 
nations. The  Wit,  manifested  chiefly  in  these 
and  the  like  performances,  but  ever  flowing, 
unless  purposely  restrained,  in  boundless  abun- 
dance, from  Voltaire's  mind,  has  been  often  and 
duly  celebrated.  It  lay  deep-rooted  in  his  na- 
ture; the  inevitable  produce  of  such  an  un- 
derstanding with  such  a  character,  and  was 
from  the  first  likely,  as  it  actually  proved  in 
the  latter  period  of  his  life,  to  become  the  main 
dialect  in  which  he  spoke  and  even  thought. 
Doing  all  justice  to  the  inexhaustible  readiness, 
the  quick  force,  the  polished  acuteness,  of  Vol- 
taire's Wit,  we  may  remark,  at  the  same  time, 
that  it  was  nowise  the  highest  species  of  em- 
ployment for  such  a  mind  as  his ;  that,  indeed, 
it  ranks  essentially  among  the  lowest  species 
even  of  Ridicule.  It  is  at  all  times  mere  lo- 
gical pleasantry  ;  a  gayety  of  the  head,  not  of 
the  heart;  there  is  scarcely  a  twinkling  of  Hu- 
mour in  the  whole  of  his  numberless  sallies. 
Wit  of  this  sort  cannot  maintain  a  demure 
sedateness ;  a  grave  yet  infinitely  kind  aspect, 
warming  the  inmost  soul  with  true  loving 
mirth ;  it  has  not  even  the  force  to  laugh  out- 
right, but  can  only  sniff"  and  titter.  It  grounds 
itself,  not  on  fond  sportful  sympathy,  but  on 
contempt,  or  at  best,  on  indifference.  It  stands 
related  to  Humour  as  Prose  does  to  Poetry  ;  of 
which,  in  this  department  at  least,  Voltaire  ex- 
hibits no  symptom.    The  most  determinedly 


VOLTAIRE. 


161 


ludicrous  composition  of  his,  the  Pmelky  which 
cannot  on  other  grounds  be  recommended  to 
any  reader,  has  no  higher  merit  than  that  of  an 
audacious  caricature.  True,  he  is  not  a  buf- 
foon ;  seldom  or  never  violates  the  rules,  we 
shall  not  say  of  propriety,  yet  of  good  breeding : 
to  this  negative  praise  he  is  entitled.  But  as 
for  any  high  claim  to  positive  praise,  it  cannot 
be  made  good.  We  look  in  vain,  through  his 
whole  writings,  for  one  lineament  of  a  Quixote 
or  a  Shandy;  even  of  a  Hudibras  or  Battle  of  the 
Books.  Indeed,  it  has  been  more  than  once  ob- 
served that  Humour  is  not  a  national  gift  with 
the  French,  in  late  times ;  that  since  Mon- 
taigne's day  it  seems  to  have  well  nigh  vanish- 
ed from  among  them. 

Considered  in  his  technical  capacity  of  Poet, 
Voltaire  need  not,  at  present,  detain  us  very 
long.  Here  too  his  excellence  is  chiefly  intel- 
lectual, and  shown  in  the  way  of  business-like 
method.  Every  thing  is  well  calculated  for  a 
given  end ;  there  is  the  utmost  logical  fitness 
of  sentiment,  of  incident,  of  general  contri- 
vance. Nor  is  he  without  an  enthusiasm  that 
sometimes  resembles  inspiration  ;  a  clear  fel- 
low-feeling for  the  personages  of  his  scene  he 
always  has ;  with  a  chameleon  susceptibility 
he  takes  some  hue  of  every  object ;  if  he  can- 
not be  that  object,  he  at  least  plausibly  enacts 
it.  Thus  we  have  a  result  everywhere  con- 
sistent with  itself;  a  contrivance,  not  without 
nice  adjustments,  and  brilliant  aspects,  which 
pleases  with  that  old  pleasure  of  "  ditficulties 
overcome,"  and  the  visible  correspondence  of 
means  to  end.  That  the  deeper  portion  of  our 
soul  sits  silent,  unmoved  under  all  this  ;  recog- 
nising no  universal,  everlasting  Beauty,  but 
only  a  modish  Elegance,  less  the  work  of  po- 
etical creation  than  a  process  of  the  toilette, 
need  occasion  no  surprise.  It  signifies  only  that 
Voltaire  was  a  French  Poet,  and  wrote  as  the 
French  people  of  that  day  required  and  ap- 
proved. We  have  long  known  that  French 
poetry  aimed  at  a  different  result  than  ours ; 
that  its  splendour  was  what  we  should  call  a 
dead,  artificial  one ;  not  the  manifold  soft  sum- 
mer glories  of  Nature,  but  a  cold  splendour,  as 
of  polished  metal. 

On  the  whole,  in  reading  Voltaire's  poetry, 
that  adventure  of  the  Ca/e  de  Procope  should 
ever  be  held  in  mind.  He  was  not  without  an 
eye  to  have  looked,  had  he  seen  others  looking, 
into  the  deepest  nature  of  poetry;  nor  has  he 
failed  here  and  there  to  cast  a  glance  in  that 
direction:  but  what  preferment  could  such 
enterprises  earn  for  him  in  the  Cafe  de  Pro- 
cope?  What  could  it  profit  his  all-precious 
"fame,"  to  pursue  them  farther!  In  the  end, 
he  seems  to  have  heartily  reconciled  himself 
to  use  and  wont,  and  striven  only  to  do  better 
what  he  saw  all  others  doing.  Yet  his  private 
poetical  creed,  which  could  not  be  a  catholic 
one,  was,  nevertheless,  scarcely  so  bigoted  as 
might  have  been  looked  for.  That  censure  of 
Shakspeare,  which  elicited  a  re-censure  in 
England,  perhaps  rather  deserved  a  "recom- 
mendatory epistle,"  all  things  being  considered. 
He  calls  Shakspeare  "  a  genius  full  of  force 
and  fertility,  of  nature  and  sublimity,"  though 
unhappily  "  without  the  smallest  spark  of  good 
taste,  or  the  smallest  acquaintance  with  the 
21 


rules,"  which,  in  Voltaire's  dialect,  is  not  so 
false;  Shakspeare  having  really  almost  no 
Parisian  bon  gout  whatever,  and  walking 
through  "  the  rules,"  so  often  as  he  sees  good, 
with  the  most  astonishing  tranquillity.  After 
a  fair  enough  account  of  Hamlet,  the  best  of 
those  "farces  monslrueuses  qu'on  appelle  tragedies,^* 
where,  however,  there  are  "  scenes  so  beauti- 
ful, and  passages  so  grand  and  so  terrible," 
Voltaire  thus  proceeds  to  resolve  two  great 
problems : 

"  The  first,  how  so  many  wonders  could  ac- 
cumulate in  a  single  head  1  for  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  all  the  divine  Shakspeare's  plays 
are  written  in  this  taste:  the  second,  how 
men's  minds  could  have  been  elevated  so  as  to 
look  at  these  plays  with  transport ;  and  how 
they  are  still  followed  after,  in  a  century  which 
has  produced  Addison's  Cato  ? 

"  Our  astonishment  at  the  first  wonder  will 
cease,  when  we  understand  that  Shakspeare 
took  all  his  tragedies  from  histories  or  ro- 
mances; and  that  in  this  case  he  only  turned 
into  verse  the  romance  of  Claudius,  Gertrude, 
and  Hamlet,  written  in  full  by  Saxo  Grammati- 
cus,  to  whom  be  the  praise. 

"The  second  part  of  the  problem,  that  is  to 
say,  the  pleasure  men  take  in  these  tragedies, 
presents  a  little  more  difficulty ;  but  here  is  (en 
void)  the  solution,  according  to  the  deep  reflec- 
tions of  certain  philosophers. 

"The  English  chairmen,  the  sailors,  hack- 
ney-coachmen, shop-porters,  butchers,  clerks 
even  are  passionately  fond  of  shows :  give  them 
cock  -  fights,  bull-baitings,  fencing  -  matches, 
burials,  duels,  gibbets,  witchcraft,  apparitions, 
they  run  thither  in  crowds  ;  nay,  there  is  more 
than  one  patrician  as  curious  as  the  populace. 
The  citizens  of  London  found  in  Shakspeare's 
tragedies,  satisfaction  enough  for  such  a  turn 
of  mind.  The  courtiers  were  obliged  to  follow 
the  torrent :  how  can  you  help  admiring  what 
the  more  sensible  part  of  the  town  admires  1 
There  was  nothing  better  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years ;  the  admiration  grew  with  age,  and 
became  an  idolatry.  Some  touches  of  genius, 
some  happy  verses  full  of  force  and  nature, 
which  you  remember  in  spite  of  yourself, 
atoned  for  the  remainder,  and  soon  the  whole 
piece  succeeded  by  the  help  of  some  beauties 
of  detail."— CBttrm,  t.  xlvii.  p.  300. 

Here,  truly,  is  a  comfortable  little  theory, 
which  throws  light  on  more  than  one  thing.. 
However,  it  is  couched  in  mild  terms,  com- 
paratively speaking.  Frederic  the  Great,  for 
example,  thus  gives  his  verdict : 

"  To  convince  yourself  of  the  wretched  taste 
that  up  to  this  day  prevails  in  Germany,  you 
have  only  to  visit  the  public  theatres..  You 
will  there  see,  in  action,  the  abominable  plays 
of  Shakspeare,  translated  into  our  language;, 
and  the  whole  audience  fainting  with  rapture 
(se  pamer  d'aise)  in  listening  to  those  ridiculous 
farces,  worthy  of  the  savages  of  Canada.  I 
call  them  such,  because  they  sin  against  all 
the  rules  of  the  theatre.  One  may  pardon 
those  mad  sallies  in  Shakspeare,  for  the  birth 
of  the  arts  is  never  the  point  of  their  maturity.. 
But  here,  even  now,  we  have  a  Goetz  de  Ber- 
lichingen,  which  has  just  made  its  appearance 
on  the  scene;  a  detestible  imitation  of  those 
o2 


162 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


miserable  English  pieces ;  and  the  pit  applauds, 
and  demands  with  enthusiasm  the  repetition 
of  these  disgusting  ineptitudes  {de  ces  degoutantes 
platitudes.) — De  la  Litterature  Allemande.  Ber- 
lin, 1780.* 

We  have  not  cited  these  criticisms  with  a 
view  to  impugn  them ;  but  simply  to  ascertain 
where  the  critics  themselves  are  standing. 
This  passage  of  Frederic's  has  even  a  touch 
of  pathos  in  it;  may  be  regarded  as  the  expiring 
cry  of  "  Gout"  in  that  country,  who  sees  him- 
self suddenly  beleaguered  by  strange,  appall- 
ing, Supernatural  influences,  which  he  mis- 
takes for  Lapland  witchcraft,  or  Cagliostro 
jugglery;  and  so  he  drowns,  grasping  his 
opera-hat,  in  an  ocean  of  '*  Degoutantes  plati- 
tudes" On  the  whole,  it  would  appear  that 
Voltaire's  view  of  poetry  was  radically  different 
from  ours ;  that,  in  fact,  of  what  we  should 
strictly  call  poetry,  he  had  almost  no  view 
whatever.  A  Tragedy,  a  Poem,  with  him  is 
not  to  be  "  a  manifestation  of  man's  Reason  in 
forms  suitable  to  his  Sense ;"  but  rather  a 
highly  complex  egg-dance,  to  be  danced  before 
the  King,  to  a  given  tune,  and  without  break- 
ing a  single  egg.  Nevertheless,  let  justice  be 
shown  to  him,  and  to  French  poetry  at  large. 
This  latter  is  a  peculiar  growth  of  our  modern 
ages;  has  been  labouriously  cultivated,  and  is 
not  without  its  own  value.  We  have  to  re- 
mark also,  as  a  curious  fact,  that  it  has  been, 
at  one  time  or  other,  transplanted  into  all  coun- 
tries, England,  Germany,  Spain ;  but  though 
under  the  sunbeams  of  royal  protection,  it 
would  strike  root  nowhere.  Nay,  now  it  seems 
falling  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  in  its  own 
natal  soil :  the  axe  has  already  been  seen  near  its 
root;  and  perhaps,  in  no  great  lapse  of  years, 
this  species  of  poetry  may  be  to  the  French, 
what  it  is  to  all  other  nations,  a  pleasing  re- 
miniscence. Yet  the  elder  French  loved  it 
with  zeal ;  to  them  it  must  have  had  a  true 
worth:  indeed  we  can  understand  how,  when 
Life  itself  consisted  so  much  in  Display,  these 
Tepresentatives  of  Life  may  have  been  the  only 
suitable  ones.  And  now,  when  the  nation  feels 
itself  called  to  a  more  grave  and  nobler  destiny 
among  nations,  the  want  of  a  new  literature 
also  begins  to  be  felt.  As  yet,  in  looking  at 
their  too  purblind,  scrambling  controversies 
of  Romanticists  and  Classicists,  we  cannot  find 
;that  our  ingenious  neighbours  have  done  much 
more  than  make  a  commencement  in  this  enter- 
prise: however,  a  commencement  seems  to 
be  made ;  they  are  in  what  may  be  called  the 
eclectic  state  ;  trying  all  things,  German,  Eng- 
lish, Italian,  Spanish,  with  a  candour  and  real 
love  of  improvement,  which  give  the  best 
omens  of  a  still  higher  success.  From  the 
peculiar  gifts  of  the  French,  and  their  peculiar 
spiritual  position,  we  may  expect,  had  they 
once  more  attained  to  an  original  style,  many 
important  benefits,  and  important  accessions 
to  the  Literature  of  the  World.  Meanwhile,  in 
considering  and  duly  estimating  what  that 
people  has,  in  past  times,  accomplished,  Vol- 
taire must  always  be  reckoned  among  their 
most  meritorious  Poets.    Inferior  in  what  we 


*  We  quote  from  the  compilation :  Goethe  in  den  Zeug- 
aissen  der  Mtlebenden,  s.  124. 


may  call  general  poetic  temperament  to  Ra- 
cine; greatly  inferior,  in  some  points  of  it,  to 
Corneille,  he  has  an  intellectual  vivacity,  a 
quickness  both  of  sight  and  of  invention,  which 
belongs  to  neither  of  these  two.  We  believe 
that,  among  foreign  nations,  his  Tragedies, 
such  works  as  Zaire  and  Mahomet,  are  con- 
siderably the  most  esteemed  of  this  school. 

However,  it  is  nowise  as  a  Poet,  Historian, 
or  Novelist,  that  Voltaire  stands  so  prominent 
in  Europe ;  but  chiefly  as  a  religious  Polemic, 
as  a  vehement  opponent  of  the  Christian 
Faith.  Viewed  in  this  last  character,  he  may 
give  rise  to  many  grave  reflections,  only  a 
small  portion  of  which  can  here  be  so  much  as 
glanced  at.  We  may  say,  in  general,  that  his 
style  of  controversy  is  of  a  piece  with  himself; 
not  a  higher,  and  scarcely  a  lower  style  than 
might  have  been  expected  from  him.  As  in  a 
moral  point  of  view,  Voltaire  nowise  wanted  a 
love  of  truth,  yet  had  withal  a  still  deeper  love 
of  his  own  interest  in  truth ;  was,  therefore, 
intrinsically  no  Philosopher,  but  a  highly-ac- 
complished Trivialist;  so  likewise,  in  an  in- 
tellectual point  of  view,  he  manifests  himself 
ingenious  and  adroit,  rather  than  noble  or 
comprehensive;  fights  for  truth  or  victory,  not 
by  patient  meditation,  but  by  light  sarcasm, 
whereby  victory  may  indeed,  for  a  time,  be 
gained ;  but  little  Truth,  what  can  be  named 
Truth,  especially  in  such  matters  as  this,  is  to 
be  looked  for. 

No  one,  we  suppose,  ever  arrogated  for  Vol- 
taire any  praise  of  originality  in  this  discus- 
sion ;  we  suppose  there  is  not  a  single  idea,  of 
any  moment,  relating  to  the  Christian  religion, 
in  all  his  multifarious  writings,  that  had  not 
been  set  forth  again  and  again  before  his  en- 
terprises commenced.  The  labours  of  a  very 
mixed  multitude,  from  Porphyry  down  to  Shaf- 
tesbury, including  Hobbeses,  Tindals,  Tolands, 
some  of  them  skeptics  of  a  much  nobler  class, 
had  left  little  room  for  merit  in  this  kind :  nay, 
Bayle,  his  own  countryman,  had  just  finished 
a  life  spent  in  preaching  skepticism  precisely 
similar,  and  by  methods  precisely  similar, 
when  Voltaire  appeared  on  the  arena.  Indeed, 
skepticism,  as  we  have  before  observed,  was 
at  this  period  universal  among  the  higher  ranks 
in  France,  with  whom  Voltaire  chiefly  associ- 
ated. It  is  only  in  the  merit  and  demerit  of 
grinding  down  this  grain  into  food  for  the 
people,  and  inducing  so  many  to  eat  of  it,  that 
Voltaire  can  claim  any  singularity.  However, 
we  quarrel  not  with  him  on  this  head :  there 
may  be  cases  where  the  want  of  originality  is 
even  a  moral  merit.  But  it  is  a  much  more 
serious  ground  of  offence  that  he  intermeddled 
in  Religion  without  being  himself,  in  any  mea- 
sure, Religious ;  that  he  entered  the  T^emple 
and  continued  there,  with  a  levity,  which,  in 
any  Temple  where  men  worship,  can  beseem 
no  brother  man ;  that,  in  a  word,  he  ardently, 
and  with  long-continued  effort,  warred  against 
Christianity,  without  understanding  beyond  the 
mere  superficies  of  what  Christianity  was. 

His  polemical  procedure  in  this  matter,  it 
appears  to  us,  must  now  be  admitted  to  have 
been,  on  the  whole,  a  shallow  one.  Through 
all  its  manifold  forms,  and  involutions,  and  re- 
petitions, it  tarns,  we  believe  exclusively,  on 


VOLTAIRE. 


163 


one  point;  what  Theologians  have  called  the 
"  plenary  Inspiration  of  the  Scriptures."  This 
is  the  single  wall,  against  which,  through  long 
years,  and  with  innumerable  battering-rams  and 
catapults  and  pop-guns,  he  unweariedly  batters. 
Concede  him  this,  and  his  ram  swings  freely,  to 
and  fro,  through  space  ;  there  is  nothing  further 
it  can  even  aim  at.  That  the  Sacred  Books 
could  be  aught  else  than  a  Bank-of-Faith  Bill, 
for  such  and  such  quantities  of  Enjoyment, 
payable  at  sight  in  the  other  world,  value  re- 
ceived ;  which  bill  becomes  waste  paper,  the 
stamp  being  questioned : — that  the  Christian 
Religion  could  have  any  deeper  foundation 
than  Books,  could  possibly  be  written  in  the 
purest  nature  of  man,  in  mysterious,  inefface- 
able characters,  to  which  Books,  and  all  Reve- 
lations, and  authentic  traditions,  were  but  a 
subsidiary  matter,  were  but  as  the  light  where- 
by that  divine  writing  was  to  be  read ; — nothing 
of  this  seems  to  have,  even  in  the  faintest 
manner,  occurred  to  him.  Yet  herein,  as  we 
believe  that  the  whole  world  has  now  begun 
to  discover,  lies  the  real  essence  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  by  the  negative  or  affirmative  decision 
of  which  the  Christian  Religion,  any  thing  that 
is  worth  calling  by  that  name,  must  fall,  or 
endure  for  ever.  We  believe,  also,  that  the 
wiser  minds  of  our  age  have  already  come  to 
agreement  on  this  question ;  or  rather  never 
were  divided  regarding  it.  Christianity,  the 
"  Worship  of  Sorrow,"  has  been  recognised  as 
divine,  on  far  other  grounds  than  "Essays  on 
Miracles,"  and  by  considerations  infinitely 
deeper  than  would  avail  in  any  mere  "  trial  by 
jury."  He  who  argues  against  it  or  for  it,  in 
this  manner,  may  be  regarded  as  mistaking  its 
nature:  the  Ithuriel,  though  to  our  eyes  he 
wears  a  body,  and  the  fashion  of  armour,  can- 
not be  wounded  with  material  steel.  Our 
fathers  were  wiser  than  we,  when  they  said  in 
deepest  earnestness,  what  we  often  hear  in 
shallow  mockery,  that  Religion  is  "not  of 
Sense,  but  of  Faith;"  not  of  Understanding, 
but  of  Reason.  He  who  finds  himself  without 
this  latter,  who  by  all  his  studying  has  failed 
to  unfold  it  in  himself,  may  have  studied  to 
great  or  to  small  purpose,  we  say  not  which ; 
but  of  the  Christian  Religion,  as  of  many  other 
things,  he  has  and  can  have  no  knowledge. 

The  Christian  Doctrine  we  often  hear 
likened  to  the  Greek  Philosophy,  and  found, 
on  all  hands,  some  measurable  way  superior 
to  it:  but  this  also  seems  a  mistake.  The 
Christian  Doctrine,  that  doctrine  of  Humility, 
in  all  senses,  godlike,  and  the  parent  of  all 
godlike  virtues,  is  not  superior,  or  inferior,  or 
equal,  to  any  doctrine  of  Socrates  or  Thales; 
being  of  a  totally  different  nature;  differing 
from  these,  as  a  perfect  Ideal  Poem  does  from 
a  Correct  Computation  in  Arithmetic.  He 
who  compares  it  with  such  standards  may  la- 
ment that,  beyond  the  mere  letter,  the  purport 
of  this  divine  Humility  has  never  been  dis- 
closed to  him  ;  that  the  loftiest  feeling  hitherto 
vouchsafed  to  mankind  is  as  yet  hidden  from 
his  eyes. 

For  the  rest,  the  question  how  Christianity 
originated  is  doubtless  a  high  question ;  re- 
solvable enough,  if  we  view  only  its  surface, 
which  was  all  that  Voltaire  saw  of  it ;  involved 


in  sacred,  silent,  unfathomable  depths,  if  we 
investigate  its  interior  meanings ;  which  mean- 
ings, indeed,  it  may  be,  every  new  age  will 
develop  to  itself  in  a  new  manner,  and  with 
new  degrees  of  light ;  for  the  whole  truth  may 
be  called  infinite,  and  to  man's  eye  discernible 
only  in  parts  :  but  the  question  itself  is  nowise 
the  ultimate  one  in  this  matter. 

We  understand  ourselves  to  be  risking  no 
new  assertion,  but  simply  reporting  what  is 
already  the  conviction  of  the  greatest  in  our 
age,  when  we  say, — that  cheerfully  recognising, 
gratefully  appropriating  whatever  Voltaire  has 
proved,  or  any  other  man  has  proved,  or  shall 
prove,  the  Christian  Religion,  once  here,  cannot 
again  pass  away;  that,  in  one  or  the  other 
form,  it  will  endure  through  all  time ;  that,  as 
in  Scripture,  so  also  in  the  heart  of  man,  is 
written,  "  the  Gates  of  Hell  shall  not  prevail 
against  it."  Were  the  memory  of  this  Faith 
never  so  obscured,  as,  indeed,  in  all  times,  the 
coarse  passions  and  perceptions  of  the  world 
do  all  but  obliterate  it  in  the  hearts  of  most; 
yet  in  every  pure  soul,  in  every  Poet  and  Wise 
Man,  it  finds  a  new  Missionary,  a  new  Martyr, 
till  the  great  volume  of  Universal  History  is 
finally  closed,  and  man's  destinies  are  fulfilled 
in  this  earth.  "It  is  a  height  to  which  the 
human  species  were  fated  and  enabled  to  at- 
tain; and  from  which,  having  once  attained 
it,  they  can  never  retrograde." 

These  things,  which  it  were  far  out  of  our 
place  to  attempt  adequately  elucidating  here, 
must  not  be  left  out  of  sight,  in  appreciating 
Voltaire's  polemical  worth.  We  find  no  trace 
of  these,  or  of  any  the  like  essential  considera- 
tions having  been  present  with  him,  in  examin- 
ing the  Christian  Religion  ;  nor  indeed  was  it 
consistent  with  his  general  habits  that  they 
should  be  so.  Totally  destitute  of  religious 
Reverence,  even  of  common  practical  serious- 
ness ;  by  nature  or  habit,  undevout  both  in 
heart  and  head ;  not  only  without  any  Belief, 
in  other  than  a  material  sense,  but  without  the 
possibility  of  acquiring  any,  he  can  be  no  safe 
or  permanently  useful  guide  in  this  investiga- 
tion. We  may  consider  him  as  having  opened 
the  way  to  future  inquirers  of  a  truer  spirit ; 
but  for  his  own  part,  as  having  engaged  in  an 
enterprise,  the  real  nature  of  which  was  well- 
nigh  unknown  to  him;  and  engaged  in  it  with 
the  issue  to  be  anticipated  in  such  a  case; 
producing  chiefly  confusion,  dislocation,  de- 
struction, on  all  hands;  so  that  the  good  he 
achieved  is  still,  in  these  times,  found  mixed 
with  an  alarming  proportion  of  evil,  from 
which,  indeed,  men  rationally  doubt  whether 
much  of  it  will  in  any  time  be  separable. 

We  should  err  widely,  too,  if  in  estimat- 
ing what  quantity,  altogether  overlooking  what 
quality,  of  intellect  Voltaire  may  have  mani- 
fested on  this  occasion,  we  took  the  result 
produced  as  any  measure  of  the  force  applied. 
His  task  was  not  one  of  Affirmation,  but  of 
Denial ;  not  a  task  of  erecting  and  rearing  up, 
which  is  slow  and  laborious ;  but  of  destroy- 
ing and  overturning,  which  in  most  cases  is 
rapid  and  far  easier.  The  force  necessary  for 
him  was  nowise  a  great  and  noble  one;  but  a 
small,  in  some  respects  a  mean  one,  to  be 
nimbly   and    seasonably  put   in    use.     The 


164 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Ephesian  Temple,  which  it  had  employed 
many  wise  heads  and  strong  arms,  for  a  life- 
time, to  build,  could  be  w«-built  by  one  mad- 
man, in  a  single  hour. 
/^  Of  such  errors,  deficiencies,  and  positive 
/  misdeeds,  it  appears  to  us,  a  just  criticism 
I  must  accuse  Voltaire :  at  the  same  time,  we 
can  nowise  join  in  the  condemnatory  clamour 
which  so  many  worthy  persons,  not  without 
the  best  intentions,  to  this  day  keep  up  against 
him.  His  whole  character  seems  to  be  plain 
enough,  common  enough,  had  not  extraneous 
influences  so  perverted  our  views  regarding  it : 
nor,  morally  speaking,  is  it  a  worse  character, 
but  considerably  a  better  one,  than  belongs  to 
the  mass  of  men.  Voltaire's  aims  in  opposing 
the  Christian  Religion  were  unhappily  of  a 
mixed  nature  :  yet,  after  all,  very  nearly  such 
aims  as  we  have  often  seen  directed  against 
it,  and  often  seen  directed  in  its  favour:  a 
little  love  of  finding  Truth,  with  a  great  love 
of  making  Proselytes  ;  which  last  is  in  itself 
a  natural,  universal  feeling  ;  and  if  honest,  is, 
even  in  the  worst  cases,  a  subject  for  pity,  ra- 
ther than  for  hatred.  As  a  light,  careless, 
courteous  Man  of  the  World,  he  offers  no 
hateful  aspect;  on  the  contrary,  a  kindly,  gay, 
rather  amiable  one :  hundreds  of  men,  with 
half  his  worth  of  disposition,  die  daily,  and 
their  little  world  laments  them.  It  is  lime 
that  he  too  should  be  judged  of  by  his  intrin- 
sic, not  by  his  accidental  qualities  ;  that  jus- 
Vtice  should  be  done  to  him  also  ;  for  injustice 
can  profit  no  man  and  no  cause. 
•  In  fact,  Voltaire's  chief  merits  belong  to 
Nature  and  himself;  his  chief  faults  are  of 
his  time  and  country-^  In  that  famous  era  of 
the  Pompadours  and  E7icyclopedies,  he  forms  the 
main  figure ;  and  was  such,  Ave  have  seen, 
more  by  resembling  the  multitude,  than  by 
differing  from  them.  It  was  a  strange  age 
that  of  Louis  XV. ;  in  several  points,  a  novel 
one  in  the  history  of  mankind.  In  regard  to 
its  luxury  and  depravity,  to  the  high  culture 
of  all  merely  practical  and  material  faculties, 
and  the  entire  torpor  of  all  the  purely  contem- 
plative and  spiritual,  this  era  considerably  re- 
sembles that  of  the  Roman  Emperors.  There, 
too,  was  external  splendour  and  internal 
squalour ;  the  highest  completeness  in  all  sen- 
sual arts,  including  among  these  not  cookery 
and  its  adjuncts  alone,  but  even  "  effect-paint- 
ing" and  "  effect-writing ; "  only  the  art  of 
virtuous  living  was  a  lost  one.  Instead  of 
Love  for  Poetry,  there  was  "  Taste  "  for  it ; 
refinement  in  manners,  with  utmost  coarse- 
ness in  morals :  in  a  word,  the  strange  spec- 
tacle of  a  social  system,  embracing  large, 
cultivated  portions  of  the  human  species,  and 
founded  only  on  Atheism.  With  the  Romans, 
things  went  what  we  should  call  their  natural 
course  :  Liberty,  public  spirit,  quietly  declined 
into  a  caput-mortuum ;  Self-love,  Materialism, 
Baseness  even  to  the  disbelief  in  all  possibi- 
lity of  Virtue,  stalked  more  and  more  imperi- 
ously abroad  ;  till  the  body-politic,  long  since 
deprived  of  its  vital  circulating  fluids,  had 
now  become  a  putrid  carcass,  and  fell  in  pieces 
to  be  the  prey  of  ravenous  wolves.  Then 
was  there,  under  those  Attilas  and  Alarics,  a 
world's-spectacle  of  destruction  and  despair, 


compared  with  which  the  often-commemorated 
"  horrors  of  the  French  Revolution,"  and  all 
Napoleon's  wars,  were  but  the  gay  jousting  of 
a  tournament  to  the  sack  of  stormed  cities. 
Our  European  community  has  escaped  the  like 
dire  consummation;  and  by  causes,  which, 
as  may  be  hoped,  will  always  secure  it  from 
such.  Nay,  were  there  no  other  cause,  it  may 
be  asserted,  that  in  a  commonwealth  where 
the  Christian  religion  exists,  where  it  once 
has  existed,  public  and  private  Virtue,  the 
basis  of  all  Strength,  never  can  become  ex- 
tinct; but  in  every  new  age,  and  even  from  the 
deepest  decline,  there  is  a  chance,  and  in  the 
course  of  ages,  a  certainty  of  renovation. 

That  the  Christian  Religion,  or  any  Religion, 
continued  to  exist ;  that  some  martyr  heroism 
still  lived  in  the  heart  of  Europe  to  rise  against 
mailed  Tyranny  when  it  rode  triumphant, — 
was  indeed  no  merit  in  the  age  of  Louis  XV., 
but  a  happy  accident  which  it  could  not  alto- 
gether get  rid  of.  For  that  age  too  is  to  be 
regarded  as  an  experiment,  on  the  great  scale, 
to  decide  the  question,  not  yet,  it  would  ap- 
pear, settled  to  universal  satisfaction :  With 
what  degree  of  vigour  a  political  system, 
grounded  on  pure  Self-interest,  never  so  en- 
lightened, but  without  a  God,  or  any  recogni- 
tion of  the  godlike  in  man,  can  be  expected  to 
flourish ;  or  whether,  in  such  circumstances, 
a  political  system  can  be  expected  to  flourish, 
or  even  to  subsist  at  all  1  It  is  contended  by 
many  that  our  mere  love  of  personal  Pleasure, 
or  Happiness  as  it  is  called,  acting  on  every 
individual,  with  such  clearness  as  he  may 
easily  have,  will  of  itself  lead  him  to,  respect 
the  rights  of  others,  and  wisely  employ  his 
own  :  to  fulfil,  on  a  mere  principle  of  eco- 
nomy, all  the  duties  of  a  good  patriot;  so  that, 
in  what  respects  the  State,  or  the  merely  so- 
cial existence  of  mankind,  Belief,  beyond  the 
testimony  of  the  senses,  and  Virtue,  beyond 
the  very  common  Virtue  of  loving  what  is 
pleasant,  and  hating  what  is  painful,  are  to  be 
considered  as  supererogatory  qualifications, 
as  ornamental,  not  essential.  Many  there  are, 
on  the  other  hand,  who  pause  over  this  doc- 
trine ;  cannot  discover,  in  such  a  universe  of 
conflicting  atoms,  any  principle  by  which  the 
whole  shall  cohere :  for,  if  every  man's  self- 
ishness, infinitely  expansive,  is  to  be  hemmed 
in  only  by  the  infinitely-expansive  selfishness 
of  every  other  man,  it  seems  as  if  we  should 
have  a  world  of  mutually-repulsive  bodies 
with  no  centripetal  force  to  bind  them  toge- 
ther ;  in  which  case,  it  is  well  known  they 
would,  by  and  by,  diffuse  themselves  over 
space,  and  constitute  a  remarkable  Chaos,  but 
no  habitable  Solar  or  Stellar  System. 

If  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  was  not  made  an 
experimentum  crucis  in  regard  to  this  question, 
one  reason  may  be  that  such  experiments  are 
too  expensive.  Nature  cannot  afford,  above 
once  or  twice  in  the  thousand  years,  to  destroy 
a  whole  world,  for  purposes  of  science ; 
but  must  content  herself  with  destroying  one 
or  two  kingdoms.  The  age  of  Louis  XV.,  so 
far  as  it  went,  seems  a  highly  illustrative  ex- 
periment. We  are  to  remark,  also,  that  its 
operation  was  clogged  by  a  very  considerable 
disturbing  force ;  by  a  large  remnant,  namely, 


VOLTAIRE. 


165 


<. 


of  the  old  faith  in  Religion,  in  the  invisible, 
celestial  nature  of  Virtue,  which  our  French 
Purifiers,  by  their  utmost  efforts  of  lavation, 
had  not  been  able  to  wash  away.  The  men 
did  their  best,  but  no  man  can  do  more.  Their 
worst  enemy,  we  imagine,  will  not  accuse 
them  of  any  undue  regard  to  things  unseen 
and  spiritual :  far  from  practising  this  invisi- 
ble sort  of  Virtue,  they  cannot  even  believe 
in  its  possibility.  The  high  exploits  and  en- 
durances of  old  ages  were  no  longer  virtues, 
but  "  passions  ;"  these  antique  persons  had  a 
taste  for  being  heroes,  a  certain  fancy  to  die 
for  the  truth:  the  more  fools  they!  With  our 
Philosophers,  the  only  virtue  of  any  civilization 
was  that  they  call  "  Honour,"  the  sanctioning 
deity  of  which  is  that  wonderful  "Force  of 
Public  Opinion."  Concerning  which  virtue 
of  Honour,  we  must  be  permitted  to  say  that 
she  reveals  herself  too  clearly,  as  the  daughter 
and  heiress  of  our  old  acquaintance  Vanity, 
who  indeed  has  been  known  enough,  ever 
since  the  foundation  of  the  world,  at  least 
since  the  date  of  that  "  Lucifer,  son  of  the 
Morning;"  but  known  chiefly  in  her  proper 
character  of  strolling  actress,  or  cast-clothes 
Abigail ;  and  never  till  that  new  era  had  seen 
her  issue  set  up  as  Queen  and  all-sufiicient 
Dictatress  of  man's  whole  soul,  prescribing 
with  nicest  precision  what,  in  all  practical 
and  all  moral  emergencies,  he  was  to  do  and 
toJbrbeai\,.>Again,  with  regard  to  this  same 
Force '  ofPublic  Opinion,  it  is  a  force  well 
known  to  all  of  us,  respected,  valued  as  of  in- 
dispensable utility,  but  nowise  recognised  as 
a  final  or  divine  force.  We  might  ask  what 
divine,  what  truly  great  thing  had  ever  been 
effected  by  this  force  ?  Was  it  the  Force  of 
Public  Opinion  that  drove  Columbus  to  Ame- 
rica; John  Kepler,  not  to  fare  sumptuously 
among  Rodolph's  Astrologers  and  Fire-eaters, 
but  to  perish  of  want,  discovering  the  true 
System  of  the  Stars  1  Still  more  ineffectual 
do  we  find  it  as  a  basis  of  public  or  private 
Morals.  Nay,  taken  by  itself,  it  may  be  called 
a  baseless  basis ;  for  without  some  ulterior 
sanction,  common  to  all  minds ;  without  some 
belief  in  the  necessary,  eternal,  or  which  is 
the  same,  in  the  supramundane,  divine  nature 
of  Virtue,  existing  in  each  individual,  what 
could  the  moral  judgment  of  a  thousand  or  a 
thousand  thousand  individuals  avail  us  1 
Without  some  such  celestial  guidance,  whence- 
soever  derived,  or  howsoever  named,  it  ap- 
pears to  us  the  Force  of  Public  Opinion  would, 
by  and  by,  become  an  extremely  unprofitable 
one.  "Enlighten  Self-interest!"  cries  the 
Philosophe ;  "Do  but  sufficiently  enlighten  it! 
We  ourselves  have  seen  enlightened  Self-in- 
terests, ere  now;  and  truly,  for  most  part, 
their  light  was  only  as  that  of  a  horn-lantern, 
sufficient  to  guide  the  bearer  himself  out  of 
various  puddles :  but  to  us  and  the  world  of 
comparatively  small  advantage.  And  figure  the 
human  species,  like  an  endless  host,  seeking 
its  way  onwards  through  undiscovered  Time, 
in  black  darkness,  save  that  each  had  his  horn- 
lantern,  and  the  vanguard  some  few  of  glass  ! 
•^  However,  we  will  not  dwell  on  controversial 
niceties.  What  we  had  to  remark  was  that 
this  era,  called  of  Philosophy,  was  in  itself  but 


a  poor  era;  that  any  little  morality  it  had  was 
chiefly  borrowed,  and  from  those  very  ages 
which  it  accounted  so  barbarous.  For  this 
"  Honour,"  this  "  Force  of  Public  Opinion,"  is 
not  asserted,  on  any  side,  to  have  much  reno- 
vating, but  only  a  sustaining  or  preventive 
power  ;  it  cannot  create  new  Virtue,  but  at  best 
may  preserve  what  is  already  there.  Nay,  of 
the  age  of  Louis  XV.,  we  may  say  that  its  very 
Power,  its  material  strength,  its  knowledge,  all 
that  it  had,  was  borrowed.  It  boasted  itself  to 
be  an  age  of  illumination  ;  and  truly  illumina- 
tion there  was  of  its  kind:  only,  except  the 
illuminated  windows,  almost  nothing  to  be  seen 
thereby.  None  of  those  great  Doctrines  or  In- 
stitutions that  have  "  made  man  in  all  points 
a  man ;"  none  even  of  those  Discoveries  that 
have  the  most  subjected  external  Nature  to  his 
purposes,  were  made  in  that  age.  What 
Plough,  or  Printing-press,  what  Chivalry,  or 
Christianity  ;  nay,  what  Steam-engine,  or  Qua- 
kerism, or  Trial  by  Jury,  did  these  Encyclo- 
pedists invent  for  mankind!  They  invented 
simply  nothing  ;  not  one  of  man's  virtues,  not 
one  of  man's  powers,  is  due  to  them :  in  all 
these  respects,  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  is  among 
the  most  barren  of  recorded  ages.  Indeed,  the 
whole  trade  of  our  Philosophes  was  directly  the 
opposite  of  invention :  it  was  not  to  produce, 
that  they  stood  there  ;  but  to  criticise,  to  quarrel 
with,  to  rend  in  pieces,  what  had  been  already 
produced; — a  quite  inferior  trade  :  sometimes 
a  useful,  but  on  the  whole  a  mean  trade ;  often 
the  fruit,  and  always  the  parent,  of  meanness, 
in  every  mind  that  permanently  follows  it. 

Considering  the  then  position  of  affairs,  it  is 
not  singular  that  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  should 
have  been  what  it  was  :  an  age  without  noble- 
ness, without  high  virtues,  or  high  manifesta- 
tions of  talent;  an  age  of  shallow  clearness,  of 
polish,  self-conceit,  skepticism,  and  all  forms 
of  Persiflage.  As  little  does  it  seem  surprising, 
or  peculiarly  blamable,  that  Voltaire,  the  lead- 
ing man  of  that  age,  should  have  partaken 
largely  of  all  its  qualities.  True,  his  giddy 
activity  took  serious  effect,  the  light  firebrands, 
which  he  so  carelessly  scattered  abroad,  kin- 
dled fearful  conflagrations :  but  in  these  there 
has  been  good  as  well  as  evil ;  nor  is  it  just 
that,  even  for  the  latter,  he,  a  limited  mortal, 
should  be  charged  with  more  than  mortal's 
responsibility.  After  all,  that  parched,  blighted 
period,  and  the  period  of  earthquakes  and 
tornadoes  which  followed  it,  have  now  well- 
nigh  cleared  away :  they  belong  to  the  Past, 
and  for  us  and  those  that  come  after  us,  are 
not  without  their  benefits,  and  calm  historical 
meaning. 

"  The  thinking  heads  of  all  nations,"  says  a 
deep  observer, "  had  in  secret  come  to  majority  ; 
and,  in  a  mistaken  feeling  of  their  vocation, 
rose  the  more  fiercely  against  antiquated  con- 
straint. The  Man  of  Letters  is,  by  instinct, 
opposed  to  a  Priesthood  of  old  standing:  the 
literary  class  and  the  clerical  must  wage  a  war 
of  extermination,  when  they  are  divided;  for 
both  strive  after  one  place.  Such  division 
became  more  and  more  perceptible,  the  nearer 
we  approached  the  period  of  European  man- 
hood, the  epoch  of  triumphant  Learning;  and 
Knowledge  and  Faith  came  into  more  decided 


166 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


contradiction.  In  the  prevailing  Faith,  as  was 
thought,  lay  the  reason  of  the  universal  degra- 
dation ;  and  by  a  more  and  more  searching 
Knowledge  men  hoped  to  remove  it.  On  all 
hands,  the  Religious  feeling  suffered,  under 
manifold  attacks  against  its  actual  manner  of 
existence,  against  the  Forms  in  which  hitherto 
it  had  imbodied  itself.  The  result  of  that  mo- 
dern way  of  thought  was  named  Philosophy  ; 
and  in  this  all  was  included  that  opposed  itself 
to  the  ancient  way  of  thought,  especially, 
therefore,  all  that  opposed  itself  to  Religion. 
The  original  personal  hatred  against  the 
Catholic  faith  passed,  by  degrees,  into  hatred 
against  the  Bible ;  against  the  Christian  Reli- 
gion, and  at  last  against  Religion  altogether. 
Nay,  more,  this  hatred  of  Religion  naturally 
extended  itself  over  all  objects  of  enthusiasm 
in  general;  proscribed  Fancy  and  Feeling, 
Morality  and  love  of  Art,  the  Future  and  the 
Antique ;  placed  man,  with  an  effort,  foremost 
in  the  series  of  natural  productions ;  and 
changed  the  infinite,  creative  music  of  the 
Universe  into  the  monotonous  clatter  of  a 
bpundless  Mill,  which,  turned  by  the  stream 
of  Chance,  and  swimming  thereon,  was  a  Mill 
of  itself,  without  Architect  and  Miller,  properly, 
a  genuine  perpetuum  mobile,  a  real,  self-grinding 
Mill. 

"  One  enthusiasm  was  generously  left  to  poor 
mankind,  and  rendered  indispensable  as  a 
touchstone  of  the  highest  culture,  for  all  job- 
bers in  the  same :  Enthusiasm  for  this  mag- 
nanimous Philosophy,  and  above  all,  for  these 
its  priests  and  mystagogues.  France  was  so 
happy  as  to  be  the  birthplace  and  dwelling  of 
this  new  Faith,  which  had  thus,  from  patches 
of  pure  knowledge,  been  pasted  together.  Low 
as  Poetry  ranked  in  this  new  Church,  there 
were  some  poets  among  them,  who  for  effect's 
sake  made  use  of  the  old  ornaments  and  old 
lights;  but,  in  so  doing,  ran  a  risk  of  kindling 
the  new  world-system  by  ancient  fire.  More 
cunning  brethren,  however,  were  at  hand  to 
help  ;  and  always  in  season  poured  cold  water 
on  the  warming  audience.  The  members  of 
this  Church  were  restlessly  employed  in  clear- 
ing Nature,  the  Earth,  the  Souls  of  men,  the 
Sciences,  from  all  Poetry;  obliterating  every 
vestige  of  the  Holy :  disturbing,  by  sarcasms, 
the  memory  of  all  lofty  occurrences,  and  lofty 
men ;  disrobing  the  world  of  all  its  variegated 
vesture.  *  »  *  *  Pity  that  Nature  con- 
tinued so  wondrous  and  incomprehensible,  so 
poetical  and  infinite,  all  efforts  to  modernize 
her  notwithstanding!  However,  if  any- 
where an  old  superstition,  of  a  higher  world 
and  the  like,  came  to  light,  instantly,  on  all 
hands,  was  a  springing  of  rattles  ;  that,  if  pos- 
sible, the  dangerous  spark  might  be  extin- 
guished, by  appliances  of  philosophy  and  wit : 
yet  Tolerance  was  the  watchword  of  the  culti- 
vated ;  and  in  France,  above  all,  synonymous 
with  Philosophy.  Highly  remarkable  is  this 
history  of  modern  Unbelief;  the  key  to  all  the 
vast  phenomena  of  recent  times.  Not  till  last 
century,  till  the  latter  half  of  it,  does  the  no- 
velty begin  ;  and  in  a  little  while,  it  expands  to 
an  immeasurable  bulk  and  variety :  a  second 
Reformation,  a  more  comprehensive,  and  more 
specific,  was  unavoidable :  and  naturally  it  first 


visited  that  land  which  was  the  most  modern- 
ized, and  had  the  longest  lain  in  an  asthenic 
state,  from  the  want  of  freedom.  *  *  * 

"  At  the  present  epoch,  however,  we  stand 
high  enough  to  look  back  with  a  friendly  smile 
on  those  bygone  days ;  and  even  in  those 
marvellous  follies  to  discern  curious  crystal- 
lizations of  historical  matter.  Thankfully  will 
we  stretch  out  our  hands  to  those  Men  of 
Letters  and  Philosophes:  for  this  delusion  too 
required  to  be  exhausted;  and  the  scientific 
side  of  things  to  have  full  value  given  it.  More 
beauteous  and  many-coloured  stands  Poesy, 
like  a  leafy  India,  when  contrasted  with  the 
cold,  dead  Spitzbergen  of  that  closet-logic. 
That  in  the  middle  of  the  globe,  an  India,  so 
warm  and  lordly,  might  exist,  must  also  a  cold 
motionless  sea,  dead  cliffs,  mist  instead  of  the 
starry  sky,  and  a  long  night,  make  both  Poles 
uninhabitable.  The  deep  meaning  of  the  laws 
of  Mechanism  lay  heavy  on  those  anchorites 
in  the  deserts  of  Understanding:  the  charm  of 
the  first  glimpse  into  it  overpowered  them  :  the 
Old  avenged  itself  on  them ;  to  the  first  feel- 
ing of  self-consciousness,  they  sacrificed,  with 
wondrous  devotedness,  what  was  holiest  and 
fairest  in  the  world !  and  were  the  first  that, 
in  practice,  again  recognised  and  preached 
forth  the  sacredness  of  Nature,  the  infinitude 
of  Art,  the  independence  of  Knowledge,  the 
worth  of  the  Practical,  and  the  all-presence  of 
the  Spirit  of  History ;  and  so  doing,  put  an  end 
to  a  Spectre-dynasty,  more  poieut,  universal, 
and  terrific  than  perhaps  they  themselves  were 
aware  of."* 

How  far  our  readers  will  accompany  Novalis 
in  such  high-soaring  speculation  is  not  for  us 
to  say.  Meanwhile,  that  the  better  part  of 
them  have  already,  in  their  own  dialect,  united 
with  him,  and  with  us,  in  candid  tolerance,  in 
clear  acknowledgment,  towards  French  Phi- 
losophy, towards  this  Voltaire  and  the  spiritual 
period  which  bears  his  name,  we  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  believe.  Intolerance,  animosity,  can 
forward  no  cause ;  and  least  of  all  beseems  the 
cause  of  moral  and  religious  truth.  A  wise 
man  has  well  reminded  us,  that  "  in  any  con- 
troversy, the  instant  we  feel  anger,  we  have 
already  ceased  striving  for  Truth,  and  begun 
striving  for  Ourselves."  Let  no  man  doubt  that 
Voltaire  and  his  disciples,  like  all  men  and 
all  things  that  live  and  act  in  God's  world, 
will  one  day  be  found  to  have  "  worked  to- 
gether for  good."  Nay  that  with  all  his  evil, 
he  has  already  accomplished  good,  must  be 
admitted  in  the  soberest  calculation.  How 
much  do  we  include  in  this  one  little  word : 
He  gave  the  death-stab  to  modern  Superstition. 
That  horrid  incubus,  which  dwelt  in  darkness, 
shunning  the  light,  is  passing  away ;  with  all 
its  racks,  and  poison-chalices,  and  foul  sleep- 
ing-draughts, is  passing  away  without  return. 
He  who  sees  even  a  little  way  into  the  signs 
of  the  times,  sees  well  that  both  the  Smithfield 
fires  and  the  Edinburgh  thumbscrews  (for 
these  too  must  be  held  in  remembrance)  are 
things  which  have  long,  very  long,  lain  be- 
hind us;  divided  from  us  by  a  wall  of  cen- 
turies, transparent  indeed,  but  more  impassable 

*  Novalis  Schriften,  i.,  s.  198. 


NOVALIS. 


167 


than  adamant.  For,  as  we  said,  Superstition 
is  in  its  death-lair ;  the  last  agonies  may  endure 
for  decades,  or  for  centuries;  but  it  carries  the 
iron  in  its  heart,  and  will  not  vex  the  earth  any- 
more. 

That,  with  Superstition,  Religion  is  also 
passing  away,  seems  to  us  a  still  more  un- 
grounded fear.  Religion  cannot  pass  away. 
The  burning  of  a  little  straw  may  hide  the 
stars  of  the  sky ;  but  the  stars  are  there,  and 
will  re-appear.  On  the  whole,  we  must  repeat 
the  often-repeated  saying,  that  it  is  unworthy 
a  religious  man  to  view  an  irreligious  one 
either  with  alarm  or  aversion  or  with  any  other 
feeling  than  regret,  and  hope,  and  brotherly 


commiseration.  If  he  seek  Truth,  is  he  not 
our  brother,  and  to  be  pitied  ?  If  he  do  not 
seek  truth,  is  he  not  still  our  brother,  and  to 
be  pitied  still  more  1  Old  Ludovicus  Vives 
has  a  story  of  a  clown  that  killed  his  ass  be- 
cause it  had  drunk  up  the  moon,  and  he  thought 
the  world  could  ill  spare  that  luminary.  So  he 
killed  his  ass,  ut  lunam  redderet.  The  clown 
was  well-intentioned,  but  unwise.  Let  us  not 
imitate  him  ;  let  us  not  slay  a  faithful  servant 
who  has  carried  us  far.  He  has  not  drunk  the 
moon ;  but  only  the  reflection  of  the  moon,  in 
his  own  poor  water-pail,  where,  too,  it  may  be, 
he  was  drinking  with  purposes  the  most  harm- 
less. 


NOVALIS.* 

[Foreign  Review,  1829.] 


A  NUMBER  of  years  ago,  Jean  Paul's  copy 
of  Novalis  led  him  to  infer  that  the  German 
reading  world  was  of  a  quick  disposition ;  in- 
asmuch as  with  regard  to  books  that  required 
more  than  one  perusal,  it  declined  perusing 
them  at  all.  Paul's  Novalis,  we  suppose,  was 
of  the  first  Edition,  uncut,  dusty,  and  lent  him 
from  the  Public  Library  with  willingness,  nay, 
with  joy;  but  times,  it  would  appear,  must  be 
considerably  changed  since  then ;  indeed,  were 
we  to  judge  of  German  reading  habits  from 
these  volumes  of  ours,  we  should  draw  quite 
an  opposite  conclusion  of  Paul's  ;  for  they  are 
of  the  fourth  Edition,  perhaps  therefore  the 
ten-thousandth  copy,  and  that  of  a  Book  de- 
manding, whether  deserving  or  not,  to  be 
oftener  read  than  almost  any  other  it  has  ever 
been  our  lot  to  examine. 

Without  at  all  entering  into  the  merits  of 
Novalis,  we  may  observe  that  we  should  reckon 
it  a  happy  sign  of  Literature,  were  so  solid  a 
fashion  of  study  here  and  there  established  in 
all  countries  ;  for  directly  in  the  teeth  of  most 
"  intellectual  tea-circles,"  it  may  be  asserted 
that  no  good  Book,  or  good  thing  of  any  sort, 
shows  its  best  face  at  first;  nay,  that  the  com- 
monest quality  in  a  true  work  of  Art,  if  its  ex- 
cellence have  any  depth  and  compass,  is  that 
at  first  sight  it  occasions  a  certain  disappoint- 
ment ;  perhaps  even,  mingled  with  its  undeni- 
able beauty,  a  certain  feeling  of  aversion.  Not 
as  if  we  meant,  by  this  remark,  to  cast  a  stone 
at  the  old  guild  of  literary  Improvisators,  or 
any  of  that  diligent  brotherhood  whose  trade  it 
is  to  blow  soap-bubbles  for  their  fellow-crea- 
tures; which  bubbles,  of  course,  if  they  are 
not  seen  and  admired  this  moment,  will  be 
altogether  lost  to  men's  eyes  the  next.  Con- 
sidering the  use  of  these  blowers,  in  civilized 
communities,  we  rather  wish  them  strong 
lungs,  and  all  manner  of  prosperity :  but  simply 


♦  J^ovalis  Schriften.  Herausgegeben  von  Ludwig  Tieck 
und  Friedrich  Schlegel.  (Novalia'  Writings.  Edited  by 
Ludwig  Tierk  and  Friedrich  Schlegel.)   Fourth  Edition. 


2  vols.    Berlin,  ld26. 


we  would  contend  that  such  soap-bubble  guild 
should  not  become  the  sole  one  in  Literature ; 
that  being  indisputably  the  strongest,  it  should 
content  itself  with  this  pre-eminence,  and  not 
tyrannically  annihilate  its  less  prosperous 
neighbours.  For  it  should  be  recollected  that 
Literature  positively  has  other  aims  than  this 
of  amusement  from  hour  to  hour;  nay,  per- 
haps, that  this,  glorious  as  it  may  be,  is  not 
its  highest  or  true  aim.  We  do  say,  therefore, 
that  the  Improvisator  corporation  should  be 
kept  within  limits ;  and  readers,  at  least  a 
certain  small  class  of  readers,  should  under- 
stand that  some  few  departments  of  human 
inquiry  have  still  their  depths  and  difficulties  ; 
that  the  abstruse  is  not  precisely  synonymous 
with  the  absurd;  nay,  that  light  itself  may  be 
darkness,  in  a  certain  state  of  the  eyesight ; 
that,  in  short,  cases  may  occur  when  a  little 
patience  and  some  attempt  at  thought  would 
not  be  altogether  superfluous  in  reading.  Let 
the  mob  of  gentlemen  keep  their  own  ground, 
and  be  happy  and  applauded  there :  if  they 
overstep  that  ground,  they  indeed  may  flourish 
the  better  for  it,  but  the  reader  will  suffer 
damage.  For  in  this  way,  a  reader,  accustomed 
to  see  through  every  thing  in  one  second  of 
time,  comes  to  forget  that  his  wisdom  and 
critical  penetration  are  finite  and  not  infinite ; 
and  so  commits  more  than  one  mistake  in  his 
conclusions.  The  Reviewer,  too,  who  indeed 
is  only  a  preparatory  reader,  as  it  were,  a  sort 
of  sieve  and  drainer  for  the  use  of  more  luxuri- 
ous readers,  soon  follows  his  example :  these 
two  react  still  further  on  the  mob  of  gentle- 
men ;  and  so  among  them  all,  with  this  action 
and  reaction,  matters  grow  worse  and  worse. 

It  rather  seems  to  us  as  if,  in  this  respect 
of  faithfulness  in  reading,  the  Germans  were 
somewhat  ahead  of  us  English ;  at  least  we 
have  no  such  proof  to  show  of  it  as  that  fourth 
Edition  of  Novalis.  Our  Coleridge's  Friend^ 
for  example,  and  Biographia  Literaria,  are  but 
a  slight  business  compared  with  these  Schrif- 
ten; little  more  than  the  Alphabet,  and  that  ia. 


168 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


gilt  letters,  of  such  Philosophy  and  Art  as  is 
here  taught  in  the  form  of  Grammar  and  Rhe- 
torical Compend :  yet  Coleridge's  works  were 
triumphantly  condemned  by  the  whole  review- 
ing world,  as  clearly  unintelligible ;  and  among 
readers  they  have  still  but  an  unseen  circula- 
tion ;  like  living  brooks,  hidden  for  the  present 
under  mountains  of  froth  and  theatrical  snow- 
paper,  and  which  only  at  a  distant  day,  when 
these  mountains  shall  have  decomposed  them- 
selves into  gas  and  earthly  residuum,  may 
roll  forth  in  their  true  limpid  shape,  to  glad- 
den the  general  eye  with  what  beauty  and 
everlasting  freshness  does  reside  in  them.  It 
is  admitted,  too,  on  all  hands,  that  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge is  a  man  of  "genius,"  that  is,  a  man 
having  more  intellectual  insight  than  other 
men ;  and  strangely  enough,  it  is  taken  for 
granted,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  has  less  in- 
tellectual insight  than  any  other.  For  why 
else  are  his  doctrines  to  be  thrown  out  of 
doors,  without  examination,  as  false  and 
worthless,  simply  because  they  are  obscure  ? 
Or  how  is  their  so  palpable  falsehood  to  be 
accounted  for  to  our  minds,  except  on  this  ex- 
traordinary ground ;  that  a  man  able  to  origi- 
nate deep  thoughts  (such  is  the  meaning  of 
genius)  is  unable  to  see  them  when  originated ; 
that  the  creative  intellect  of  a  Philosopher  is 
destitute  of  that  mere  faculty  of  logic  which 
belongs  to  "  all  Attorneys,  and  men  educated 
in  Edinburgh  1"  The  Cambridge  carrier, 
when  asked  whether  his  horse  could  "  draw 
inferences,"  readily  replied,  "Yes,  any  thing 
in  reason ; "  but  here,  it  seems,  is  a  man  of 
genius  who  has  no  similar  gift. 

We  ourselves,  we  confess,  are  too  young  in 
the  study  of  human  nature  to  have  met  with 
any  such  anomaly.  Never  yet  has  it  been  our 
fortune  to  fall  in  with  any  man  of  genius, 
whose  conclusions  did  not  correspond  better 
with  his  premises,  and  not  worse,  than  those 
of  other  men  ;  whose  genius,  when  it  once 
came  to  be  understood,  did  not  manifest  itself  in 
a  deeper,  fuller,  truer  view  of  all  things  human 
and  divine,  than  the  clearest  of  your  so  laud- 
able "  practical  men  "  had  claim  to.  Such, 
we  say,  has  been  our  uniform  experience  ;  so 
uniform,  that  we  now  hardly  ever  expect  to 
see  it  contradicted.  True  it  is,  the  old  Pytha- 
gorean argument  of  "  the  master  said  it,"  has 
long  ceased  to  be  available  :  in  these  days,  no 
man,  except  the  Pope  of  Rome,  is  altogether 
exempt  from  error  of  judgment ;  doubtless  a 
man  of  genius  may  chance  to  adopt  false  opi- 
nions ;  nay,  rather,  like  all  other  sons  of  Adam, 
except  that  same  enviable  Pope,  must  occa- 
sionally adopt  such.  Nevertheless,  we  reckon 
it  a  good  maxim,  that  "no  error  is  fully  con- 
futed till  we  have  seen  not  only  that  it  is  an 
error,  but  fww  it  became  one  ; "  till  finding  that 
it  clashes  with  the  principles  of  truth,  estab- 
lished in  our  own  mind,  we  find  also  in  what 
way  it  had  seemed  to  harmonize  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  truth  established  in  that  other  mind, 
perhaps  so  unspeakably  superior  to  ours. 
Treated  by  this  method  it  still  appears  to  us, 
according  to  the  old  saying,  that  the  errors  of 
the  wise  man  are  literally  more  instructive 
;than  the  truths  of  a  fool.  For  the  wise 
man  travels  in  lofty,  far-seeing  regions ;  the 


fool  in  low-lying,  high-fenced  lanes  :  retracing 
the  footsteps  of  the  former,  to  discover  where 
he  deviated,  whole  provinces  of  the  Universe 
are  laid  open  to  us  ;  in  the  path  of  the  latter, 
granting  even  that  he  have  not  deviated  at  all, 
little  is  laid  open  to  us  but  two  wheel-ruts  and 
two  hedges. 

On  these  grounds  we  reckon  it  more  profit- 
able, in  almost  any  case,  to  have  to  do  with 
men  of  depth,  than  with  men  of  shallowness  : 
and  were  it  possible,  we  would  read  no  book 
that  was  not  written  by  one  of  the  former 
class ;  all  members  of  which  we  would  love 
and  venerate,  how  perverse  soever  they  may 
seem  to  us  at  first ;  nay,  though,  after  the  full- 
est investigation,  we  still  found  many  things 
to  pardon  in  them.  Such  of  our  readers  as  at 
all  participate  in  this  predilection  will  not 
blame  us  for  bringing  them  acquainted  with 
Novalis,  a  man  of  the  most  indisputable  talent, 
poetical  and  philosophical ;  whose  opinions, 
extraordinary,  nay,  altogether  wild  and  base- 
less as  they  often  appear,  are  not  without  a 
strict  coherence  in  his  own  mind,  and  will 
lead  any  other  mind,  that  examines  them  faith- 
fully, into  endless  considerations ;  opening 
the  strangest  inquiries,  new  truths,  or  new 
possibilities  of  truth,  a  whole  unexpected 
world  of  thought,  where,  whether  for  belief  or 
denial,  the  deepest  questions  await  us. 

In  what  is  called  reviewing  such  a  book  as 
this,  we  are  aware  that  to  the  judicious  crafts- 
man two  methods  present  themselves.  The 
first  and  most  convenient  is  for  the  Reviewer 
to  perch  himself  resolutely,  as  it  were,  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  Author,  and  therefrom  to  show 
as  if  he  commanded  him,  and  looked  down  on 
him  by  natural  superiority  of  stature.  What- 
soever the  great  man  says  or  does,  the  little 
man  shall  treat  him  with  an  air  of  knowing- 
ness  and  light  condescending  mockery ;  pro- 
fessing, with  much  covert  sarcasm,  that  this 
and  that  other  is  beyond  his  comprehension, 
and  cunningly  asking  his  readers  if  they  com- 
prehend it!  Herein  it  will  help  him  mightily, 
if  besides  description,  he  can  quote  a  few  pas- 
sages, which,  in  their  detached  state,  and  taken 
most  probably  in  quite  a  wrong  acceptation 
of  the  words,  shall  sound  strange,  and  to  cer- 
tain hearers,  even  absurd ;  all  which  will  be 
easy  enough,  if  he  have  any  handiness  in  the 
business,  and  address  the  right  audience ; 
truths,  as  this  world  goes,  being  true  only  for 
those  that  have  some  understanding  of  them  ; 
as,  for  instance,  in  the  Yorkshire  Wolds,  and 
Thames  Coal-ships,  Christian  men  enough 
might  be  found,  at  this  day,  who,  if  you  read 
them  the  Thirty-ninth  of  the  Principia,  would 
"grin  intelligence  from  ear  to  ear."  On  the 
other  hand,  should  our  Reviewer  meet  with 
any  passage,  the  wisdom  of  which,  deep,  plain, 
and  palpable  to  the  simplest,  might  cause  mis- 
givings in  the  reader,  as  if  here  were  a  man 
of  half-unknown  endowment,  whom  perhaps 
it  were  better  to  wonder  at  than  laugh  at,  our 
Reviewer  either  quietly  suppresses  it,  or  citing 
it  with  an  air  of  meritorious  candour,  calls 
upon  his  Author,  in  a  tone  of  command  and 
encouragement,  to  lay  aside  his  transcendental 
crotchets,  and  write  always  thus,  and  he  will 
admire  him.    Whereby  the  reader  again  feels 


NOVALIS. 


169 


comforted ;  proceeds  swimmingly  to  the  con- 
clusion of  the  "Article,"  and  shuts  it  with  a 
victorious  feeling,  not  only  that  he  and  the 
Reviewer  understand  this  man,  but  also  that, 
with  some  rays  of  fancy  and  the  like,  the  man 
is  little  better  than  a  living  mass  of  darkness. 

In  this  way  does  the  small  Reviewer  triumph 
over  great  Authors :  but  it  is  the  triumph  of  a 
fool.  In  this  way,  too,  does  he  recommend 
himself  to  certain  readers,  but  it  is  the  recom- 
mendation of  a  parasite,  and  of  no  true  servant. 
The  servant  would  have  spoken  truth,  in  this 
case ;  truth,  that  it  might  have  profited,  how- 
ever harsh:  the  parasite  glosses  his  master 
with  sweet  speeches,  that  he  may  filch  ap- 
plause, and  certain  "guineas  per  sheet,"  from 
him;  substituting  for  Ignorance,  which  was 
harmless.  Error  which  is  not  so.  And  yet  to 
the  vulgar  reader,  naturally  enough,  that  flat- 
tering unction  is  full  of  solacement.  In  fact, 
to  a  reader  of  this  sort  few  things  can  be  more 
alarming  than  to  find  that  his  own  little  Parish, 
where  he  lived  so  snug  and  absolute,  is,  after 
si[\,not  the  whole  Universe;  that  beyond  the 
hill  which  screened  his  house  from  the  west 
wind,  and  grew  his  kitchen  vegetables  so 
sweetly,  there  are  other  hills  and  other  ham- 
lets, nay,  mountains  and  towered  cities  ;  with 
all  which,  if  he  would  continue  to  pass  for  a 
Geographer,  he  must  forthwith  make  himself 
acquainted.  Now  this  Reviewer,  often  his  fel- 
low Parishioner,  is  a  safe  man;  leads  him 
pleasantly  to  the  hill  top ;  shows  him  that  in- 
deed there  are,  or  seem  to  be,  other  expanses, 
these,  too,  of  boundless  extent :  but  with  only 
cloud  mountains,  Siiid* fatamorgana  cities;  the 
true  character  of  that  region  being  Vacuity,  or 
at  best  a  stony  desert  tenanted  by  Gryphons 
and  Chimseras. 

Surely,  if  printing  is  not,  like  courtier  speech, 
"  the  art  of  concealing  thought,"  all  this  must  be 
blamable  enough.  Is  it  the  Reviewer's  real 
trade  to  be  the  pander  of  laziness,  self-conceit, 
and  all  manner  of  contemptuous  stupidity  on 
the  part  of  his  reader;  carefully  minister- 
ing to  these  propensities  ;  carefully  fencing  off 
whatever  might  invade  that  fool's-paradise 
with  news  of  disturbance  1  Is  he  the  priest  of 
Literature  and  Philosophy,  to  interpret  their 
mysteries  to  the  common  man ;  as  a  faithful 
preacher,  teaching  him  to  understand  what  is 
adapted  for  his  understanding,  to  reverence 
what  is  adapted  for  higher  understandings 
than  his  1  Or  merely  the  lackey  of  Dullness, 
striving  for  certain  wages,  of  pudding  or  praise, 
by  the  month  or  quarter,  to  perpetuate  the  reign 
of  presumption  and  triviality  on  earth  ?  If  the 
latter,  will  he  not  be  counselled  to  pause  for  an 
instant,  and  reflect  seriously,  whether  starva- 
tion were  worse  or  were  better  than  such  a 
dog's-existencel 

Our  reader  perceives  that  we  are  for  adopt- 
ing the  second  method  with  regard  to  Novalis  ; 
that  we  wish  less  to  insult  over  this  highly- 
gifled  man,  than  to  gain  some  insight  into  him ; 
that  we  look  upon  his  mode  of  being  and 
thinking  as  very  singular,  but  not,  therefore, 
necessarily  very  contemptible ;  as  a  matter,  in 
fact,  worthy  of  examination,  and  difficult  be- 
yond most  others  to  examine  wisely  and  with 
profit.  Let  no  small  man  expect  that,  in  this 
22 


case,  a  Samson  is  to  be  led  forth,  blinded  and 
manacled,  to  make  him  sport.  Nay,  might  it 
not,  in  a  spiritual  sense,  be  death,  as  surely  it 
would  be  damage,  to  the  small  man  himself? 
For  is  not  this  habit  of  sneering  at  all  great- 
ness, of  forcibly  bringing  down  all  greatness  to 
his  own  height,  one  chief  cause  which  keeps 
that  height  so  very  inconsiderable  1  Come  of 
it  what  may,  we  have  no  refreshing  dew  for 
the  small  man's  vanity  in  this  place,  nay, 
rather,  as  charitable  brethren,  and  fellow-suf- 
ferers from  that  same  evil,  we  would  gladly  lay 
the  sickle  to  that  reed-grove  of  self-conceit, 
which  has  grown  round  him,  and  reap  it  alto- 
gether away,  that  so  the  true  figure  of  the 
world,  and  his  ow^n  true  figure,  might  no  longer 
be  utterly  hidden  from  him.  Does  this  our 
brother,  then,  refuse  to  accompany  us,  without 
such  allurements  ?  He  must  even  retain  our 
best  wishes,  and  abide  by  his  own  hearth. 

Farther,  to  the  honest  few  that  still  go  along 
with  us  on  this  occasion,  we  are  bound  in  jus- 
tice to  say  that,  far  from  looking  down  on 
Novalis,  we  cannot  place  either  them  or  our- 
selves on  a  level  with  him.  To  explain  so 
strange  an  individuality,  to  exhibit  a  mind  of 
this  depth  and  singularity  before  the  minds  of 
readers  so  foreign  to  him  in  every  sense,  would 
be  a  vain  pretension  in  us.  With  the  best  will, 
and  after  repeated  trials,  we  have  gained  but  a 
feeble  notion  of  Novalis  for  ourselves;  his 
Volumes  come  before  us  with  every  disad- 
vantage; they  are  the  posthumous  works  of  a 
man  cut  oflT  in  earl}'  life,  while  his  opinions, 
far  from  being  matured  for  the  public  eye, 
were  still  lying  crude  and  disjointed  before  his 
own :  for  most  part  written  down  in  the  shape 
of  detached  aphorisms,  "  none  of  them,"  as  he 
says  himself,  "untrue  or  unimportant  to  his 
own  mind,"  but  naturally  requiring  to  be  re- 
modelled, exjpanded,  compressed,  as  the  matter 
cleared  up  more  and  more  into  logical  unity; 
at  best  but  fragments  of  a  great  scheme  which 
he  did  not  live  to  realize.  If  his  editors.  Fried- 
rich  Schlegel  and  Ludwig  Tieck,  declined  com- 
menting on  these  Writings,  we  may  well  be 
excused  for  declining  to  do  so.  "It  cannot  be 
our  purpose  here,"  says  Tieck,  "  to  recommend 
the  following  Works,  or  to  judge  them ;  pro- 
bable as  it  must  be  that  any  judgment  delivered 
at  this  stage  of  the  matter  would  be  a  prema- 
ture and  unripe  one:  for  a  spirit  of  such 
originality  must  first  be  comprehended,  his  will 
understood,  and  his  loving  intention  felt  and 
replied  to;  so  that  not  till  his  ideas  have  taken 
root  in  other  minds,  and  brought  forth  new 
ideas,  shall  we  see  rightly,  from  the  historical 
sequence,  what  place  he  himself  occupied,  and 
what  relation  to  his  country  he  truly  bore." 

Meanwhile,  Novalis  is  a  figure  of  such  im- 
portance in  German  Literature,  that  no  stu- 
dent of  it  can  pass  him  by  without  attention. 
If  we  must  not  attempt  interpreting  this  Work 
for  our  readers,  we  are  bound  at  least  to  point 
out  its  existence,  and  according  to  our  best 
knowledge,  direct  such  of  them  as  take  an  in- 
terest in  the  matter  how  to  investigate  it  farther 
for  their  own  benefit.  For  this  purpose,  it  may 
be  well  that  we  leave  our  Author  to  speak 
chiefly  for  himself;  subjoining  only  such  ex- 
positions as  cannot  be  dispensed  with  for  evea 


170 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Verbal  intelligibility,  and  as  we  can  offei:  on 
our  own  surety  with  some  degree  of  confidence. 
By  way  of  basis  to  the  whole  inquiry,  we  pre- 
fix some  particulars  of  his  short  life  ;  a  part  of 
our  task  which  Tieck's  clear  and  graceful 
Narrative,  given  as  "  Preface  to  the  Third  Edi- 
tion," renders  easy  for  us. 

Friedrich  von  Hardenberg,  better  known  in 
Literature  by  the  pseudonym  "  Novalis,"  was 
born  on  the  2d  of  May,  1772,  at  a  country  resi- 
dence of  his  family  in  the  Grafschaft  of  Mans- 
field, in  Saxony.  His  father,  who  had  been  a 
soldier  in  youth,  and  still  retained  a  liking  for 
that  profession,  was  at  this  time  Director  of  the 
Saxon  Salt-works;  an  office  of  some  consider- 
able trust  and  dignity.  Tieck  says,  "  he  was  a 
vigorous,  unweariedly  active  man,  of  open, 
resolute  character,  a  true  German.  His  reli- 
gious feelings  -  made  him  a  member  of  the 
Herrnhut  Communion  ;  yet  his  disposition  con- 
tinued gay,  frank,  rugged,  and  downright." 
The  mother  also  was  distinguished  for  her 
worth ;  "  a  pattern  of  noble  piety  and  Christian 
mildness ;"  virtues  which  her  subsequent  life 
gave  opportunity  enough  for  exercising. 

On  young  Friedrich,  whom  we  may  con- 
tinue to  call  Novalis,  the  qualities  of  his  parents 
must  have  exercised  more  than  usual  influ- 
ence ;  for  he  was  brought  up  in  the  most  re- 
tired manner,  with  scarcely  any  associate  but 
a  sister  one  year  older  than  himself,  and  the 
two  brothers  that  were  next  to  him  in  age.  A 
decidedly  religious  temper  seems  to  have  dif- 
fused* itself,  under  many  benignant  aspects, 
over  the  whole  family;  in  Novalis  especially 
it  continued  the  ruling  principle  through  life; 
manifested  no  less  in  his  scientific  specula- 
tion, than  in  his  feelings  and  conduct.  In 
childhood  he  is  said  to  have  been  remarkable 
chiefly  for  the  entire,  enthusiastic  aflTection 
with  which  he  loved  his  mother;  and  for  a 
certain  still  secluded  disposition,  "Such  that  he 
took  no  pleasure  in  boyish  sports,  and  rather 
shunned  the  society  of  other  children.  Tieck 
mentions  that,  till  his  ninth  year,  he  was 
reckoned  nowise  quick  of  apprehension  ;  but, 
at  this  period,  strangely  enough,  some  violent 
biliary  disease,  which  had  almost  cut  him  off, 
seemed  to  awaken  his  faculties  into  proper 
life,  and  he  became  the  readiest,  eagerest 
learner  in  all  branches  of  his  scholarship. 

In  his  eighteenth  year,  after  a  few  months 
of  preparation  in  some  Gymnasium,  the  only  in- 
struction he  appears  to  have  received  in  any 
public  school,  he  repaired  to  Jena  ;  and  con- 
tinued there  for  three  years;  after  which  he 
spent  one  season  in  the  Leipzig  University, 
and  another,  "  to  complete  his  studies,"  in  that 
of  Wittenberg.  It  seems  to  have  been  at  Jena 
that  he  became  acquainted  with  Friedrich 
Schiegel;  where  also,  we  suppose,  he  studied 
under  Fichie.  For  both  of  these  men  he  con- 
ceived a  high  admiration  and  affection ;  and 
both  of  them  had,  clearly  enough,  "  a  great  and 
abiding  effect  on  his  whole  life."  Fichte,  in 
particular,  whose  lofty  eloquence,  and  clear 
calm  enthusiasm  are  said  to  have  made  him 
irresistible  as  a  teacher,*  had  quite  gained 
Novalis  to  his  doctrines;  indeed  the   Wissen- 


*  Schelling,  we  have  been  informed,  gives  account  of 
Fichte   and   hia   WissensehaftsUhre,  to   the  following 


schaftslehre,  which,  as  we  are  told  of  the  latter, 
"  he  studied  with  unwearied  zeal,"  appears  to 
to  have  been  the  groundwork  of  all  his  future 
speculations  in  Philosophy.  Besides  these 
metaphysical  inquiries,  and  the  usual  attain- 
ments in  classical  literature,  Novalis  seems 
"  to  have  devoted  himself  with  ardour  to  the 
Physical  Sciences,  and  to  Mathematics,  the 
basis  of  them  :"  at  an  early  period  of  his  life, 
he  had  read  much  History  "  with  extraordinary 
eagerness  ;"  Poems  had  from  of  old  been  "  the 
delight  of  his  leisure ;"  particularly  that  species 
denominated  Mahrchen,  (Traditionary  Tale,) 
which  continued  a  favourite  with  him  to  the 
last ;  as  almost  from  infancy  it  had  been  a 
chosen  amusement  of  his  to  read  these  composi- 
tions, and  even  to  recite  such,  of  his  own  in- 
vention. One  remarkable  piece  of  that  sort  he 
has  himself  left  us,  inserted  in  Heinrich  von 
Ofterdingen,  his  chief  literary  performance. 

But  the  time  had  now  arrived,  when  study 
must  become  subordinate  to  action,  and  what 
is  called  a  profession  be  fixed  upon.  At  the 
breaking  out  of  the  French  War,  Novalis  had 
been  seized  with  a  strong  and  altogether  un- 
expected taste  for  a  military  life  :  however,  the 
arguments  and  pressing  entreaties  of  his 
friends  ultimately  prevailed  over  this  whim; 
it  seems  to  have  been  settled  that  he  should 
follow  his  father's  line  of  occupation ;  and  so 
about  the  end  of  1794,  he  removed  to  Arnstadt 
in  Thuringia ;  "  to  train  himself  in  practical 
affairs  under  the  Kreis-Amtmann  Just."  In  this 
Kreis-Amtmann  (manager  of  a  Circle)  he  found 
a  wise  and  kind  friend  ;  applied  himself  honest- 
ly to  business  ;  and  in  all  his  serious  calcula- 
tions, may  have  looked  forward  to  a  life  as 
smooth  and  commonplace  as  his  past  years 
had  been.  One  incident,  and  that  too  of  no 
unusual  sort,  appears  in  Tieck's  opinion  to 
have  altered  the  whole  form  of  his  existence. 

"  It  was  not  very  long  after  his  arrival  at 
Arnstadt,  when  in  a  country  mansion  of  the 
neighbourhood,  he   became   acquainted  with 

Sophie  von  K .     The  first  glance  of  this 

fair  and  wonderfully  lovely  form  was  decisive 
for  his  whole  life ;  nay,  we  may  say  that  the 
feeling,  which  now  penetrated  and  inspired 
him,  was  the  substance  and  essence  of  his 
whole  life.  Sometimes,  in  the  look  and  figure 
of  a  child,  there  will  stamp  itself  an  expres- 
sion, which,  as  it  is  too  angelic  and  etherially 
beautiful,  we  are  forced  to  call  unearthly  or 
celestial ;  and  commonly  at  sight  of  such 
purified  and  almost  transparent  faces  there 
comes  on  us  a  fear  that  they  are  too  tender 
and  delicately  fashioned  for  this  life  :  that  it  is 
Death,  or  Immortality,  which  looks  forth  so 
expressively  on  us  from  these  glancing  eyes ; 
and  too  often  a  quick  decay  converts  our 
mournful  foreboding  into  certainty.  Still  more 
affecting  are  such  figures,  when  their  first 
period  is  happily  passed  over,  and  they  come 
before  us  blooming  on  the  eve  of  maidhood. 
All  persons,  that  have  known  this  wondrous 
loved  one  of  our  Friend,  agree  in  testifying 
that  no  description  can  express  in  what  grace 
and  celestial  harmony  the  fair  being  moved, 


effect:  "The  Philosophy  of  Fichte  was  like  light- 
ning ;  it  appeared  only  for  a  moment,  but  it  kindled  a 
fire  which  will  burn  for  ever." 


NOVALIS. 


171 


what  beauty  shone  in  her,  what  softness  and 
majesty  encircled  her.  Novalis  became  a  poet 
every  time  he  chanced  to  speak  of  it.  She  had 
concluded  her  thirteenth  year  when  he  first  saw 
her:  the  spring  and  summer  of  1795  were  the 
blooming  time  of  his  life ;  every  hour  that  he 
could  spare  from  business  he  spent  in  Griin- 
ingen  ;  and  in  the  fall  of  that  same  year  he  ob- 
tained the  wished-for  promise  from  Sophie's 
parents." 

Unhappily,  however,  these  halcyon  days 
were  of  too  short  continuance.  Soon  after  this, 
Sophie  fell  dangerously  sick  "  of  a  fever,  at- 
tended with  pains  in  the  side  ;"  and  her  lover 
had  the  worst  consequences  to  fear.  By  and 
by,  indeed,  the  fever  left  her ;  but  not  the  pain, 
"  which  by  its  violence  still  spoiled  for  her 
many  a  fair  hour,"  and  gave  rise  to  various 
apprehensions,  though  the  Physician  asserted 
that  it  was  of  no  importance.  Partly  satisfied 
with  this  favourable  prognostication,  Novalis 
had  gone  to  Weissenfels,  to  his  parents,  and 
was  full  of  business;  being  now  appointed 
Auditor  in  the  department  of  which  his  father 
was  Director;  through  winter  the  news  from 
Griiningen  were  of  a  favourable  sort;  in 
spring  he  visited  the  family  himself,  and  found 
his  Sophie  to  all  appearance  well.  But  sud- 
denly, in  summer,  his  hopes  and  occupations 
were  interrupted  by  tidings  that,  "  she  was  in 
Jena,  and  had  undergone  a  surgical  operation." 
Her  disease  was  an  abscess  in  the  liver :  it 
had  been  her  wish  that  he  should  not  hear  of 
her  danger  till  the  worst  were  over.  The 
Jena  surgeon  gave  hopes  of  a  recovery  though 
a  slow  one  ;  but  ere  long  the  operation  had  to 
be  repeated,  and  now  it  was  feared  that  his 
patient's  strength  was  too  far  exhausted.  The 
young  maiden  bore  all  this  with  inflexible 
courage,  and  the  cheerfulest  resignation  :  her 
Mother  and  Sister,  Novalis,  with  his  Parents, 
and  two  of  his  Brothers,  all  deeply  interested 
in  the  event,  did  their  utmost  to  comfort  her. 
In  December,  by  her  own  wish,  she  returned 
home ;  but  it  was  evident  that  she  grew  weaker 
and  weaker.  Novalis  went  and  came  between 
Griiningen  and  Weissenfels,  where  also  he 
found  a  house  of  mourning ;  for  Erasmus,  one 
of  these  two  Brothers,  had  long  been  sickly, 
and  was  now  believed  to  be  dying. 

''The  17th  of  March,"  says  Tieck,  "was  the 
fifteenth  birthday  of  his  Sophie ;  and  on  the 
19th  about  noon  she  departed.  No  one  durst 
tell  Novalis  these  tidings :  at  last  his  Brother 
Carl  undertook  it.  The  poor  youth  shut  him- 
self up,  and  after  three  days  and  three  nights  of 
weeping,  set  out  for  Arnstadt,  that  there  with  his 
true  friend  he  might  be  near  the  spot,  which 
now  hid  the  remains  of  what  was  dearest  to 
him.  On  the  14th  of  April,  his  Brother  Eras- 
mus also  left  this  world.  Novalis  wrote  to  in- 
form his  Brother  Carl  of  the  event,  who  had 
been  obliged  to  make  a  journey  into  Lower  Sax- 
ony:  '  Be  of  good  courage,'  said  he,  'Erasmus 
has  prevailed ;  the  flowers  of  ourlfair  garland  are 
dropping  ofi"  Here,  one  by  one,  that  they  may 
be  united  Yonder,  lovelier  and  for  ever.' " 

Among  the  papers  published  in  these  Vo- 
lumes are  three  letters  written  about  this  time, 
which  mournfully  indicate  the  author's  mood. 
"It  has  grown  Evening  around  me,"  says  he, 


"  while  I  was  looking  into  the  red  Morning.  My 
grief  is  boundless  as  my  love.  For  three  years 
she  has  been  my  hourly  thought.  She  alone 
bound  me  to  life,  to  the  country,  to  my  occu- 
pations. With  her  I  am  parted  from  all ;  for 
now  I  scarcely  have  myself  any  more.  But  it 
has  grown  Evening;  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  to 
travel  early ;  and  so  I  would  fain  be  at  rest, 
and  see  nothing  but  kind  faces  about  me ; — all 
in  her  spirit  would  I  live,  be  soft  and  mild- 
hearted  as  she  was."  And  again,  some  weeks 
later :  "  I  live  over  the  old,  bygone  life  here,  in 
still  meditation.  Yesterday  I  was  twenty-five 
years  old.  I  was  in  Griiningen,  and  stood  be- 
.»ide  her  grave.  It  is  a  friendly  spot;  enclosed 
with  a  simple  white  railing ;  lies  apart,  and 
high.  There  is  still  room  in  it.  The  Village, 
with  its  blooming  gardens,  leans  up  around  the 
hill ;  and  at  this  point  and  that  the  eye  loses 
itself  in  blue  distances.  I  know  you  would 
have  liked  to  stand  by  me,  and  stick  the  flowers, 
my  birthday  gifts,  one  by  one  into  her  hillock. 
This  time  two  years,  she  made  me  a  gay  pre- 
sent, with  a  flag  and  national  cockade  on  it.  To- 
day her  parents  gave  me  the  little  things  which 
she,  still  joyfully,  had  received  on  her  last  birth- 
day. Friend, — it  continues  Evening,  and  will 
soon  be  Night.  If  you  go  away,  think  of 
me  kindly,  and  visit,  when  you  return,  the  still 
house,  where  your  Friend  rests  for  ever,  with 
the  ashes  of  his  beloved.  Fare  you  well !" — 
Nevertheless,  a  singular  composure  came  over 
him :  from  the  very  depths  of  his  griefs,  arose 
a  peace  and  pure  joy,  such  as  till  then  he  had 
never  known. 

"  In  this  season,"  observed  Tieck,  "  Novalis 
lived  only  to  his  sorrow  :  it  was  natural  for  him 
to  regard  the  visible  and  the  invisible  world  as 
one;  and  to  distinguish  Life  and  Death,  only 
by  his  longing  for  the  latter.  At  the  same  time, 
too,  Life  became  for  him  a  glorified  Life  ;  and 
his  whole  being  melted  away  as  into  a  bright, 
conscious  vision  of  a  higher  Existence.  From 
the  sacredness  of  Sorrow,  from  heartfelt  love, 
and  the  pious  wish  for  death,  his  temper,  and 
all  his  conceptions  are  to  be  explained :  and  it 
seems  possible  that  this  time,  with  its  deep 
griefs,  planted  in  him  the  germ  of  death,  if  it 
was  not,  in  any  case,  his  appointed  lot  to  be  so 
soon  snatched  away  from  us. 

"  He  remained  many  weeks  in  Thuringia ; 
and  came  back  comforted  and  truly  purified,  to 
his  engagements :  which  he  pursued  more  zea- 
lously than  ever,  though  he  now  regarded  him- 
self as  a  stranger  on  the  earth.  In  this  period, 
some  earlier,  many  later,  especially  in  the  Au- 
tumn of  this  year,  occur  most  of  those  compo- 
sitions, which,  in  the  way  of  extract  and  selec- 
tion, we  have  here  given  to  the  Public,  under 
the  title  of  Fragments :  so  likewise  the  Hymns 
to  the  Night:* 

Such  is  our  Biographer's  account  of  this  mat- 
ter, and  of  the  weighty  inference  it  has  led  him 
to.  We  have  detailed  it  the  more  minutely, 
and  almost  in  the  very  words  of  the  text,  the 
better  to  put  our  readers  in  a  condition  for 
judging  on  what  grounds  Tieck  rests  his  opi- 
nion, that  herein  lies  the  key  to  the  whole  spi- 
ritual history  of  Novalis,  that "  the  feeling  which 
now  penetrated  and  inspired  him,  may  be  said 
to  have  been  the  substance  of  his  Life."    It 


172 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


would  ill  become  us  to  contradict  one  so  well 
qualified  to  judge  of  all  subjects,  and  who  en- 
joyed such  peculiar  opportunities  for  forming 
a  right  judgment  of  this:  meanwhile  we  may 
say  that,  to  our  own  minds,  after  all  considera- 
tion, the  certainty  of  this  hypothesis  will  nowise 
become  clear.  Or  rather,  perhaps,  it  is  to  the 
expression,  to  the  too  determinate  and  exclusive 
language  in  which  the  hypothesis  is  worded, 
that  we  should  object;  for  so  plain  does  the 
truth  of  the  case  seem  to  us,  we  cannot  but  be- 
lieve that  Tieck  himself  would  consent  to 
modify  his  statement.  That  the  whole  philo- 
sophical and  moral  existence  of  such  a  man 
as  Novalis  should  have  been  shaped  and  de- 
termined by  the  death  of  a  young  girl,  almost 
a  child,  specially  distinguished,  so  far  as  is 
shown,  by  nothing  save  her  beauty,  which  at 
any  rate  must  have  been  very  short-lived,  will 
doubtless  seem  to  every  one  a  singular  conca- 
tenation. We  cannot  but  think  that  some  re- 
sult precisely  similiar  in  moral  effect  might 
have  been  attained  by  many  different  means  ; 
nay,  that  by  one  means  or  another,  it  would  not 
have  failed  to  be  attained.  For  spirits  like 
Novalis,  earthly  fortune  is  in  no  instance  so 
sweet  and  smooth,  that  it  does  not  by  and  by 
teach  the  great  doctrine  of  EnUagen,  of  "  Re- 
nunciation," by  which  alone,  as  a  wise  man 
well  known  to  Herr  Tieck  has  observed,  "  can 
the  real  entrance  on  Life  be  properly  said  to 
begin."  Experience,  the  grand  School-master, 
seems  to  have  taught  Novalis  this  doctrine 
very  early  by  the  wreck  of  his  first  passionate 
wish  ;  and  herein  lies  the  real  influence  of  So- 
phie von  K.  on  his  character;  an  influence 
which,  as  we  imagine,  many  other  things  might 
and  would  have  equally  exerted  :  for  it  is  less 
the  severity  of  the  Teacher  than  the  aptness  of 
the  Pupil  that  secures  the  lesson ;  nor  do  the 
purifying  effects  of  frustrated  Hope,  and  Affec- 
tion that  in  this  world  will  ever  be  homeless,  de- 
pend on  the  worth  or  loveliness  of  its  objects, 
but  on  that  of  the  heart  which  cherished  it,  and 
can  draw  mild  wisdom  from  so  stern  a  disap- 
pointment. We  do  not  say  that  Novalis  con- 
tinued the  same  as  if  this  young  maiden  had 
not  been ;  causes  and  effects  connecting  every 
man  and  thing  with  every  other  extend  through 
all  Time  and  all  Space ;  but  surely  it  appears  un- 
just to  represent  him  as  so  altogether  pliant  in 
the  hands  of  Accident;  a  mere  pipe  for  Fortune 
to  play  tunes  on ;  and  which  sounded  a  mystic, 
deep,  almost  unearthly  melody,  simply  because 
a  young  woman  was  beautiful  and  mortal. 

We  feel  the  more  justified  in  these  hard- 
hearted and  so  unroraantic  strictures  on  read- 
ing the  very  next  paragraph  of  Tieck's  Narra- 
tive. Directly  on  the  back  of  this  occurrence, 
Novalis  goes  to  Freyberg;  and  there  in  1798, 
it  may  be  therefore  somewhat  more  or  some- 
what less  than  a  year  after  the  death  of  his  first 
love,  forms  an  acquaintance,  and  engagement 

to  marry,  with  a  "  Julie  von  Ch !"  Indeed, 

ever  afterwards,  to  the  end,  his  life  appears  to 
have  been  more  than  usually  cheerful  and  hap- 
py. Tieck  knows  not  what  well  to  say  of  this  be- 
trothment,  which  in  the  eyes  of  most  Novel- 
readers  will  have  so  shocking  an  appearance : 
he  admits  that  "  perhaps  to  any  but  his  intimate 
friends  it  may  seem  singular;"  asserts,  notwith- 


standing, that  "Sophie,  as  maybe  seen  also  in 
his  writings,  continued  the  centre  of  his 
thoughts ;  nay,  as  one  departed,  she  stood  in 
higher  reverence  with  him  than  when  visible 
and  near ;"  and  hurrying  on,  almost  as  over  an 
unsafe  subject,  declares  that  Novalis  felt  never- 
theless "  as  if  loveliness  of  mind  and  person 
might  in  some  measure  replace  his  loss;"  and 
so  leaves  us  to  our  own  reflections  on  the  mat- 
ter. We  consider  it  as  throwing  light  on  the 
above  criticism ;  and  greatly  restricting  our  ac- 
ceptance of  Tieck's  theory.  Yet  perhaps,  after 
all,  it  is  only  in  a  Minerva-Press  Novel,  or  to 
the  more  tender  Imagination,  that  such  a  pro- 
ceeding would  seem  very  blamable.  Constancy, 
in  its  true  sense,  may  be  called  the  root  of  all 
excellence;  especially  excellent  is  constancy 
in  active  well-doing,  in  friendly  helpfulness  to 
those  that  love  us,  and  to  those  that  hate  us  : 
but  constancy  in  passive  suffering,  again,  in 
spite  of  the  high  value  put  upon  it  in  Circulating 
Libraries,  is  a  distinctly  inferior  virtue,  rather 
an  accident  than  a  virtue,  and,  at  all  events,  is 
of  extreme  rarity  in  this  world.  To  Novalis, 
his  Sophie  might  still  be  as  a  saintly  presence, 
mournful  and  unspeakably  mild,  to  be  wor- 
shipped in  the  inmost  shrine  of  his  memory  ; 
but  worship  of  this  sort  is  not  man's  sole  busi- 
ness; neither  should  we  censure  Novalis  that 
he  dries  his  tears,  and  once  more  looks  abroad 
with  hope  on  the  earth,  which  is  still,  as  it  was 
before,  the  strangest  complex  of  mystery  and 
light,  of  joy  as  well  as  sorrow.  "  Life  belongs 
to  the  living;  and  he  that  lives  must  be  pre- 
pared for  vicissitudes."  The  questionable  cir- 
cumstance with  Novalis  is  his  perhaps  too  great 
rapidity  in  that  second  courtship;  a  fault  or 
misfortune  the  more  to  be  regretted,  as  this 
marriage  also  was  to  remain  a  project,  and  only 
the  anticipation  of  it  to  be  enjoyed  by  him. 

It  was  for  the  purpose  of  studying  mine- 
ralogy, under  the  famous  Werner,  that  Novalis 
had  gone  to  Freyberg.  For  this  science  he  had 
great  fondness,  as  indeed  for  all  the  physical 
sciences :  which,  if  we  may  judge  from  his 
writings,  he  seems  to  have  prosecuted  on  a 
great  and  original  principle,  very  different  both 
from  that  of  our  idle  theorizers  and  general- 
izers,  and  that  of  the  still  more  melancholy 
class  who  merely  "  collect  facts,"  and  for  the 
torpor  or  total  extinction  of  the  thinking  faculty, 
strive  to  make  up  by  the  more  assiduous  use 
of  the  blowpipe  and  goniometer.  The  com- 
mencement of  a  work,  entitled  the  Disciples  at 
Sais,  intended,  as  Tieck  informs  us,  to  be  a 
"Physical  Romance,"  was  written  in  Freyberg, 
at  this  time :  but  it  lay  unfinished,  unprose- 
cuted ;  and  now  comes  before  us  as  a  very 
mysterious  fragment,  disclosing  scientific 
depths,  which  we  have  not  light  to  see  into, 
much  less  means  to  fathom  and  accurately 
measure.  The  various  hypothetic  views  of 
"  Nature,"  that  is,  of  the  visible  Creation, 
which  are  here  given  out  in  the  words  of  the 
several  "  Pupils,"  differ,  almost  all  of  them, 
more  or  less,  from  any  that  we  have  ever  else- 
where met  with.  To  this  work  we  shall  have 
occasion  to  refer  more  particularly  in  the 
sequel. 

The  acquaintance  which  Novalis  formed, 
soon  after  this,  with  the  elder  Schlegel,  (August 


N0VALI8. 


173 


Wilhelm,)  and  still  more  that  of  Tieck,  whom 
also  he  first  met  in  Jena,  seems  to  have  ope- 
rated a  considerable  diversion  in  his  line  of 
study.  Tieck  and  the  Schlegels,  with  some 
less  active  associates,  among  whom  are  now 
mentioned  Wackenroder  and  Novalis,  were  at 
this  time  engaged  in  their  far-famed  campaign 
against  Duncedom,  or  what  called  itself  the 
"  Old  School"  of  Literature ;  which  old  and 
rather  despicable  "  School"  they  had  already, 
both  by  regular  and  guerrilla  warfare,  reduced 
to  great  straits  ;  as  ultimately,  they  are  reckon- 
ed tq  have  succeeded  in  utterly  extirpating  it, 
or  at  least  driving  it  back  to  the  very  confines 
of  its  native  Cimmeria.  It  seems  to  have  been 
in  connection  with  these  men,  that  Novalis 
first  came  before  the  world  as  a  writer:  certain 
of  his  Fragments,  under  the  title  of  Bliithenstaub 
(Pollen  of  Flowers ;)  his  Hymns  to  the  Night, 
and  various  poetical  compositions,  were  sent 
forth  in  F.  Schlegel's  Musen-Almanach,  and 
other  periodicals  under  the  same  or  kindred 
management.  Novalis  himself  seems  to  pro- 
fess that  it  was  Tieck's  influence  which 
chiefly  "reawakened  Poetry  in  him."  As  to 
what  reception  these  pieces  met  with,  we  have 
no  information:  however,  Novalis  seems  to 
have  been  ardent  and  diligent  in  his  new  pur- 
suit, as  in  his  old  ones ;  and  no  less  happy 
than  diligent. 

"In  the  summer  of  1800,"  says  Tieck,  "I 
saw  him  for  the  first  time,  while  visiting  my 
friend  Wilhelm  Schlegel ;  and  our  acquaint- 
ance soon  became  the  most  confidential  friend- 
ship. They  were  bright  days  those,  which  we 
passed  with  Schlegel,  Schelling,  and  some 
other  friends.  On  my  return  homewards,  I 
visited  him  in  his  house,  and  made  acquaint- 
ance with  his  family.  Here  he  read  me  the 
Disciples  at  Sais,  and  many  of  his  Fragments. 
He  escorted  me  as  far  as  Halle ;  and  we  en- 
joyed in  Giebichenstein,  in  the  Reichardts' 
house,  some  other  delightful  hours.  About 
this  time,  the  first  thought  of  his  Ofterdingen 
had  occurred.  At  an  earlier  period,  certain  of 
his  Spiritual  Songs  had  been  composed ;  they 
were  to  form  part  of  a  Christian  Hymn-book, 
which  he  meant  to  accompany  with  a  collec- 
tion of  Sermons.  For  the  rest,  he  was  very 
diligent  in  his  professional  labours  ;  whatever 
he  did  was  done  with  the  heart ;  the  smallest 
concern  was  not  insignificant  to  him." 

The  professional  labours  here  alluded  to, 
seem  to  have  left  much  leisuie  on  his  hands : 
room  for  frequent  change  of  place,  and  even 
of  residence.  Not  long  afterwards,  we  find 
him  "  living  for  a  long  while  in  a  solitary  spot 
of  the  Giildne  Aue  in  Thuringia,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Kyff"hauser  Mountain ;"  his  chief  society 
two  military  men,  subsequently  Generals  ;  "in 
which  solitude  great  part  of  his  Ofterdingen  was 
written."  The  first  volume  of"  this  Heinrich 
von  Ofterdingen,  a  sort  of  Art-Romance,  intend- 
ed, as  he  himself  said,  to  be  an  "Apothesis  of 
Poetry,"  was  ere  long  published ;  under  what 
circumstances,  or  with  what  result,  we  have, 
as  before,  no  notice.  Tieck  had  for  some  time 
been  resident  in  Jena,  and  at  intervals  saw 
much  of  Novalis.  On  preparing  to  quit  that 
abode,  he  went  to  pay  him  a  farewell  visit  at 
Weissenfels ;  found  him  "  somewhat  paler," 


bat  full  of  gladness  and  hope ;  quite  inspired 
with  plans  of  his  future  happiness;  his  house 
was  already  fitted  up  ;  in  a  few  months  he  was 
to  be  wedded :  no  less  zealously  did  he  speak 
of  the  speedy  conclusion  of  Ofterdingen,  and 
other  books ;  his  life  seemed  expanding  in  the 
richest  activity  and  love."  This  was  in  1800 ; 
four  years  ago  Novalis  had  longed  and  looked 
for  death,  and  it  was  not  appointed  him ;  now 
life  is  again  rich,  and  far  extending  in  his 
eyes,  and  its  close  is  at  hand.  Tieck  parted 
with  him,  and  it  proved  to  be  for  ever. 

In  the  month  of  August,  Novalis,  preparing 
for  his  journey  to  Freyberg,  on  so  joyful  an 
occasion,  was  alarmed  with  an  appearance  of 
blood  proceeding  from  the  lungs.  The  Physi- 
cian treated  it  as  a  slight  matter;  nevertheless, 
the  marriage  was  postponed.  He  went  to 
Dresden  with  his  parents,  for  medical  advice ; 
abode  there  for  some  time  in  no  improving 
state ;  on  learning  the  accidental  death  of  a 
young  brother  at  home,  he  ruptured  a  blood- 
vessel ;  and  the  Doctor  then  declared  his 
malady  incurable.  This,  as  usual  in  such 
maladies,  was  nowise  the  patient's  own  opi- 
nion ;  he  wished  to  try  a  warmer  climate,  but 
was  thought  too  weak  for  the  journey.  In 
January  (1801)  he  returned  home,  visibly  to 
all,  but  himself,  in  rapid  decline.  His  bride 
had  already  been  to  see  him,  in  Dresden.  We 
may  give  the  rest  in  Tieck's  words : 

"The  nearer  he  approached  his  end,  the 
more  confidently  did  he  expect  a  speedy  reco- 
very ;.  for  the  cough  diminished,  and  excepting 
languor,  he  had  no  feeling  of  sickness.  With 
the  hope  and  the  longing  for  life,  new  talent 
and  fresh  strength  seemed  also  to  awaken  in 
him ;  he  thought,  with  renewed  love,  of  all  his 
projected  labours ;  he  determined  on  writing 
Ofterdingen  over  again  from  the  very  begin- 
ning ;  and  shortly  before  his  death,  he  said  on 
one  occasion,  'Never  till  now  did  I  know  what 
Poetry  was;  innumerable  Songs  and  Poems, 
and  of  quite  diflerent  stamp  from  any  of  my 
former  ones,  have  arisen  in  me.'  From  the 
nineteenth  of  March,  the  death-day  of  his 
Sophie,  he  became  visibly  weaker:  many  of 
his  friends  visited  him ;  and  he  felt  great  joy 
when,  on  the  twenty-first,  his  true  and  oldest 
friend,  Friedrich  Schlegel,  came  to  him  from 
Jena.  With  him  he  conversed  at  great  length ; 
especially  upon  their  several  literary  opera- 
tions. During  these  days  he  was  very  lively ;  his 
nights  too  were  quiet ;  and  he  enjoyed  pretty 
sound  sleep.  On  the  twenty-fifth,  about  six  in 
the  morning,  he  made  his  brother  hand  him 
certain  books,  that  he  might  look  for  some- 
thing; then  he  ordered  breakfast  and  talked 
cheerfully  till  eight ;  towards  nine  he  bade  his 
brother  play  a  little  to  him  on  the  harpsichord, 
and  in  the  course  of  the  music  fell  asleep. 
Friedrich  Schlegel  soon  afterwards  came  into 
the  room,  and  found  him  quietly  sleeping  :  this 
sleep  lasted  till  near  twelve,  when  without  the 
smallest  motion  he  passed  away,  and  unchang- 
ed in  death,  retained  his  common  friendly 
looks  as  if  he  yet  lived. 

"So  died,"  continues  the  affectionate  Bio- 
grapher,"  before  he  had  completed  his  twenty- 
ninth  year,  this  our  Friend  ;  in  whom  his  ex- 
tensive acquirements,  his  philosophical  talent, 
r2 


174 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  his  poetic  genius,  must  alike  obtain  our 
love  and  admiration.  As  he  had  so  far  outrun 
his  time,  our  country  might  have  expected 
extraordinary  things  from  such  gifts,  had  this 
early  death  not  overtaken  him:  as  it  is,  the 
unfinished  writings  he  left  behind  him  have 
already  had  a  wide  influence ;  and  many  of 
his  great  thoughts  will  yet,  in  time  coming, 
lend  their  inspiration,  and  noble  minds  and 
deep  thinkers  will  be  enlightened  and  enkindled 
by  the  sparks  of  his  genius. 

"  Novalis  was  tall,  slender,  and  of  noble  pro- 
portions. He  wore  his  light-brown  hair  in 
long  clustering  locks,  which  at  that  time  was 
less  unusual  than  it  would  be  now ;  his  hazel  eye 
was  clear  and  glancing;  and  the  colour  of  his 
face,  especially  of  the  fine  brow,  almost  trans- 
parent. Hand  and  foot  were  somewhat  too 
large,  and  without  fine  character.  His  look 
was  at  all  times  cheerful  and  kind.  For  those 
who  distinguish  a  man  only  in  so  far  as  he 
puts  himself  forward,  or  by  studious  breeding, 
by  fashionable  bearing,  endeavours  to  shine  or 
to  be  singular,  Novalis  was  lost  in  the  crowd  : 
to  the  more  practised  eye,  again,  he  presented 
a  figure  which  might  be  called  beautiful.  In 
outline  and  expression,  his  face  strikingly  re- 
sembled that  of  the  Evangelist  John,  as  we  see 
him  in  the  large  noble  painting  by  Albrecht 
Diirer,  preserved  at  Niirnberg  and  Miinchen. 

"  In  speaking,  he  was  lively  and  loud,  his 
gestures  strong.  I  never  saw  him  tired: 
though  we  had  talked  till  far  in  the  night,  it 
was  still  only  on  purpose  that  he  stopped,  for 
the  sake  of  rest,  and  even  then  he  used  to  read 
before  sleeping.  Tedium  he  never  felt,  even 
in  oppressive  company,  among  mediocre  men ; 
for  he  was  sure  to  find  out  one  or  other,  who 
could  give  him  some  yet  new  piece  of  know- 
ledge, such  as  he  could  turn  to  use,  insignifi- 
cant as  it  might  seem.  His  kindliness,  his 
frank  bearing,  made  him  a  universal  favourite : 
his  skill  in  the  art  of  social  intercourse  was  so 
great,  that  smaller  minds  did  not  perceive  how 
high  he  stood  above  them.  Though  in  con- 
versation he  delighted  the  most  to  unfold  the 
deeps  of  the  soul,  and  spoke  as  inspired  of  the 
regions  of  invisible  worlds,  yet  was  he  mirth- 
ful as  a  child ;  would  jest  in  free  artless  gayety, 
and  heartily  give  in  to  the  jestings  of  his  com- 
pany. Without  vanity,  without  learned  haughti- 
ness, far  from  every  aflfectation  and  hypocrisy, 
he  was  a  genuine,  true  man,  the  purest  and 
loveliest  imbodiment  of  a  high  immortal 
spirit." 

So  much  for  the  outward  figure  and  history 
of  Novalis.  Respecting  his  inward  structure 
and  significance,  which  our  readers  are  here 
principally  interested  to  understand,  we  have 
already  acknowledged  that  we  had  no  com- 
plete insight  to  boast  of.  The  slightest  perusal 
of  his  writings  indicates  to  us  a  mind  of  won- 
derful depth  and  originality;  but  at  the  same 
time,  of  a  nature  or  habit  so  abstruse,  and 
altogether  difl^erent  from  any  thing  we  ourselves 
have  notice  or  experience  of,  that  to  penetrate 
fairly  into  its  essential  character,  much  more 
to  picture  it  forth  in  visual  distinctness,  would 
be  an  extremely  difficult  task.  Nay,  perhaps, 
if  attempted  by  the  means  familiar  to  us,  an 
impossible  task;  for  Novalis  belongs  to  that 


class  of  persons,  who  do  not  recognise  the 
"syllogistic  method,"  as  the  chief  organ  for 
investigating  truth,  or  feel  themselves  bound 
at  all  times  to  stop  short  where  its  light  fails 
them.  Many  of  his  opinions  he  would  despair 
of  proving  in  the  most  patient  Court  of  Law; 
and  would  remain  well  content  that  they 
should  be  disbelieved  there.  He  much  loved, 
and  had  assiduously  studied,  Jacob  Bbhme 
and  other  mystical  writers ;  and  was,  openly 
enough,  in  good  part  a  Mystic  himself.  Not 
indeed  what  we  English,  in  common  speech, 
call  a  Mystic ;  which  means  only  a  man  whom 
we  do  not  understand,  and,  in  self-defence, 
reckon  or  would  fain  reckon  a  Dunce.  Nova- 
lis was  a  Mystic,  or  had  an  affinity  with  Mys- 
ticism, in  the  primary  and  true  meaning  of 
that  word,  exemplified  in  some  shape  among 
our  own  Puritan  Divines,  and  which  at  this 
day  carries  no  opprobrium  with  it  in  Germany, 
or  except  among  certain  more  unimportant 
classes,  in  any  other  country.  Nay,  in  this 
sense,  great  honours  are  recorded  of  Mysti- 
cism :  Tasso,  as  may  be  seen  in  several  of  his 
prose  writings,  was  professedly  a  Mystic; 
Dante  is  regarded  as  a  chief  man  of  that  class. 

Nevertheless,  with  all  due  tolerance  or  rever- 
ence for  Novalis's  Mysticism,  the  question  still 
returns  on  us :  How  shall  we  understand  it, 
and  in  any  measure  shadow  it  forth?  How 
may  that  spiritual  condition  which  by  its  own 
account  is  like  pure  Light,  colourless,  formless, 
infinite,  be  represented  by  mere  Logic-Painters, 
mere  Engravers  we  might  say,  who,  except 
copper  and  burin,  producing  the  most  finite 
black-on-white,  have  no  means  of  representing 
any  thing  1  Novalis  himself  has  a  line  or  two, 
and  no  more,  expressly  on  Mysticism ;  "  What 
is  Mysticism]"  asks  he.  "What  is  it  that 
should  come  to  be  treated  mystically?  Reli- 
gion, Love,  Nature,  Polity. — All  selected  things 
(alles  Auserwiihlte)  have  a  reference  to  Mysti- 
cism. If  all  men  were  but  one  pair  of  lovers, 
the  diflTerence  between  Mysticism  and  Non- 
Mysticism  were  at  an  end."  In  which  little 
sentence,  unhappily,  our  reader  obtains  no 
clearness  ;  feels  rather  as  if  he  were  looking 
into  darkness  visible.  We  must  entreat  him, 
nevertheless,  to  keep  up  his  spirits  in  this 
business  ;  and  above  all,  to  assist  us  with  his 
friendliest,  cheerfullest  endeavour:  perhaps 
some  faint  far-oflfview  of  that  same  mysterious 
Mysticism  may  at  length  rise  upon  us. 

To  ourselves,  it  somewhat  illustrates  the  na- 
ture of  Novalis's  opinions,  when  we  consider 
the  then  and  present  state  of  German  meta- 
physical science  generally;  and  the  fact,  stated 
above,  that  he  gained  his  first  notions  on  this 
subject  from  Fichte's  Wissenschaflslehre.  It  is 
true,  as  Tieck  remarks,  "  he  sought  to  open 
for  himself  a  new  path  in  Philosophy ;  to  unite 
Philosophy  with  Religion  ;"  and  so  diverged  in 
some  degree  from  his  first  instructor;  or,  as  it 
more  probably  seemed  to  himself,  prosecuted 
Fichte's  scientific  inquiry  into  its  highest  prac- 
tical results.  At  all  events,  his  metaphysical 
creed,  so  far  as  we  can  gather  it  from  these 
writings,  appears  everywhere  in  its  essential 
lineaments,  synonymous  with  what  little  we 
understand  of  Fichte's,  and  might  indeed, 
safely  enough  for  our  present  purpose,  be 


NOVALIS. 


175 


classed  under  the  head  of  Kantism,  or  German 
metaphysics  generally. 

Now,  without  entering  into  the  intricacies 
of  German  Philosophy,  we  need  here  only  ad- 
vert to  the  character  of  Idealism,  on  which  it 
is  everywhere  founded,  and  which  universally 
pervades  it.  In  all  German  systems,  since  the 
time  of  Kant,  it  is  the  fundamental  principle  to 
deny  the  existence  of  Matter;  or  rather  we 
should  say  to  believe  it  in  a  radically  different 
sense  from  that  in  which  the  Scotch  Philoso- 
pher strives  to  demonstrate  it,  and  the  English 
Unphilosopher  believes  it  without  demonstra- 
tion. To  any  of  our  readers,  who  has  dipped 
never  so  slightly  into  metaphysical  reading, 
this  Idealism  will  be  no  inconceivable  thing. 
Indeed  it  is  singular  how  widely  diffused,  and 
under  what  different  aspects  we  meet  with  it 
among  the  most  dissimilar  classes  of  mankind. 
Our  Bishop  Berkeley  seems  to  have  adopted  it 
from  religious  inducements  :  Father  Boscovich 
was  led  to  a  very  cognate  result,  in  his  Theoria 
PhilosopMcB  Naturalis,  from  merely  mathematical 
considerations.  Of  the  ancient  Pyrrho  or  the 
modern  Hume  we  do  not  speak:  but  in  the 
opposite  end  of  the  Earth,  as  Sir  W.  Jones  in- 
forms us,  a  similar  theory,  of  immemorial  age, 
prevails  among  the  theologians  of  Hindostan. 
Nay,  Professor  Stuart  has  declared  his  opinion, 
that  whoever  at  some  time  of  his  life  has  not 
entertained  this  theory,  may  reckon  that  he 
has  yet  shown  no  talent  for  metaphysical  re- 
search. Neither  is  it  any  argument  against 
the  Idealist  to  say  that,  since  he  denies  the 
absolute  existence  of  Matter,  he  ought  in  con- 
science likewise  to  deny  its  relative  existence ; 
and  plunge  over  precipices,  and  run  himself 
through  with  swords,  by  way  of  recreation, 
since  these,  like  all  other  material  things,  are 
only  phantasms  and  spectra,  and  therefore  of 
no  consequence.  If  a  man,  corporeally  taken, 
is  but  a  phantasm  and  spectrum  himself,  all 
this  will,  ultimately  amount  to  much  the  same 
as  it  did  before.  Yet  herein  lies  Dr.  Reid's 
grand  triumph  over  the  Skeptics ;  which  is  as 
good  as  no  triumph  whatever.  For  as  to  the 
argument  which  he  and  his  followers  insist  on, 
under  all  possible  variety  of  figures,  it  amounts 
only  to  this  very  plain  consideration,  that "  men 
naturally,  and  without  reasoning,  believe  in  the 
existence  of  Matter ;"  and  seems,  Philosophi- 
cally speaking,  not  to  have  any  value;  nay, 
the  introduction  of  it  into  Philosophy  may  be 
considered  as  an  act  of  suicide  on  the  part  of 
that  science,  the  life  and  business  of  which, 
that  of  "  interpreting  Appearances,"  is  hereby 
at  an  end.  Curious  it  is,  moreover,  to  observe 
how  these  Common-sense  Philosophers,  men 
who  brag  chiefly  of  their  irrefragable  logic, 
and  keep  watch  and  ward,  as  if  this  were 
their  special  trade,  against  "  Mysticism,"  and 
"Visionary  Theories,"  are  themselves  obliged 
to  base  their  whole  system  on  Mysticism,  and 
a  Theory ;  on  Faith,  in  short,  and  that  of  a 
very  comprehensive  kind  ;  the  Faith,  namely, 
either  that  man's  Senses  are  themselves 
Divine,  or  that  they  afford  not  only  an  honest, 
but  a  literaf  representation  of  the  workings  of 
some  Divinity.  So  true  is  it  that  for  these 
men  also,  all  knowledge  of  the  visible  rests 


on  belief  of  the  invisible,  and  derives  its  first 
meaning  and  certainty  therefrom  ! 

The  Idealist  again  boasts  that  his  Philoso- 
phy is  Transcendental,  that  is,  "ascending  be- 
yond the  senses  ;"  which,  he  asserts,  all  Philo- 
sophy, properly  so  called,  by  its  nature  is  and 
must  be  :  and  in  this  way  he  is  led  to  various 
unexpected  conclusions.  To  a  Transcenden- 
talist.  Matter  has  an  existence  but  only  as  a 
Phenomenon :  were  we  not  there,  neither  would 
it  be  there ;  it  is  a  mere  Relation,  or  rather  the 
result  of  a  Relation  between  our  living  Souls 
and  the  great  First  Cause ;  and  depends  for 
its  apparent  qualities  on  our  bodily  and  mental 
organs ;  having  itself  no  intrinsic  qualities, 
being,  in  the  common  sense  of  that  word.  No- 
thing. The  tree  is  green  and  hard,  not  of  its 
own  natural  virtue,  but  simply  because  my 
eye  and  my  hand  are  fashioned  so  as  to  dis- 
cern such  and  such  appearances  under  such 
and  such  conditions.  Nay,  as  an  Idealist 
might  say,  even  on  the  most  popular  grounds, 
must  it  not  be  so  ?  Bring  a  sentient  Being, 
with  eyes  a  little  different,  with  fingers  ten 
times  harder  than  mine  ;  and  to  him  that  Thing 
which  I  call  Tree  shall  be  yellow  and  soft,  as 
truly  as  to  me  it  is  green  and  hard.  Form  his 
Nervous  structure  in  all  points  the  reverse  of 
mine,  and  this  same  Tree  shall  not  be  combus- 
tible, or  heat  producing,  but  dissoluble  and 
cold-producing,  not  high  and  convex,  but  deep 
and  concave  ;  shall  simply  have  all  properties 
exactly  the  reverse  of  those  I  attribute  to  it. 
There  is,  in  fact,  says  Fichte,  no  Tree  there  ; 
but  only  a  Manifestation  of  Power  from  some- 
thing which  is  not  I.  The  same  is  true  of  ma- 
terial Nature  at  large,  of  the  whole  visible 
Universe,  with  all  its  movements,  figures,  ac- 
cidents, and  qualities;  all  are  Impressions 
produced  on  me  by  something  different  from  me. 
This,  we  suppose,  may  be  the  foundation  of 
what  Fichte  means  by  his  far-famed  Ich  and 
Nicht-Ich  (I  and  Not-I)  ;  words  which,  taking 
lodging  (to  use  the  Hudibrastic  phrase)  in  cer- 
tain "  heads  that  were  to  be  let  unfurnished,"  oc- 
casioned a  hollow  echo,  as  of  Laughter,  from 
the  empty  Apartments  ;  though  the  words  are 
in  themselves  quite  harmless,  and  may  repre- 
sent the  basis  of  a  metaphysical  Philosophy 
as  fitly  as  any  other  words.  But  farther,  and 
what  is  still  stranger  than  such  Idealism,  ac- 
cording to  these  Kantean  systems,  the  organs 
of  the  Mind  too,  what  is  called  the  Under- 
standing, are  of  no  less  arbitrary,  and,  as  it 
were,  accidental  character  than  those  of  the 
Body.  Time  and  Space  themselves  are  not 
external  but  internal  entities  :  they  have  no 
outward  existence,  there  is  no  Time  and  no 
Space  out  of  the  mind ;  they  are  mere  forms 
of  man's  spiritual  being,  laivs  under  which  his 
thinking  nature  is  constituted  to  act.  This 
seems  the  hardest  conclusion  of  all ;  but  it  is 
an  important  one  with  Kant ;  and  is  not  given 
forth  as  a  dogma;  but  carefully  deduced  in 
his  Critik  der  Reinen  Vernunft  with  great  preci- 
sion, and  the  strictest  form  of  argument. 

The  reader  would  err  widely  who  supposed 
that  this  Transcendental  system  of  Metaphy- 
sics was  a  mere  intellectual  card-castle,  or 
logical  hocus-pocus,  contrived  from  sheer  idle- 


176 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ness,  and  for  sheer  idleness,  being  without 
any  bearing  on  the  practical  interests  of  men. 
On  the  contrary,  however  false,  or  however 
true,  it  is  the  most  serious  in  its  purport  of  all 
Philosophies  propounded  in  these  latter  cen- 
turies ;  has  been  taught  chiefly  by  men  of  the 
loftiest  and  most  earnest  character ;  and  does 
bear,  with  a  direct  and  highly  comprehensive 
influence,  on  the  most  vital  interests  of  men. 
To  say  nothing  of  the  views  it  opens  in  regard 
to  the  course  and  management  of  what  is 
called  Natural  Science,  we  cannot  but  per- 
ceive that  its  eflects,  for  such  as  adopt  it,  on 
Morals  and  Religion,  must  in  these  days  be  of 
almost  boundless  importance.  To  take  only 
that  last  and  seemingly  strangest  doctrine,  for 
example,  concerning  Time  and  Space,  we  shall 
find  that  to  the  Kantist  it  yields,  almost  imme- 
diately, a  remarkable  result  of  this  sort.  If 
Time  and  Space  have  no  absolute  existence 
out  of  our  minds,  it  removes  a  stumbling- 
block  from  the  very  threshold  of  our  Theology. 
For  on  this  ground,  when  we  say  that  the 
Deity  is  omnipresent  and  eternal,  that  with 
Him  it  is  a  universal  Here  and  Now,  we  say 
nothing  wonderful :  nothing  but  that  He  also 
created  Time  and  Space,  that  Time  and  Space 
are  not  laws  of  His  being,  but  only  of  ours. 
Nay  to  the  Transcendentalist,  clearly  enough, 
the  whole  question  of  the  origin  and  existence 
of  Nature  must  be  greatly  simplified  :  the  old 
hostility  of  Matter  is  at  an  end,  for  Matter  is 
itself  annihilated,  and  the  black  Spectre, 
Atheism,  "  with  all  its  sickly  dews,"  melts  into 
nothingness  for  ever.  But  farther,  if  it  be,  as 
Kant  maintains,  that  the  logical  mechanism 
of  the  mind  is  arbitrary,  so  to  speak,  and 
might  have  been  made  different,  it  will  follow 
that  all  inductive  conclusions,  all  conclusions 
of  the  Understanding,  have  only  a  relative 
truth,  are  true  only  for  us,  and  if  some  other 
thing  be  true.  Thus  far  Hume  and  Kant  go 
together,  in  this  branch  of  the  inquiry :  but 
here  occurs  the  most  total,  diametrical  diverg- 
ence between  them.  We  allude  to  the  recog- 
nition, by  these  Transcendentalists,  of  a 
higher  faculty  in  man  than  Understanding; 
of  Reason,  (Vernunft,)  the  pure,  ultimate  light 
of  our  nature  ;  wherein,  as  they  assert,  lies  the 
foundation  of  all  Poetry,  Virtue,  Religion ; 
things  which  are  properly  beyond  the  province 
of  the  Understanding,  of  which  the  Under- 
standing can  take  no  cognisance  except  a  false 
one.  The  elder  Jacobi,  who  indeed  is  no 
Kantist,  says  once,  we  remember — "It  is  the 
instinct  of  Understanding  to  contradict  Reason." 
Admitting  this  last  distinction  and  subordina- 
tion, supposing  it  scientifically  demonstrated, 
what  numberless  and  weightiest  consequences 
would  follow  from  it  alone  !  These  we  must 
leave  the  considerate  reader  to  deduce  for 
himself;  observing  only  farther,  that  the  Teo- 
logia  Mistica,  so  much  venerated  by  Tasso  in  his 
philosophical  writings  ;  the  "Mysticism"  al- 
luded to  above  by  Novalis ;  and  generally  all 
true  Christian  Faith  and  Devotion,  appear,  so 
far  as  we  can  see,  more  or  less  included  in 
this  doctrine  of  the  Transcendentalists  ;  under 
their  several  shapes,  the  essence  of  them  all 
being  what  is  here  designated  by  the  name 


Reason,  and  set  forth  as  the  true  sovereign  of 
man's  mind. 

How  deep  these  and  the  like  principles  had 
impressed  themselves  on  Novalis,  we  see  more 
and  more,  the  further  we  study  his  Writings. 
Naturally  a  deep,  religious,  contemplative 
spirit ;  purified  also,  as  we  have  seen,  by  harsh 
Affliction,  and  familiar  in  the  "  Sanctuary  of 
Sorrow,"  he  comes  before  us  as  the  most  ideal 
of  all  Idealists.  For  him  the  material  Crea- 
tion is  but  an  Appearance,  a  typical  shadow 
in  which  the  Deity  manifests  himself  to  Man. 
Not  only  has  the  unseen  world  a  reality,  but 
the  only  reality:  the  rest  being  not  metaphori- 
cally, but  literally  and  in  scientific  strictness, 
"  a  show ;"  in  the  words  of  the  Poet,  Schall  und 
Ranch  umnebelnd  Ilimmels  Gluth,  "  Sound  and 
Smoke  overclouding  the  Splendour  of  Heaven." 
The  Invisible  World  is  near  us :  or  rather  it 
is  here,  in  us  and  about  us;  were  the  fleshly 
coil  removed  from  our  Soul,  the  glories  of  the 
Unseen  were  even  now  around  us ;  as  the 
Ancients  fabled  of  the  Spheral  Music.  Thus 
not  in  word  only,  but  in  truth  and  sober  belief, 
he  feels  himself  encompassed  by  the  Godhead; 
feels  in  every  thought,  that  "  in  Him  he  lives, 
moves,  and  has  his  being." 

On  his  Philosophic  and  Poetic  Procedure, 
all  this  has  its  natural  influence.  The  aim  of 
Novalis's  whole  Philosophy,  we  might  say,  is 
to  preach  and  establish  the  Majesty  of  Reason, 
in  that  stricter  sense ;  to  conquer  for  it  all 
provinces  of  human  thought,  and  everywhere 
reduce  its  vassal.  Understanding,  into  fealty, 
the  right  and  only  useful  relation  for  it. 
Mighty  tasks  in  this  sort  lay  before  himself; 
of  which,  in  these  Writings  of  his,  we  trace 
only  scattered  indications.  In  fact,  all  that  he 
has  left  is  in  the  shape  of  fragment ;  detached 
expositions  and  combinations,  deep,  brief 
glimpses :  but  such  seems  to  be  their  general 
tendency.  One  character  to  be  noted  in  many 
of  these,  often  too  obscure,  speculations,  is  his 
peculiar  manner  of  viewing  Nature ;  his  habit, 
as  it  were,  of  considering  Nature  rather  in  the 
concrete,  not  analytically  and  as  a  divisible 
Aggregate,  but  as  a  self-subsistent  universally 
connected  Whole.  This  also  is  perhaps  partly 
the  fruit  of  his  Idealism.  "  He  had  formed  the 
Plan,"  we  are  informed,  "of  a  peculiar  Ency- 
clopedical Work,  in  which  experiences  and 
ideas  from  all  the  different  Sciences  were  mu- 
tually to  elucidate,  confirm,  and  enforce  each 
other."  In  this  work  he  had  even  made  some 
progress.  Many  of  the  "  Thoughts,"  and  short 
Aphoristic  observations,  here  published,  were 
intended  for  it;  of  such,  apparently,  it  was, 
for  the  most  part,  to  have  consisted. 

As  a  Poet,  Novalis  is  no  less  Idealistic  than 
as  a  Philosopher.  His  poems  are  breathings 
of  a  high  devout  soul,  feeling  always  that  here 
he  has  no  home,  but  looking,  as  in  clear  vision, 
to  a  "  city  that  hath  foundations."  He  loves 
external  Nature  with  a  singular  depth ;  nay, 
we  might  say,  he  reverences  her,  and  holds 
unspeakable  communings  with  her:  for  Na- 
ture is  no  longer  dead,  hostile  Matter,  but  the 
veil  and  mysterious  Garment  of  the  Unseen; 
as  it  were,  the  Voice  with  which  the  Deity 
proclaims  himself  to  man.    These  two  quaii- 


NOVALIS. 


177 


ties, — ^his  pure  religious  temper,  and  heart-felt 
love  of  Nature, — bring  him  into  true  poetic 
relations  both  with  the  spiritual  and  the  mate- 
rial World,  and  perhaps  constitute  his  chief 
worth  as  a  Poet;  for  which  art  he  seems  to 
have  originally  a  genuine,  but  no  exclusive  or 
even  very  decided  endowment. 

His  moral  persuasions,  as  evinced  in  his 
Writings  and  Life,  derive  them^lves  naturally 
j  enough  from  the  same  source.  It  is  the  mo- 
rality of  a  man,  to  whom  the  Earth  and  all  its 
j  glories  are  in  truth  a  vapour  and  a  Dream,  and 
the  Beauty  of  Goodness  the  only  real  possession. 
Poetry,  Virtue,  Religion,  which  for  other  men 
have  but,  as  it  were,  a  traditionary  and  ima- 
gined existence,  are  for  him  the  everlasting 
basis  of  the  Universe ;  and  all  earthly  acquire- 
ments, all  with  which  ambition,  Hope,  Fear, 
can  tempt  us,  to  toil  and  sin,  are  in  very  deed 
but  a  picture  of  the  brain,  some  retlex  sha- 
dowed on  the  mirror  of  the  Infinite,  but  in 
themselves  air  and  nothingness.  Thus,  to 
live  in  that  Light  of  Reason,  to  have,  even 
while  here,  and  encircled  with  this  vision  of 
Existence,  our  abode  in  that  Eternal  City,  is 
the  highest  and  sole  duty  of  man.  These 
things  Novalis  figures  to  himself  under  va- 
rious images :  sometimes  he  seems  to  repre- 
sent the  Primeval  essence  of  Being  as  Love ; 
at  other  times,  he  speaks  in  emblems,  of  which 
it  would  be  still  more  difficult  to  give  a  just 
account;  which,  therefore,  at  present,  we  shall 
not  further  notice. 

For  now,  with  these  far-oiF  sketches  of  an 
exposition,  the  reader  must  hold  himself  ready 
to  look  into  Novalis,  for  a  little,  with  his  own 
eyes.  Whoever  has  honestly,  and  with  atten- 
tive outlook,  accompanied  us  along  these  won- 
drous outskirts  of  Idealism,  may  find  himself 
as  able  to  interpret  Novalis  as  the  majority  of 
German  readers  would  be ;  which,  we  think, 
is  fair  measure  on  our  part.  We  shall  not 
attempt  any  further  commentary;  fearing  that 
it  might  be  too  difficult,  and  too  unthankful  a 
business.  Our  first  extract  is  from  the  Lehr- 
linge  zu  Sais,  (Pupil  at  Sais,)  adverted  to  above. 
That  "  Physical  Romance,"  which  for  the  rest 
contains  no  story  or  indication  of  a  story,  but 
only  poetized  philosophical  speeches,  and  the 
strangest  shadowy  allegorical  allusions,  and 
indeed  is  only  carried  the  length  of  two  Chap- 
ters, commences,  without  note  of  preparation, 
in  this  singular  wise  : 

"I.  The  Pupii,.— Men  travel  in  manifold 
paths :  whoso  traces  and  compares  these,  will 
find  strange  Figures  come  to  light;  Figures 
which  seem  as  if  they  belonged  to  that  great 
Cipher-writing  which  one  meets  with  every- 
where, on  wings  of  birds,  shells  of  eggs,  in 
clouds,  in  the  snow,  in  crystals,  in  forms  of 
rocks,  in  freezing  waters,  in  the  interior  and 
exterior  of  mountains,  of  plants,  animals,  men, 
in  the  lights  of  the  sky,  in  plates  of  glass  and 
pitch  when  touched  and  struck  on,  in  the  filings 
round  the  magnet,  and  the  singular  conjunc- 
tures of  Chance.  In  such  Figures  one  antici- 
pates the  key  to  that  wondrous  Writing,  the 
grammar  of  it;  but  this  Anticipation  will  not 
fix  itself  into  shape,  and  appears  as  if,  after 
all,  it  would  not  become  such  a  key  for  us. 
An  Alcahest  seems  poured  out  over  the  senses 
23 


of  men.  Only  for  a  moment  will  their  wishes, 
their  thoughts  thicken  into  form.  Thus  do 
their  Anticipations  arise ;  but  after  short  whiles, 
all  is  again  swimming  vaguely  before  them, 
even  as  it  did. 

"From  afar  I  heard  say,  that  Unintelligibi- 
lity  was  but  the  result  of  unintelligence;  that 
this  sought  what  itself  had,  and  so  could  find 
nowhere  else  ;  also  that  we  did  not  understand 
Speech,  because  Speech  did  not,  would  not, 
understand  itself;  ihat  the  genuine  Sanscrit 
spoke  for  the  sake  of  speaking,  because  speak- 
ing was  its  pleasure  and  its  nature. 

"  Not  long  thereafter,  said  one :  no  explana- 
tion is  required  for  Holy  Writing.  Whoso 
speaks  truly  is  full  of  eternal  life,  and  won- 
derfully related  to  genuine  mysteries  does  his 
Writing  appear  to  us,  for  it  is  a  concord  from 
the  Symphony  of  the  Universe. 

"  Surely  this  voice  meant  our  Teacher ;  for 
it  is  he  that  can  collect  the  indications  which 
lie  scattered  on  all  sides.  A  singular  light 
kindles  in  his  looks,  when  at  length  the  high 
Rune  lies  before  us,  and  he  watches  in  our 
eyes  whether  the  star  has  yet  risen  upon  us, 
which  is  to  make  the  Figure  visible  and  intel- 
ligible. Does  he  see  us  sad,  that  the  darkness 
will  not  withdraw  ?  he  consoles  us,  and  pro- 
mises the  faithful  assiduous  seer  better  for- 
tune in  time.  Often  has  he  told  us  how,  when 
he  was  a  child,  the  impulse  to  employ  his 
senses,  to  busy,  to  fill  them,  left  him  no  rest. 
He  looked  at  the  stars,  and  imitated  their 
courses  and  positions  in  the  sand.  Into  the 
ocean  of  air  he  gazed  incessantly ;  and  never 
wearied  contemplating  its  clearness,  its  move- 
ments, its  clouds,  iis  lights.  He  gathered 
stones,  flowers,  insects,  of  all  sorts,  and  spread 
them  out  in  manifold  wise,  in  rows,  before 
him.  To  men  and  animals  he  paid  heed;  on 
the  shore  of  the  sea  he  sat,  collected  mussels. 
Over  his  own  heart  and  his  own  thoughts  he 
watched  attentively.  He  knew  not  whither  his 
longing  was  carrying  him.  As  he  grew  up,  he 
wandered  far  and  wide ;  viewed  other  lands, 
other  seas,  new  atmospheres,  new  rocks,  un- 
known plants,  animals,  men ;  descended  into 
caverns,  saw  how  in  courses  and  varying  strata 
the  edifice  of  the  Earth  was  completed,  and 
fashioned  clay  into  strange  figures  of  rocks. 
By  and  by,  he  came  to  find  everywhere  ob- 
jects already  known,  but  wonderfully  mingled, 
united;  and  thus  often  extraordinary  things 
came  to  shape  in  him.  He  soon  became 
aware  of  combinations  in  all,  of  conjunctures, 
concurrences.  Ere  long,  he  no  more  saw  any 
thing  alone. — In  great,  variegated  images,  the 
perceptions  of  his  senses  crowded  round  him  ; 
he  heard,  saw,  touched,  and  thought  at  once. 
He  rejoiced  to  bring  strangers  together.  Now 
the  stars  were  men,  now  men  were  stars,  the 
stones  animals,  the  clouds  plants ;  he  sported 
with  powers  and  appearances  ;  he  knew  where 
and  how  this  and  that  was  to  be  found,  to  be 
brought  into  action;  and  so  himself  struck 
over  the  strings,  for  tones  and  touches  of  his 
own. 

"  What  has  passed  with  him  since  then  he 
does  not  disclose  tons.  He  tells  us  that  we 
ourselves,  led  on  by  him  and  our  own  desire, 
will    discover    what  has    passed  with   him.. 


178 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Many  of  us  have  withdrawn  from  him.  They 
returned  to  their  parents,  and  learned  trades. 
Some  have  been  sent  out  by  him,  we  know  not 
whither;  he  selected  them.  Of  these,  some 
had  been  but  a  short  time  there,  others  longer. 
One  was  still  a  child;  scarcely  was  he  come, 
when  our  Teacher  was  for  passing  him  any 
more  instruction.  This  Child  had  large  dark 
eyes  with  azure  ground,  his  skin  shone  like 
lilies,  and  his  locks  like  light  little  clouds  when 
it  is  growing  evening.  His  voice  pierced 
through  all  our  hearts;  willingly  would  we 
have  given  him  our  flowers,  stones,  pens,  all 
we  had.  He  smiled  with  an  infinite  earnest- 
ness ;  and  we  had  a  strange  delight  beside  him. 
One  day  he  will  come  again,  said  our  Teacher, 
and  then  our  lessons  end. — Along  with  him  he 
sent  one,  for  whom  we  had  often  been  sorry. 
Always  sad  he  looked  ;  he  had  been  long  years 
here ;  nothing  would  succeed  with  him  ;  when 
we  sought  crystals  or  flowers,  he  seldom  found. 
He  saw  dimly  at  a  distance ;  to  lay  down  varie- 
gated rows  skilfully  he  had  no  power.  He  was 
so  apt  to  break  every  thing.  Yet  none  had  such 
eagerness,  such  pleasure  in  hearing  and  listen- 
ing. At  last, — it  was  before  that  Child  came 
into  our  circle, — he  all  at  once  grew  cheerful 
and  expert.  One  day  he  had  gone  out  sad;  he 
did  not  return,  and  the  night  came  on.  We 
were  very  anxious  for  him ;  suddenly  as  the 
morning  dawned,  we  heard  his  voice  in  a 
neighbouring  grove.  He  was  singing  a  high, 
joyful  song;  we  were  all  surprised  ;  the  Teacher 
looked  to  the  East,  such  a  look  as  I  shall  never 
see  in  him  again.  The  singer  soon  came  forth 
to  us,  and  brought,  with  unspeakable  blessed- 
ness on  his  face,  a  simple-looking  little  stone, 
of  singular  shape.  The  Teacher  took  it  in  his 
hand,  and  kissed  him  long;  then  looked  at  us 
'With  wet  eyes,  and  laid  this  little  stone  on  an 
empty  space,  which  lay  in  the  midst  of  other 
stones,  just  where,  like  radii,  many  rows  of 
'them  met  together. 

"  I  shall  in  no  time  forget  that  moment.  We 
felt  as  if  we  had  had  in  our  souls  a  clear  pass- 
ing glimpse  into  this  wondrous  World." 

In  these  strange  Oriental  delineations,  the 
judicious  reader  will  suspect  that  more  may 
be  meant  than  meets  the  ear.  But  ■who  this 
Teacher  at  Sais  is,  whether  the  personified 
Intellect  of  Mankind;  and  who  this  bright-faced 
golden-locked  Child,  (Reason,  Religious  Faithl) 
that  was  "  to  come  again,"  to  conclude  these 
lessons;  and  that  awkward  unwearied  Man, 
(Understanding])  that  "was  so  apt  to  break 
every  thing,"  we  have  no  data  for  determining, 
and  would  not  undertake  to  conjecture  with 
any  certainty.  We  subjoin  a  passage  from 
the  second  chapter,  or  section,  entitled  "  iVo- 
/wrc,"  which,  if  possible,  is  of  a  still  more  sur- 
prising character  than  the  first.  After  speak- 
ing at  some  length  on  the  primeval  views  Man 
seems  to  have  formed  with  regard  to  the  ex- 
terna;l  Universe,  "  the  manifold  objects  of  his 
Senses  ;"  and  how  in  those  times  his  mind  had 
a  peculiar  unity,  and  only  by  Practice  divided 
itself  into  separate  faculties,  as  by  Practice  it 
may  yet  further  do,  "our  Pupil"  proceeds  to 
describe  the  conditions  requisite  in  an  inquirer 
into  Nature,  observing,  in  conclusion,  with 
regard  to  this, — 


"No  one,  of  a  surety,  wanders  further  from 
the  mark,  than  he  who  fancies  to  himself  that 
he  already  understands  this  marvellous  King- 
dom, and  can,  in  few  words,  fathom  its  consti- 
tution, and  everywhere  find  the  right  path.  To 
no  one,  who  has  broken  off",  and  made  himself 
an  Island,  will  insight  rise  of  itself,  nor  even 
without  toilsome  effort.  Only  to  children,  or 
child-like  men,  who  know  not  what  they  do, 
can  this  happen.  Long,  unwearied  intercourse, 
free  and  wise  Contemplation,  attention  to  faint 
tokens  and  indications;  an  inward  poet-life, 
practised  senses,  a  simple  and  devout  spirit ; 
these  are  the  essential  requisites  of  a  true 
Friend  of  Nature;  without  these  no  one  can 
attain  his  wish.  Not  wise  does  it  seem  to 
attempt  comprehending  and  understanding  a 
Human  World  without  full  perfected  Humanity. 
No  talent  must  sleep ;  and  if  all  are  not  alike 
active,  all  must  be  alert,  and  not  oppressed  and 
enervated.  As  we  see  a  future  Painter  in  the 
boy  who  fills  every  wall  with  sketches  and 
variedly  adds  colour  to  figure;  so  we  see  a 
future  Philosopher  in  him  who  restlessly  traces 
and  questions  all  natural  things,  pays  heed  to 
all,  brings  together  whatever  is  remarkable, 
and  rejoices  when  he  has  become  master  and 
possessor  of  a  new  phenomenon,  of  a  new 
power  and  piece  of  knowledge. 

"Now  to  Some  it  appears  not  at  all  worth 
while  to  follow  out  the  endless  divisions  of 
Nature ;  and  moreover  a  dangerous  undertak- 
ing, without  fruit  and  issue.  As  we  can  never 
reach,  say  they,  the  absolutely  smallest  grain 
of  material  bodies,  never  find  their  simplest 
compartments,  since  all  magnitude  loses  itself, 
forwards  and  backwards,  in  infinitude,  so  like- 
wise is  it  with  the  species  of  bodies  and  pow- 
ers ;  here  too  one  comes  on  new  species,  new 
combinations,  new  appearances,  even  to  infini- 
tude. These  seem  only  to  stop,  continue  they, 
when  our  diligence  tires;  and  so  it  is  spending 
precious  time  with  idle  contemplations  and 
tedious  enumerations ;  and  this  becomes  at 
last  a  true  delirium,  a  real  vertigo  over  the 
horrid  Deep.  For  Nature  too  remains,  so  far 
as  we  have  yet  come,  ever  a  frightful  Machine 
of  Death:  everywhere  monstrous  revolution, 
inexplicable  vortices  of  movement;  a  kingdom 
of  Devouring,  of  the  maddest  tyranny;  a  bale- 
ful Immense  :  the  few  light  points  disclose  but 
a  so  much  the  more  appalling  Night,  and  ter- 
rors, of  all  sorts,  must  palsy  every  observer. 
Like  a  Saviour  does  Death  stand  by  the  hapless 
race  of  Mankind ;  for  without  Death,  the  mad- 
dest were  the  happiest.  And  precisely  this 
striving  to  fathom  that  gigantic  Mechanism  is 
already  a  draught  towards  the  Deep,  a  com- 
mencing giddiness  ;  for  every  excitement  is  an 
increasing  whirl,  which  soon  gains  full  mastery- 
over  its  victim,  and  hurls  him  forward  with  it 
into  the  fearful  Night.  Here,  say  those  lament- 
ers,  lies  the  crafty  snare  for  Man's  understand- 
ing, which  Nature  everywhere  seeks  to  anni- 
hilate as  her  greatest  foe.  Hail  to  that  child- 
like ignorance  and  innocence  of  men,  which 
kept  them  blind  to  the  horrible  perils,  that 
everywhere,  like  grim  thunder-clouds,  lay 
round  their  peaceful  dwelling,  and  each  mo- 
ment were  ready  to  rush  down  on  them.  Only 
inward  disunion  among  the  powers  of  Nature 


NOVALIS. 


179 


has  preserved  men  hitherto ;  nevertheless,  that 
great  epoch  cannot  fail  to  arrive,  when  the 
whole  family  of  mankind,  by  a  grand  universal 
Resolve,  will  snatch  themselves  from  this  sor- 
rowful condition,  from  this  frightful  imprison- 
ment; and  by  a  voluntary  Abdication  of  their 
terrestrial  abode,  redeem  their  race  from  this 
anguish,  and  seek  refuge  in  a  happier  world, 
with  their  ancient  Father.  Thus  might  they 
end  worthily ;  and  prevent  a  necessary,  violent 
destruction ;  or  a  still  more  horrible  degenerat- 
ing into  Beasts,  by  gradual  dissolution  of  their 
thinking  organs,  through  Insanity.  Intercourse 
with  the  powers  of  Nature,  with  animals, 
plants,  rocks,  storms,  and  waves,  must  neces- 
sarily assimilate  men  to  these  objects ;  and  this 
Assimilation,  this  Metamorphosis,  and  dissolu- 
tion of  the  Divine  and  the  Human,  into  ungo- 
vernable Forces,  is  even  the  Spirit  of  Nature, 
that  frightfully  voracious  Power:  and  is  not  all 
that  we  see  even  now  a  prey  from  Heaven,  a 
great  Ruin  of  former  Glories,  the  Remains  of  a 
terrific  Repast  1 

"  Be  it  so,  cry  a  more  courageous  Class ;  let 
our  species  maintain  a  stubborn,  well-planned 
war  of  destruction  with  this  same  Nature.  By 
slow  poisons  must  we  endeavour  to  subdue 
her.  The  Inquirer  into  Nature  is  a  noble  hero, 
who  rushes  into  the  open  abyss  for  the  deliv- 
erance of  his  fellow  Citizens.  Artists  have 
already  played  her  many  a  trick ;  do  but  con- 
tinue in  this  course ;  get  hold  of  the  secret 
threads,  and  bring  them  to  act  against  each 
other.  Profit  by  these  discords,  that  so  in  the 
end  you  may  lead  her,  like  that  fire-breathing 
Bull,  according  to  your  pleasure.  To  you  she 
must  become  obedient.  Patience  and  Faith 
beseem  the  children  of  men.  Distant  Brothers 
are  united  with  us  for  one  object;  the  wheel 
of  the  Stars  must  become  the  cistern-wheel  of 
our  life,  and  then,  by  our  slaves,  we  can  build 
us  a  new  Fairyland.  With  heart-felt  triumph 
let  us  look  at  her  devastations,  her  tumults ; 
she  is  selling  herself  to  us,  and  every  violence 
she  will  pay  by  a  heavy  penalty.  In  the  in- 
spiring feeling  of  our  Freedom,  let  us  live  and 
die ;  here  gushes  forth  the  stream,  which  will 
one  day  overflow  and  subdue  her;  in  it  let  us 
bathe,  and  refresh  ourselves  for  new  exploits. 
Hither  the  rage  of  the  Monster  does  not  reach; 
one  drop  of  Freedom  is  sufficient  to  cripple  her 
for  ever,  and  for  ever  set  limits  to  her  havoc. 

"  They  are  right,  say  Several ;  here,  or  no- 
where, lies  the  talisman.  By  the  well  of  Free- 
dom we  sit  and  look ;  it  is  the  grand  magic 
Mirror,  where  the  whole  creation  images  itself, 
pure  and  clear  ;  in  it  do  the  tender  Spirits  and 
Forms  of  all  Natures  bathe ;  all  chambers  we 
here  behold  unlocked.  What  need  have  we 
toilsomely  to  wander  over  the  troublous  World 
of  visible  things  1  The  purer  World  lies  even 
in  us,  in  this  Well.  Here  discloses  itself  the 
true  meaning  of  the  great,  many-coloured, 
complected  Scene;  and  if  full  of  these  sights 
we  return  into  Nature,  all  is  well  known  to 
us,  with  certainty  we  distinguish  every  shape. 
We  need  not  to  inquire  long ;  a  light  Compa- 
rison, a  few  strokes  in  the  sand,  are  enough 
to  inform  us.  Thus,  for  us,  is  the  whole  a 
great  Writing,  to  which  we  have  the  key  ;  and 
nothing  comes  to  us  unexpected,  for  the  course 


of  the  great  Horologe  is  known  to  us  before- 
hand. It  is  only  we  that  enjoy  Nature  with 
full  senses,  because  she  does  not  frighten  us 
from  our  senses ;  because  no  fever-dreams 
oppress  us,  and  serene  consciousness  makes 
us  calm  and  confiding. 

"They  are  not  right,  says  an  earnest  Man  to 
these  latter.  Can  they  not  recognise  in  Na- 
ture the  true  impress  of  their  own  Selves  ? 
It  is  even  they  that  consume  themselves  in 
wild  hostility  to  Thought.  They  know  not 
that  this  so-called  Nature  of  theirs  is  a  Sport 
of  the  Mind,  a  waste  Fantasy  of  their  Dream. 
Of  a  surety,  it  is  for  them  a  horrible  Monster, 
a  strange  grotesque  Shadow  of  their  own  Pas- 
sions. The  waking  man  looks  without  fear 
at  this  offspring  of  his  lawless  Imagination ; 
for  he  knows  that  they  are  but  vain  Spectres 
of  his  weakness.  He  feels  himself  lord  of 
the  world :  his  Me  hovers  victorious  over  the 
Abyss;  and  will  through  Eternities  hover 
aloft  above  that  endless  Vicissitude.  Har- 
mony is  what  his  spirit  strives  to  promulgate, 
to  extend.  He  will,  even  to  infinitude,  grow 
more  and  more  harmonious  with  himself  and 
with  his  Creation ;  and,  at  every  step,  behold 
the  all-efficiency  of  a  high  moral  order  in  the 
Universe,  and  what  is  purest  of  his  Me,  come 
forth  into  brighter  and  brighter  clearness. 
The  significance  of  the  World  is  Reason  ;  for 
her  sake  is  the  World  here ;  and  when  it  is 
grown  to  be  the  arena  of  a  child-like,  expand- 
ing Reason,  it  will  one  day  become  the  divine 
Image  of  her  Activity,  the  scene  of  a  genuine 
Church.  Till  then  let  men  honour  Nature  as 
the  Emblem  of  his  own  Spirit;  the  Emblem 
ennobling  itself,  along  with  him,  to  unlimited 
degrees.  Let  him,  therefore,  who  would  arrive 
at  knowledge  of  Nature,  train  his  moral  sense, 
let  him  act  and  conceive  in  accordance  with 
the  noble  Essence  of  his  Soul;  and  as  if  of 
herself.  Nature  will  become  open  to  him. 
Moral  Action  is  that  great  and  only  Experi- 
ment, in  which  all  riddles  of  the  most  mani- 
fold appearances  explain  themselves.  Whoso 
understands  it,  and  in  rigid  sequence  of 
Thought  can  lay  it  open,  is  for  ever  Master 
of  Nature."— Erf.  ii.  s.  43—57. 

"The  Pupil,"  it  is  added,  "  listens  with  alarm 
to  these  conflicting  voices."  If  such  was  the 
case  in  half-supernatural  Sais,  it  may  well  be 
much  more  so  in  mere  sublunary  London. 
Here  again,  however,  in  regard  to  these  vapor- 
ous lucubrations,  we  can  only  imitate  Jean 
Paul's  Quintus  Fixlein,  who,  it  is  s^id,  in  his 
elaborate  Catalogue  of  German  Errors  of  the 
Press,  "  states  that  important  inferences  are  to 
be  drawn  from  it,  and  advises  the  reader  to 
draw  them."  Perhaps  these  wonderful  para- 
graphs, which  look,  at  this  distance,  so  like 
chasms  filled  with  mere  sluggish  mist,  might 
prove  valleys,  with  a  clear  stream,  and  soft 
pastures,  were  we  near  at  hand.  For  one 
thing,  either  Novalis,  with  Tieck  and  Schlegel 
at  his  back,  are  men  in  a  state  of  derange- 
ment; or  there  is  more  in  Heaven  and  Earth 
than  has  been  dreamt  of  in  our  Philosophy. 
We  may  add  that,  in  our  view,  this  last 
Speaker,  the  "  earnest  Man,"  seems  evidently 
to  be  Fichte ;  the  first  two  Classes  look  like 
some  skeptical  or  atheistic  brood,  unacquainted 


160 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


with  Bacon's  Novum  Organum,  or  having,  the 
First  class  at  least,  almost  no  faith  in  it. 
That  theory  of  the  human  species  ending  by  a 
universal  simultaneous  act  of  Suicide,  will,  to 
the  more  simple  sort  of  readers,  be  new. 

As  further  and  more  directly  illustrating 
Novalis's  scientific  views,  we  may  here  sub- 
join two  short  sketches,  taken  from  another 
department  of  this  volume.  To  ail  who  pro- 
secute Philosophy,  and  take  interest  in  its  his- 
tory and  present  aspects,  they  will  not  be 
without  interest.  The  obscure  parts  of  them 
are  not  perhaps  unintelligible,  but  only  ob- 
scure ;  which  unluckily  cannot,  at  all  times, 
be  helped  in  such  cases  : 

"  Common  Logic  is  the  Grammar  of  the 
higher  Speech,  that  is,  of  Thought ;  it  ex- 
amines merely  the  relations  of  ideas  to  one 
another,  the  Mechanics  of  Thought,  the  pure 
Physiology  of  ideas.  Now  logical  ideas  stand 
related  to  one  another,  like  words  without 
thoughts.  Logic  occupies  itself  with  the  mere 
dead  Body  of  the  science  of  Thinking. — Meta 
physics,  again,  is  the  Dynamics  of  Thought ; 
treats  of  the  primary  Powers  of  Thought :  oc- 
cupies itself  with  the  mere  Soul  of  the  Science 
of  Thinking.  Metaphysical  ideas  stand  re- 
lated to  one  another,  like  thoughts  without 
words.  Men  often  wondered  at  the  stubborn 
Incompletibility  of  these  two  Sciences ;  each 
followed  its  own  business  by  itself:  there  was 
a  want  everywhere,  nothing  would  suit  rightly 
with  either.  From  the  very  First,  attempts 
were  made  to  unite  them,  as  every  thing  about 
them  indicated  relationship ;  but  every  attempt 
failed ;  the  one  or  the  other  Science  still  suf- 
fered in  these  attempts,  and  lost  its  essential 
character.  We  had  to  abide  by  metaphysical 
Logic,  and  Logical  metaphysic,  but  neither  of 
them  was  as  it  should  be.  With  Physiology 
and  Psychology,  with  Mechanics  and  Chemis- 
try, it  fared  no  better.  In  the  latter  half  of 
this  Century  there  arose,  with  us  Germans,  a 
more  violent  commotion  than  ever ;  the  hos- 
tile masses  towered  themselves  up  against 
each  other  more  fiercely  than  heretofore ;  the 
fermentation  was  extreme;  there  followed 
powerful  explosions.  And  now  some  assert 
that  a  real  Compenetration  has  somewhere  or 
other  taken  place ;  that  the  germ  of  a  union 
has  arisen,  which  will  grow  by  degrees,  and 
assimilate  all  to  one  indivisible  form:  that 
this  principle  of  Peace  is  pressing  out  irresist- 
ibly, on  all  sides,  and  that  ere  long  there  will 
be  but  one  Science  and  one  Spirit,  as  one  Pro- 
phet and  one  God." — 

"  The  rude,  discursive  Thinker  is  the  Scho- 
lastic [Schoolman  Logician].  The  true  Scho- 
lastic is  a  mystical  Subtilist;  out  of  logical 
Atoms  he  builds  his  Universe  ;  he  annihilates 
all  living  Nature,  to  put  an  Artifice  of  Thoughts 
[GedankenJmnststUck,  literally,  Conjuror's-trick 
of  Thoughts]  in  its  room.  His  aim  is  an  infi- 
nite Automaton.  Opposite  to  him  is  the  rude, 
intuitive  Poet:  this  is  a  mystical  Macrologist; 
he  hates  rules,  and  fixed  form  ;  a  wild,  violent 
life  reigns  instead  of  it  in  Nature ;  all  is  an- 
imate, no  law;  wilfulness  and  wonder  every- 
where. He  is  mere  dynamical.  Thus  does 
the  Philosophic  Spirit  arise  at  first,  in  altoge- 
ther separate  masses.    In  the  second  stage  of 


culture  these  masses  begin  to  come  in  contact, 
multifariously  enough ;  and,  as  in  the  union 
of  infinite  Extremes,  the  Finite,  the  Limited 
arises,  so  here  also  arise  'Eclectic  Philoso- 
phers' without  number ;  the  time  of  misun- 
derstandings begins.  The  most  limited  is,  in 
this  stage,  the  most  important,  the  purest  Phi- 
losopher of  the  second  stage.  This  class  oc- 
cupies itself  wholly  with  the  actual,  present 
world,  in  the  strictest  sense.  The  Philoso- 
phers of  the  first  class  look  down  with  con- 
tempt on  those  of  the  second ;  say,  they  are  a 
little  of  every  thing,  and  so  nothing ;  hold  their 
views  as  results  of  weakness,  as  Inconse- 
quentism.  On  the  contrary,  the  second  class, 
in  their  turn,  pity  the  first;  lay  the  blame  on 
their  visionary  enthusiasm,  which  they  say  is 
absurd,  even  to  insanity.  If,  on  the  one  hand, 
the  Scholastics  and  Alchemists  seem  to  be  ut- 
terly at  variance,  and  the  Eclectics  on  the 
other  hand  quite  at  one,  yet,  strictly  examined, 
it  is  altogether  the  reverse.  The  former,  in 
essentials,  are  indirectly  of  one  opinion ; 
namely,  as  regards  the  non-dependence,  and 
infinite  character  of  Meditation,  the  both  set 
out  from  the  absolute :  whilst  the  Eclectic  and 
limited  sort  are  essentially  at  variance ;  and 
agree  only  in  what  is  deduced.  The  former 
are  infinite  but  uniform,  the  latter  bounded 
but  multiform;  the  former  have  genius,  the 
latter  talent :  those  have  Ideas,  these  have 
knacks,  (Handgriffe;)  those  are  heads  with- 
out hands,  these  are  hands  without  heads. 
The  third  stage  is  for  the  Artist,  who  can  be  at 
once  implement  and  genius.  He  finds  that 
that  primitive  Separation  in  the  absolute  Phi- 
losophical Activities  [between  the  Scholastic, 
and  the  '  rude  intuitive  Poet']  is  a  deeper- 
lying  Separation  in  his  own  Nature;  which 
Separation  indicates,  by  its  existence  as  such, 
the  possibility  of  being  adjusted,  of  being 
joined :  he  finds  that,  heterogeneous  as  these 
Activities  are,  there  is  yet  a  faculty  in  him  of 
passing  from  the  one  to  the  other,  of  chang- 
ing his  polarity  at  will.  He  discovers  in  them, 
therefore,  necessary  members  of  his  spirit; 
he  observes  that  both  must  be  united  in  some 
common  Principle.  He  infers  that  Eclectic- 
ism is  nothing  but  the  imperfect  defective  em- 
ployment of  this  Principle.     It  becomes " 

But  we  need  not  struggle  farther,  wringing 
a  significance  out  of  these  mysterious  MJ'ords : 
in  delineating  the  genuine  Transcendentalist, 
or  "  Philosopher  of  the  third  stage,"  properly 
speaking,  the  Philosopher,  Novalis  ascends  into 
regions,  whither  few  readers  would  follow 
him.  It  may  be  observed  here,  that  British 
Philosophy,  tracing  it  from  Duns  Scotus  to 
Dugald  Stewart,  has  now  gone  through  the 
first  and  second  of  these  "  stages,"  the  Scho- 
lastic and  the  Eclectic,  and  in  considerable 
honour.  With  our  amiable  Professor  Stewart, 
than  whom  no  man,  not  Cicero  himself,  was 
ever  more  entirely  Eclectic,  that  second  or 
Eclectic  class  may  be  considered  as  having 
terminated ;  and  now  Philosophy  is  at  a  stand 
among  us,  or  rather  there  is  now  no  Philosophy 
visible  in  these  Islands.  It  remains  to  be 
seen,  whether  we  also  are  to  have  our  "third 
stage ;"  and  how  that  new  and  highest  "class" 
will  demean  itself  here.    The  French  Philoso- 


NOVALIS. 


181 


phers  seem  busy  studying  Kant,  and  writing 
of  him:  but  we  rather  imagine  Novalis  would 
pronounce  them  still  only  in  the  Eclectic  stage. 
He  says  afterwards,  that  "all  Eclectics  are 
essentially  and  at  bottom  skeptics ;  the  more 
comprehensive,  the  more  skeptical." 

These  two  passages  have  been  extracted 
from  a  large  series  of  Fragments,  which,  under 
the  three  divisions  of  Philosophical,  Critical, 
Moral,  occupy  the  greatest  part  of  Volume 
second.  They  are  fractions,  as  we  hinted 
above,  of  that  grand  "encyclopedical  work" 
which  Novalis  had  planned.  Friedrich  Schle- 
gel  is  said  to  be  the  selector  of  those  published 
here.  They  come  before  us,  without  note  or 
comment;  worded  for  the  most  part  in  very 
unusual  'phraseology,  and  without  repeated 
and  most  patient  investigation,  seldom  yield 
any  significance,  or  rather  we  should  say,  often 
yield  a  false  one.  A  few  of  the  clearest  we 
have  selected  for  insertion  :  whether  the  reader 
will  think  them  "Pollen  of  Flowers,"  or  a 
baser  kind  of  dust,  we  shall  not  predict.  We 
give  them  in  a  miscellaneous  shape;  over- 
looking those  classifications  which,  even  in 
the  text,  are  not  and  could  not  be  very  rigidly 
adhered  to. 

"  Philosophy  can  bake  no  bread ;  but  she 
can  procure  for  us  God,  Freedom,  Immortality. 
Which  then  is  more  practical,  Philosophy  or 
Economy? — 

"  Philosophy  is  properly  Home-sickness  ; 
the  wish  to  be  everywhere  at  home. — 

"  We  are  near  awakening  when  we  dream 
that  we  dream. — 

"  The  true  philosophical  Act  is  annihilation 
of  self,  (Selbsttodtung ;)  this  is  the  real  beginning 
of  all  Philosophy;  all  requisites  for  being  a 
Disciple  of  Philosophy  point  hither.  This 
Act  alone  corresponds  to  all  the  conditions  and 
characteristics  of  transcendental  conduct. — 

"To  become  properly  acquainted  with  a 
truth,  we  must  first  have  disbelieved  it,  and 
disputed  against  it. — 

"Man  is  the  higher  Sense  of  our  Planet; 
the  star  which  connects  it  with  the  upper 
world;  the  eye  which  it  turns  towards  Hea- 
ven.— 

"Life  is  a  disease  of  the  spirit;  a  working 
incited  by  Passion.  Rest  is  peculiar  to  the 
spirit. — 

"  Our  Life  is  no  Dream,  but  it  may  and  will 
perhaps  become  one. — 

"  What  is  Nature?  An  encyclopedical,  sys- 
tematic Index,  or  Plan  of  our  Spirit.  Why 
will  we  content  us  with  the  mere  Catalogue  of 
our  Treasures?  Let  us  contemplate  them 
ourselves,  and  in  all  ways  elaborate  and  use 
them. — 

"  If  our  Bodily  Life  is  a  burning,  our  spi- 
ritual Life  is  a  being-burnt,  a  Combustion  (or, 
is  precisely  the  inverse  the  case?);  Death, 
therefore,  perhaps  a  Change  of  Capacity, — 

"  Sleep  is  for  the  inhabitants  of  Planets  only. 
In  another  time,  Man  will  sleep  and  wake 
continually  at  once.  The  greater  part  of  our 
Body,  of  our  Humanity  itself,  yet  sleeps  a  deep 
sleep. — 

"There  is  but  one  Temple  in  the  World; 
and  that  is  the  Body  of  Man.  Nothing  is 
holier  than  this  high  form.    Bending  before 


men  is  a  reverence  done  to  this  Revelation  in 
the  Flesh.— We  touch  Heaven,  when  we  lay 
our  hand  on  a  human  body. — 

"  Man  is  a  Sun  ;  his  Senses  are  the  Planets. — 

"  Man  has  ever  expressed  some  symbolical 
Philosophy  of  his  Being  in  his  Works  and 
Conduct ;  he  announces  himself  and  his  Gos- 
pel of  Nature  ;  he  is  the  Messiah  of  Nature. — 

"  Plants  are  Children  of  the  Earth ;  we  are 
Children  of  the  ^ther.  Our  Lungs  are  pro- 
perly our  Root;  we  live,  when  we  breathe; 
we  begin  our  life  with  breathing. — 

"  Nature  is  an  Eolian  Harp,  a  musical  in- 
strument ;  whose  tones  again  are  keys  to 
higher  strings  in  us. — 

"Every  beloved  object  is  the  centre  of  a 
Paradise. — 

"The  first  Man  is  the  first  Spiritseer;  all 
appears  to  him  as  Spirit.  What  are  children, 
but  first  men  ?  The  fresh  gaze  of  the  Child 
is  richer  in  significance  than  the  forecasting 
of  the  most  indubitable  Seer. — 

"It  depends  only  on  the  weakness  of  our 
organs  and  of  our  self-excitement  (Selbstberiih- 
rung)  that  we  do  not  see  ourselves  in  a  Fairy- 
world.  All  Fabulous  Tales,  (Mahrchen,)  are 
merely  dreams  of  that  home-world,  which  is 
everywhere  and  nowhere.  The  higher  powers 
in  us,  which  one  day,  as  Genies,  shall  fulfil  our 
will,*  are,  for  the  present.  Muses,  which  re- 
fresh us  on  our  toilsome  course  with  sweet 
remembrances. — 

"Man  consists  in  Truth.  If  he  exposes 
Truth,  he  exposes  himself.  If  he  betrays 
Truth,  he  betrays  himself.  We  speak  not  here 
of  Lies,  but  of  acting  against  Conviction. 

"  A  character  is  a  completely  fashioned  will 
(vollkommen  gebildeter  Wille.') — 

"There  is,  properly  speaking, no  Misfortune 
in  the  world.  Happiness  and  Misfortune  stand 
in  continual  balance.  Every  Misfortune  is,  as 
it  were,  the  obstruction  of  a  stream,  which, 
after  over-coming  this  obstruction,  but  bursts 
through  with  the  greater  force. — 

"The  ideal  of  Morality  has  no  more  dan- 
gerous rival  than  the  ideal  of  highest  Strength, 
of  most  powerful  life;  which  also  has  been 
named  (very  falsely  as  it  was  there  meant)  the 
ideal  of  poetic  greatness.  It  is  the  maximum 
of  the  savage ;  and  has,  in  these  times,  gained, 
precisely  among  the  greatest  weaklings,  very 
many  proselytes.  By  this  ideal,  man  becomes 
a  Beast-Spirit,  a  Mixture ;  whose  brutal  wit 
has,  for  weaklings,  a  brutal  power  of  attrac- 
tion.— 

"The  spirit  of  Poesy  is  the  morning  light, 
which  makes  the  statue  of  Memnon  sound. — 

"  The  division  of  Philosopher  and  Poet  is 
only  apparent,  and  to  the  disadvantage  of  both. 
It  is  a  sign  of  disease,  and  of  a  sickly  con- 
stitution.— 

"The  true  Poet  is  all-knowing;  he  is  an 
actual  world  in  miniature. — 


♦  Novalis'B  ideas,  on  what  has  been  called  the  "per- 
fectibility of  man,"  ground  themselves  on  his  peculiar 
views  of  the  constitution  of  material  and  spiritual  Na- 
ture, and  are  of  the  most  original  and  extraordinary 
character.  With  our  utmost  effort,  we  should  despair 
of  communicating:  other  than  a  quite  false  notion  of 
them.  He  asks,  for  instance,  with  scientific  cravityt 
Whether  any  one,  that  recollects  the  first  kind  glance 
of  her  he  loved,  can  doubt  the  possibility  of  Magic? 

Q 


l82 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


"Klopstock's  works  appear,  for  the  most 
part,  free  Translations  of  an  unknown  Poet, 
by  a  very  talented  but  unpoetical  Philologist. — 

"Goethe  is  an  altogether  practical  poet.  He 
is  in  his  works  what  the  English  are  in  their 
wares :  highly  simple,  neat,  convenient,  and 
durable.  He  has  done  in  German  Literature 
what  Wedgewood  did  in  English  Manufacture. 
He  has,  like  the  English,  a  natural  turn  for 
Economy,  and  a  noble  Taste  acquired  by  Un- 
derstanding. Both  these  are  very  compatible, 
and  have  a  near  affinity  in  the  chemical 
sense.  *  * — Wilhelm  Meisler^s  Apprenticeship  may 
be  called  throughout  prosaic  and  modern.  The 
Romantic  sinks  to  ruin,  the  Poesy  of  Nature, 
the  Wonderful.  The  Book  treats  merely  of 
common  Worldly  things :  Nature  and  Mysti- 
cism are  altogether  forgotten.  It  is  a  poetized, 
civic,  and  household  History ;  the  Marvellous 
is  expressly  treated  therein  as  imagination  and 
enthusiasm.  Artistic  Atheism  is  the  spirit  of 
the  Book.  *  *  *  It  is  properly  a  Candide,  di- 
rected against  Poetry ;  the  Book  is  highly  un- 
poetical in  respect  of  spirit,  poetical  as  the 
dress  and  body  of  it  is.  *  *  *  The  introduction 
of  Shakspeare  has  almost  a  tragic  effect.  The 
hero  retards  the  triumph  of  the  Gospel  of 
Economy;  and  economical  Nature  is  finally 
the  true  and  only  remaining  one. — 

"  When  we  speak  of  the  aim  and  Art  observa- 
ble in  Shakspeare's  works,  we  must  not  forget 
that  Art  belongs  to  Nature;  that  it  is,  so  to 
speak,  self-viewing,  self-imitating,  self-fashion- 
ing Nature.  The  Art  of  a  well-developed  genius 
is  far  different  from  the  Artfulness  of  the  Under- 
standing, of  the  merely  reasoning  mind.  Shak- 
speare was  no  calculator,  no  learned  thinker  ; 
he  was  a  mighty  many-gifted  soul,  whose  feel- 
ings and  works,  like  products  of  Nature,  bear 
the  stamp  of  the  same  spirit;  and  in  which  the 
last  and  deepest  of  observers  will  still  find  new 
harmonies  with  the  infinite  structure  of  the 
Universe  ;  concurrences  with  later  ideas,  affini- 
ties with  the  higher  powers  and  senses  of  man. 
They  are  emblematic,  have  many  meanings, 
are  simple,  and  inexhaustible,  like  products  of 
Nature ;  and  nothing  more  unsuitable  could  be 
said  of  them  than  that  they  are  works  of  Art, 
in  that  narrow  mechanical  acceptation  of  the 
word." 

The  reader  understands  that  we  ofter  these 
specimens  not  as  the  best  to  be  found  in 
Novalis's  Fragments,  but  simply  as  the  most  in- 
telligible. Far  stranger  and  deeper  things  there 
are,  could  we  hope  to  make  them  in  the  smallest 
degree  understood.  But  in  examining  and  re- 
examining many  of  his  Fragments,  we  find 
ourselves  carried  into  more  complex,  more 
subtle  regions  of  thought  than  any  we  are  else- 
where acquainted  with :  here  we  cannot  always 
find  our  own  latitude  and  longitude,  some- 
limes  not  even  approximate  to  finding  them ; 
much  less  teach  others  such  a  secret. 

What  has  been  already  quoted  may  afford 
some  knowledge  of  Novalis,  in  the  characters 
of  Philosopher  and  Critic :  there  is  one  other 
aspect  under  which  it  would  be  still  more 
curious  to  view  and  exhibit  him,  but  still  more 
difficult, — we  mean  that  of  his  Religion.  No- 
valis nowhere  specially  records  his  creed,  in 
these  Writings  :  he  many  times  expresses,  or 


implies,  a  zealous,  heartfelt  belief  in  the  Chris- 
tian system;  yet  with  such  adjuncts,  and  co- 
existing persuasions,  as  to  us  might  seem 
rather  surprising.  One  or  two  more  of  these 
his  Aphorisms,  relative  to  this  subject,  we 
shall  cite,  as  likely  to  be  better  than  any 
description  of  ours.  The  whole  essay  at  the 
end  of  volume  first,  entitled  Die  Chrisienheit  oder 
Europa  (Christianity  or  Europe),  is  also  well 
worthy  of  study,  in  this  as  in  many  other  points 
of  view. 

*'  Religion  contains  infinite  sadness.  If  we 
are  to  love  God,  he  must  be  in  distress  Qiiilf- 
bediirftig,  help-needing).  In  how  far  is  this 
condition  answered  in  Christianity] — 

"Spinoza  is  a  God-intoxicated-man  (Gott- 
trunkener  Mensch.) — 

"  Is  the  Devil,  as  Father  of  Lies,  himself  but 
a  necessary  illusion  1 — 

"  The  Catholic  Religion  is  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent applied  Christianity.  I'ichte's  Philosophy 
too  is  perhaps  applied  Christianity. — 

"Can  Miracles  work  Conviction]  Or  is 
not  real  Conviction,  this  highest  function  of 
our  soul  and  personality,  the  only  true  God- 
announcing  Miracle] 

"The  Christian  Religion  is  especially  re- 
markable, moreover,  as  it  so  decidedly  lays 
claim  to  mere  good  will  in  Man,  to  his  essen- 
tial Temper,  and  values  this  independently  of 
all  Culture  and  Manifestation.  It  stands  in 
opposition  to  Science  and  to  Art,  and  joroper/y 
to  Enjoyment.* 

"  Its  origin  is  with  the  common  people.  It 
inspires  the  great  majority  of  the  limitedixi  this 
Earth. 

"  It  is  the  Light  that  begins  to  shine  in  the 
Darkness. 

"  It  is  the  root  of  all  Democracy,  the  highest 
Fact  in  the  Rights  of  Man  (die  hochste  Thatsache 
der  Popularitdt.) 

"  Its  unpoetical  exterior,  its  resemblance  to 
a  modern  family-picture,  seems  only  to  be  lent 
it*— 

"  Martyrs  are  spiritual  heroes.  Christ  was 
the  greatest  martyr  of  our  species ;  through 
him  has  martyrdom  become  infinitely  signifi- 
cant and  holy. — 

"The  Bible  begins  nobly,  with  Paradise,  the 
symbol  of  youth ;  and  concludes  with  the 
Eternal  Kingdom,  the  Holy  City.  Its  two  main 
divisions,  also,  are  genuine  grand-historical 
divisions  (dcht  grosshistorisch.)  For  in  every 
grand-historical  compartment,  (Glied,)  the  grand 
history  must  lie,  as  it  were,  symbolically  re- 
created, (verjiingt,  made  young  again.)  The 
beginning  of  the  New  Testament  is  the  second 
higher  Fall,  (the  Atonement  of  the  Fall,)  and 
the  commencement  of  the  new  Period.  The 
history  of  every  individual  man  should  be  a 
Bible.  Christ  is  the  new  Adam.  A  Bible  is 
the  highest  problem  of  Authorship. — 

"As  yet  there  is  no  Religion.  You  must 
first  make  a  Seminary  (Bildungs-schulc)  of 
genuine  Religion.  Think  ye  that  there  is  Re- 
ligion ]  Religion  has  to  be  made  and  produced 
(gemacht  und  hcniorgehracht)  by  the  union  of  a 
number  of  persons." 

Hitherto  our  readers  have  seen  nothing  of 


*  Italics  also  in  the  text. 


NOVALIS. 


183 


Novalis  in  his  character  of  Poet,  properly  so  |  Light  was  snapped  asunder.  Vanishes  the 
called ;  the  Pupils  at  Sais  being  fully  more  of  Glory  of  Earth,  and  with  it  my  Lamenting 
a  scientific  than  poetic  nature.  As  hinted  j  rushes  together  the  infinite  Sadness  into  a  new 
above,  we  do  not  account  his  gifts  in  this  unfathomaUe  World :  thou  Night's-inspiration, 
latter  province  as  of  the  first,  or  even  of  a  Slumber  of  Heaven,  earnest  over  me;  the  scene 
high  order ;  unless,  indeed,  it  be  true,  as  he  j  rose  gently  aloft ;  over  the  scene  hovered  my 
himself  maintains,  that  "the  distinction  of  i  enfranchised  new-born  spirit;  to  a  cloud  of  dust 
Poet  and  Philosopher  is  apparent  only,  and  to  |  that  grave  changed  itself;  through  the  cloud  I  be- 
the  injury  of  both."  In  his  professedly  poetical  I  held  the  transfigured  features  of  my  Beloved.  In 
compositions,  there  is  an  indubitable  prolixity,  |  her  eyes  lay  Eternity ;  I  clasped  her  hands,  and 


a  degree  of  languor,  not  weakness  but  slug 
gishness ;  the  meaning  is  too  much  diluted; 
and  diluted,  we  might  say,  not  in  a  rich,  lively, 
varying  music,  as  we  find  in  Tieck,  for  ex- 
ample; but  rather  in  a  low-voiced,  not  un- 
melodious  monotony,  the  deep  hum  of  which 
is  broken  only  at  rare  intervals,  though  some- 
times by  tones  of  purest,  and  almost  spiritual 
softness.  We  here  allude  chiefly  to  his  un- 
metrical  pieces,  his  prose  fictions  :  indeed  the 
metrical  are  few  in  number ;  for  the  most  part 
on  religious  subjects  ;  and  in  spite  of  a  decided 
truthfulness  both  in  feeling  and  word,  seem  to 
bespeak  no  great  skill  or  practice  in  that  form 
of  composition.  In  his  prose  style  he  may  be 
accounted  happier;  he  aims  in  general  at 
simplicity,  and  a  certain  familiar  expressive- 
ness ;  here  and  there,  in  his  more  elaborate 
passages,  especially  in  his  Hymns  to  the  Night, 
he  has  reminded  us  of  Herder. 

These  Hymns  to  the  Night,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, were  written  shortly  after  the  death  of 
his  mistress :  in  that  period  of  deep  sorrow, 
or  rather  of  holy  deliverance  from  sorrow. 
Novalis  himself  regarded  them  as  his  most 
finished  productions.  They  are  of  a  strange 
veiled,  almost  enigmatical  character ;  never- 
theless, more  deeply  examined,  they  appear 
nowise  without  true  poetic  worth;  there  is  a 
vastness,  an  immensity  of  idea;  a  still  solem- 
nity reigns  in  them,  a  solitude  almost  as  of 
extinct  worlds.  Here  and  there,  too,  some 
lightbeam  visits  us  in  the  void  deep ;  and  we 
cast  a  glance,  clear  and  wondrous,  into  the 
secrets  of  that  mysterious  soul.  A  full  com- 
mentary on  the  Hymns  to  the  Night  would  be  an 
exposition  of  Novalis's  whole  theological  and 
moral  creed;  for  it  lies  recorded  there,  though 
symbolically,  and  in  lyric,  not  in  didactic  lan- 
guage. We  have  translated  the  third,  as  the 
shortest  and  simplest ;  imitating  its  light,  half- 
measured  style;  above  all,  decyphering  its 
vague  deep-laid  sense,  as  accurately  as  we 
could.  By  the  word  "Night,"  it  will  be  seen, 
Novalis  means  much  more  than  the  common 
opposite  of  Day.  "Light"  seems,  in  these 
poems,  to  shadow  forth  our  terrestrial  life ; 
Night  the  primeval  and  celestial  life : 

"Once  when  I  was  shedding  bitter  tears, 
when  dissolved  in  pain  my  Hope  had  melted 
away,  and  I  stood  solitary  by  the  grave  that  in 
its  dark  narrow  space  concealed  the  Form  of 
my  life ;  solitary  as  no  other  had  been ;  chased 
by  unutterable  anguish ;  powerless ;  one  thought 
and  that  of  misery ; — here  now  as  I  looked 
round  for  help ;  forward  could  not  go,  nor  back- 
ward, but  clung  to  a  transient  extinguished 
Life  with  unutterable  longing; — lo,  from  the 
azure  distance,  down  from  the  heights  of  my 
old  Blessedness,  came  a  chill  Breath  of  Dusk, 


my  tears  became  a  glittering  indissoluble  chain. 
Centuries  of  Ages  moved  away  into  the  distance, 
like  thunder-clouds.  On  her  neck  I  wept,  for 
this  new  life,  enrapturing  tears. — It  was  my 
first  only  Dream ;  and  ever  since  then  do  I  feel 
this  changeless  everlasting  faith  in  the  Heaven 
of  Night,  and  its  Sun  my  Beloved." 

What  degree  of  critical  satisfaction,  what 
insight  into  the  grand  crisis  of  Novalis's  spi- 
ritual  history,  which   seems  to  be  here  sha- 
dowed forth,  our  readers  may  derive  from  this 
Third  Hymn  to  the  Night,  we  shall  not  pretend 
to  conjecture.    Meanwhile,  it  were  giving  them, 
a  false  impression  of  the  Poet,  did  we  leave  him 
here ;  exhibited  only  under  his  more  mystic 
aspects  :  as  if  his  Poetry  were  exclusively  a 
thing  of  Allegory,  dwelling  amid  Darkness  and 
Vacuity,  far  from  all  paths  of  ordinary  mortals 
and  their  thoughts.    Novalis  can  write  in  the 
most  common  style,  as  well  as  in  this  most  un- 
common one ;  and  there  too  not  without  ori- 
ginality.    By  far  the  greater  part  of  his  First 
volume  is  occupied  with  a  Romance,  Heinrich 
von  Oflcrdingen,  written,  so  far  as  it  goes,  much 
in  the  every-day  manner;  we  have  adverted 
the  less  to  it,  because  we  nowise   reckon   it 
among  his   most    remarkable    compositions. 
Like    many  of   the  others,  it  has   been   left 
as  a  Fragment;  nay,  from  the  account  Tieck 
gives  of  its  ulterior  plan,  and  how  from  the 
solid  prose  world  of  the  first  part,  this  "Apo- 
theosis of  Poetry"  was  to  pass,  in  the  Second, 
into  a  mythical,  fairy,  and  quite  fantastic  world, 
critics  have  doubted,  whether,  strictly  speak- 
ing, it  could  have  been  completed.    From  this 
work,  we  select  two  passages,  as  specimens  of 
Novalis's  manner  in  the  more  common  style  of 
composition  ;  premising,  which  in  this  one  in- 
stance we  are  entitled  to  do,  that  whatever  ex- 
cellence  they  may  have   will  be  universally 
appreciable.     The  first  is  the  introduction  to 
the  whole  Narrative,  as  it  were,  the  text  of  the 
whole ;  the  "  Blue  Flower"  there  spoken  of  being 
Poetry,  the  real  object,  passion  and  vocation 
of  young  Heinrich,  which,  through  manifold 
adventures,  exertions,  and  suflferings,  he  is  to 
seek  and  find.     His  history  commences  thus : 
"  The  old  people  were  already  asleep ;  the 
clock  was  beating  its  monotonous  tick  on  the 
wall ;  the  wind  blustered  over  the  rattling  win- 
dows; by  turns,  the  chamber  was  lighted  by 
the  sheen  of  the  moon.     The  young  man  lay 
restless  in  his  bed ;  and  thought  of  the  stranger 
and  his   stories.     'Not  the  treasures,  is   it,' 
said  he  to  himself, '  that  have  awakened  in  me 
so  unspeakable  a  desire  ;  far  from  me  is  all  co- 
vetousness;  but  the  Blue  Flower  is  what  I  long 
to  behold.     It  lies  incessantly  in  my  heart,  and 
I  can  think  and  fancy  of  nothing  else.    Never 
did  I  feel  so  before :  it  is  as  if,  till  now,  I  had 


and  suddenly  the  band  of  Birth,  the  fetter  of  I  been  dreaming,  or  as  if  sleep  had  carried  me 


184 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


into  another  world ;  for  in  the  world  I  used 
to  live  in,  who  troubled  himself  about  flowers  1 
Such  wild  passion  for  a  Flower  was  never 
heard  of  there.  But  whence  could^that  stran- 
ger have  come]  None  of  us  ever  saw  such 
a  man;  yet  I  know  not  how  I  alone  was  so 
caught  with  his  discourse ;  the  rest  heard  the 
very  same,  yet  none  seems  to  mind  it.  And 
then  that  I  cannot  even  speak  of  my  strange 
condition !  I  feel  such  rapturous  contentment ; 
and  only  then  when  I  have  not  the  Flower 
rightly  before  my  eyes,  does  so  deep  heartfelt 
an  eagerness  come  over  me,  these  things  no  one 
will  or  can  believe.  I  could  fancy  I  were  mad, 
if  I  did  not  see,  did  not  think  with  such  perfect 
clearness ;  since  that  day,  all  is  far  better  known 
to  me.  I  have  heard  tell  of  ancient  times  ;  how 
animals  and  trees  and  rocks  used  to  speak  with 
men.  This  is  even  my  feeling ;  as  if  they  were 
on  the  point  of  breaking  out,  and  I  could  see 
in  them,  what  they  wished  to  say  to  me.  There 
must  be  many  a  word  which  I  know  not :  did  I 
know  more,  I  could  better  comprehend  these 
matters.  Once  I  liked  dancing;  now  I  had 
rather  think  to  the  music' — The  young  man  lost 
himself,  by  degrees,  in  sweet  fancies,  and  fell 
asleep.  He  dreamed  first  of  immeasurable 
distances,  and  wild  unknown  regions.  He 
wandered  over  seas  with  incredible  speed; 
strange  animals  he  saw  ;  he  lived  with  many 
varieties  of  men,  now  in  war,  in  wild  tumult, 
now  in  peaceful  huts.  He  was  taken  captive, 
and  fell  into  the  lowest  wretchedness.  All 
emotions  rose  to  a  height  as  yet  unknown  to 
him.  He  lived  through  an  infinitely  variegated 
life  ;  died,  and  came  back;  loved  to  the  highest 
passion,  and  then  again  was  for  ever  parted 
from  his  loved  one.  At  length  towards  morn- 
ing, as  the  dawn  broke  up  without,  his  spirit 
also  grew  stiller,  the  images  grew  clearer  and 
more  permanent.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was 
walking  alone  in  a  dark  wood.  Only  here  and 
there  did  day  glimmer  through  the  green  net. 
Ere  long  he  came  to  a  rocky  chasm,  which 
mounted  upwards.  He  had  to  climb  over  many 
crags,  which  some  former  stream  had  rolled 
down.  The  higher  he  came,  the  lighter  grew 
the  wood.  At  last  he  arrived  at  a  little  mea- 
dow, which  lay  on  the  declivity  of  the  mountain. 
Beyond  the  meadow  rose  a  high  cliff,  at  the 
foot  of  which  he  observed  an  opening,  that 
seemed  to  be  the  entrance  of  a  passage  hewn 
in  the  rock.  The  passage  led  him  easily  on, 
for  some  time,  to  a  great  subterranean  expanse, 
out  of  which  from  afar  a  bright  gleam  was  vi- 
sible. On  entering,  he  perceived  a  strong  beam 
of  light,  which  sprang  as  if  from  a  fountain  to 
the  roof  of  the  cave,  and  sprayed  itself  into  in- 
numerable sparks,  which  collected  below  in  a 
great  basin:  the  beam  glanced  like  kindled 
gold :  not  the  faintest  noise  was  to  be  heard,  a 
sacred  silence  encircled  the  glorious  sight.  He 
approached  the  basin,  which  waved  and  qui- 
vered with  infinite  hues.  The  walls  of  the 
cave  were  coated  with  this  fluid,  which  was  not 
hot  but  cool,  and  on  the  walls,  threw  out  a  faint 
bluish  light.  He  dipt  his  hand  in  the  basin, 
and  wetted  his  lips.  It  was  as  if  the  breath  of 
a  spirit  went  through  him  ;  and  he  felt  himself 
in  his  inmost  heart  strengthened  and  refreshed. 
An  irresistible  desire  seized  him  to  bathe ;  he 


undressed  himself  and  stept  into  the  basin.  He 
felt  as  if  a  sunset  cloud  were  floating  round  him; 
a  heavenly  emotion  streamed  over  his  soul ;  in 
deep  pleasure  innumerable  thoughts  strove  to 
blend  within  him ;  new,  unseen  images  arose, 
which  also  melted  together,  and  became  visi- 
ble beings  around  him ;  and  every  wave  of  that 
lovely  element  pressed  itself  on  him  like  a  soft 
bosom.  The  flood  seemed  a  Spirit  of  Beauty, 
which  from  moment  to  moment  was  taking 
form  round  the  youth. 

"  Intoxicated  with  rapture,  and  yet  conscious 
of  every  impression,  he  floated  softly  down  that 
glittering  stream,  which  flowed  out  from  the 
basin  into  the  rocks.  A  sort  of  sweet  slumber 
fell  upon  him,  in  which  he  dreamed  indescriba- 
ble adventures,  and  out  of  which  a  new  light 
awoke  him.  He  found  himself  on  a  soft  sward 
at  the  margin  of  a  spring,  which  welled  out 
into  the  air,  and  seemed  to  dissipate  itself  there. 
Dark-blue  rocks,  with  many-coloured  veins, 
rose  at  some  distance ;  the  daylight  which  en- 
circled him  was  clearer  and  milder  than  the 
common;  the  sky  was  black-blue,  and  alto- 
gether pure.  But  what  attracted  him  infinitely- 
most  was  a  high,  light-blue  Flower,  which  stood 
close  by  the  spring,  touching  it  with  its  broad 
glittering  leaves.  Round  it  stood  innumerable 
flowers  of  all  colours,  and  the  sweetest  perfume 
filled  the  air.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  Blue 
Flower ;  and  gazed  on  it  long  with  nameless 
tenderness.  At  last  he  was  for  approaching, 
when  all  at  once  it  began  to  move  and  change ; 
the  leaves  grew  more  resplendent,  and  clasped 
themselves  round  the  waxing  stem ;  the  Flower 
bent  itself  towards  him  ;  and  the  petals  showed 
like  a  blue  spreading  ruff",  in  which  hovered  a 
lovely  face.  His  sweet  astonishment  at  this 
transformation  was  increasing, — when  sudden- 
ly his  mother's  voice  awoke  him,  and  he  found 
himself  in  the  house  of  his  parents,  which  the 
morning  sun  was  already  gilding." 

Our  next  and  last  extract  is  likewise  of  a 
dream.  Young  Heinrich  with  his  mother 
travels  a  long  journey  to  see  his  grandfather 
at  Augsburg;  converses,  on  the  way,  with 
merchants,  miners,  and  red-cross  warriors, 
(for  it  is  in  the  time  of  the  crusades  ;)  and  soon 
after  his  arrival,  falls  immeasurably  in  love 
with  Matilda,  the  Poet  Klingsohr's  daughter,  in- 
whose  face  was  that  fairest  one  he  had  seen  in 
his  old  vision  of  the  Blue  Flower.  Matilda,  it 
would  appear,  is  to  be  taken  from  him  by  death, 
(as  Sophie  was  from  Novalis :)  meanwhile, 
dreading  no  such  event,  Heinrich  abandons 
himself  with  full  heart  to  his  new  emotions  : 

"  He  went  to  the  window.  The  choir  of  the 
Stars  stood  in  the  deep  heaven;  and  in  the 
east,  a  white  gleam  announced  the  coming 
day. 

"  Full  of  rapture,  Heinrich  exclaimed :  *  You, 
ye  everlasting  Stars,  ye  silent  wanderers,  I  call 
you  to  witness  my  sacred  oath.  For  Matilda 
will  I  live,  and  eternal  faith  shall  unite  my 
heart  and  hers.  For  me,  too,  the  morn  of  an 
everlasting  day  is  dawning.  The  night  is  by: 
to  the  rising  Sun,  I  kindle  myself,  as  a  sacrifice 
that  will  never  be  extinguished.' 

"Heinrich  was  heated;  and  not  till  late, 
towards  morning,  did  he  fall  asleep.  In  strange 
dreams   the  thoughts   of  his   soul  imbodied 


NOVALIS. 


185 


themselves.  A  deep  blue  river  gleamed  from 
the  plain.  On  its  smooth  surface  floated  a 
bark ;  Matilda  was  sitting  there,  and  steering. 
She  was  adorned  with  garlands :  was  singing 
a  simple  Song,  and  looking  over  to  him  with 
fond  sadness.  His  bosom  was  full  of  anxiety. 
He  knew  not  why.  The  sky  was  clear,  the 
stream  calm.  Her  heavenly  countenance  was 
mirrored  in  the  waves.  All  at  once  the  bark 
began  to  whirl.  He  called  earnestly  to  her. 
She  smiled,  and  laid  down  her  helm  in  the 
boat,  which  continued  whirling.  An  unspeak- 
able terror  took  hold  of  him.  He  dashed  into 
the  stream ;  but  he  could  not  get  forward ;  the 
water  carried  him.  She  beckoned,  she  seemed 
as  if  she  wished  to  say  something  to  him ;  the 
bark  was  filling  with  water ;  yet  she  smiled 
with  unspeakable  affection,  and  looked  cheer- 
fully into  the  vortex.  All  at  once  it  drew  her 
in.  A  faint  breath  rippled  over  the  stream, 
which  flowed  on  as  calm  and  glittering  as  be- 
fore. His  horrid  agony  robbed  him  of  con- 
sciousness. His  heart  ceased  beating.  On 
returning  to  himself,  he  was  again  on  dry  land. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  floated  far.  It  was  a 
strange  region.  He  knew  not  what  had  passed 
with  him.  His  heart  was  gone.  Unthinking 
he  walked  deeper  into  the  country.  He  felt 
inexpressibly  weary.  A  little  well  gushed 
from  a  hill ;  it  sounded  like  perfect  bells. 
"With  his  hands  he  lifted  some  drops,  and 
wetted  his  parched  lips.  Like  a  sick  dream, 
lay  the  frightful  event  behind  him.  Farther 
and  farther  he  walked;  flowers  and  trees 
spoke  to  him.  He  felt  so  well,  so  at  home 
in  the  scene.  Then  he  heard  that  simple 
Song  again.  He  ran  after  the  sounds.  Sud- 
denly some  one  held  him  by  the  clothes.  '  Dear 
Henry,'  cried  a  well-known  voice.  He  looked 
round,  and  Maltilda  clasped  him  in  her  arms 
'Why  didst  thou  run  from  me,  dear  heart  1'* 
said  she,  breathing  deep:  'I  could  scarcely 
overtake  thee.'  Heinrich  wept.  He  pressed 
her  to  him.  *  Where  is  the  river  V  cried  he 
in  tears. — 'Seest  thou  not  its  blue  waves 
above  us  V  He  looked  up,  and  the  blue  river 
was  flowing  softly  over  their  heads.  *  Where 
are  we,  dear  Matilda!' — 'With  our  Fathers.' 
^* Shall  we  stay  together?' — 'For  ever,'  an- 
swered she,  pressing  her  lips  to  his,  and  so 
clasping  him  that  she  could  not  again  quit 
hold.  She  put  a  wondrous,  secret  Word  in  his 
mouth,  and  it  pierced  through  all  his  being. 
He  was  about  to  repeat  it,  when  his  Grand- 
father called,  and  he  awoke.  He  would  have 
given  his  life  to  remember  that  Word." 

This  image  of  Death,  and  of  the  River  being 
the  Sky  in  that  other  and  eternal  country, 
seems  to  us  a  fine  and  touching  one;  there  is 
in  it  a  trace  of  that  simple  sublimity,  that  soft 
still  pathos,  which  are  characteristics  of  Nova- 
lis,  and  doubtless  the  highest  of  his  specially 
poetic  gifts. 

But  on  these,  and  what  other  gifts  and  de- 
ficiencies pertain  to  him,  we  can  no  farther 
insist :  for  now,  after  such  multifarious  quota- 
tions, and  more  or  less  stinted  commentaries, 
we  must  consider  our  little  enterprise  in  respect 
of  Novalis  to  have  reached  its  limits,  to  be,  if  not 
completed,  concluded.  Our  reader  has  heard 
him  largely;  on  a  great  variety  of  topics, 
24 


selected  and  exhibited  here  in  such  manner  as 
seemed  the  fittest  for  our  object,  and  with  a 
true  wish  on  our  part,  that  what  little  judg- 
ment was  in  the  meanwhile  to  be  formed  of 
such  a  man,  might  be  a  fair  and  honest  one. 
Some  of  the  passages  we  have  translated  will 
appear  obscure ;  others,  we  hope,  are  not  with- 
out symptoms  of  a  wise  and  deep  meaning;  the 
rest  may  excite  wonder,  which  wonder  again 
it  will  depend  on  each  reader  for  himself, 
whether  he  turn  to  right  account  or  to  wrong 
account,  whether  he  entertain  as  the  parent  of 
Knowledge,  or  as  the  daughter  of  Ignorance. 
For  the  great  body  of  readers,  we  are  aware, 
there  can  be  little  profit  in  Novalis,  who  rather 
employs  our  time  than  helps  us  to  kill  it ;  for 
such  any  farther  study  of  him  would  be  unad- 
visable.  To  others  again,  who  prize  Truth  as 
the  end  of  all  reading,  especially  to  that  class 
who  cultivate  moral  science  as  the  develop- 
ment of  purest  and  highest  Truth,  we  can  re- 
commend the  perusal  and  re-perusal  of  Nova- 
lis with  almost  perfect  confidence.  If  they 
feel,  with  us,  that  the  most  profitable  employ- 
ment any  book  can  give  them,  is  to  study 
honestly  some  earnest,  deep-minded,  truth- 
loving  Man,  to  work  their  way  into  his  manner 
of  thought,  till  they  see  the  world  with  his 
eyes,  feel  as  he  felt,  and  judge  as  he  judged, 
neither  believing  nor  denying,  till  they  can  in 
some  measure  so  feel  and  judge, — then  we  may 
assert,  that  few  books  known  to  us  are  more 
worthy  of  their  attention  than  this.  They  will 
find  it,  if  we  mistake  not,  an  unfathomed  mine 
of  philosophical  ideas,  where  the  keenest  intel- 
lect may  have  occupation  enough;  and  in 
such  occupation,  without  looking  farther,  re- 
ward enough.  All  this,  if  the  reader  proceed 
on  candid  principles ;  if  not,  it  will  be  all 
otherwise.  To  no  man,  so  much  as  to  Noveilis, 
is  that  famous  motto  applicable  : 

Leser^  leie  gefalV  ick  Dir  ? 
Leser,  wie  gefiillst  Du  mir  ? 

Reader,  how  likest  thou  me  1 
Reader,  how  like  I  thee  1 

For  the  rest,  it  were  but  a  false  proceeding 
did  we  attempt  any  formal  character  of  Novalis 
in  this  place ;  did  we  pretend  with  such  means 
as  ours  to  reduce  that  extraordinary  nature 
under  common  formularies ;  and  in  few  words 
sum  up  the  net  total  of  his  worth  and  worth- 
lessness.  We  have  repeatedly  expressed  our 
own  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  matter,  and 
our  entire  despair  of  bringing  even  an  approxi- 
mate picture  of  it  before  readers  so  foreign 
to  him.  The  kind  words,  "  amiable  enthusiast," 
"  poetic  dreamer;"  or  the  unkind  ones,  "Ger- 
man mystic,"  "  crackbrained  rhapsodist,"  are 
easily  spoken  and  written ;  but  would  avail 
little  in  this  instance.  If  we  are  not  altogether 
mistaken,  Novalis  cannot  be  ranged  under 
any  of  these  noted  categories  ;  but,  belongs  to 
a  higher  and  much  less  known  one,  the  signifi- 
cance of  which  is  perhaps  also  worth  studying, 
at  all  events,  will  not  till  after  long  study  be- 
come clear  to  us. 

Meanwhile,  let  the  reader  accept  some  vague 

impressions  of  ours  on  this  subject,  since  we 

have  no  fixed  judgment  to   ofl^er  him.     We 

might  say  that  the  chief  excellence,  we  have 

a2 


186 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


remarked  in  Novalis,  is  his  to  us  truly  wonder- 
ful subtlety  of  intellect;  his  power  of  intense 
abstraction,  of  pursuing  the  deepest  and  most 
evanescent  ideas,  through  their  thousand  com- 
plexities, as  it  were,  with  lynx  vision,  and  to 
the  very  limits  of  human  Thought.  He  was  well 
skilled  in  mathematics,  and,  as  we  can  easily 
"believe,  fond  of  that  science;  but  his  is  a  far 
finer  species  of  endowment  than  any  required 
in  mathematics,  where  the  mind,  from  the 
very  beginning  of  Euclid  to  the  end  of  Laplace, 
is  assisted  with  visible  symbols,  with  safe  im- 
plements for  thinking;  nay,  at  least  in  what  is 
called  the  higher  mathematics,  has  often  little 
more  than  a  mechanical  superintendence  to 
exercise  over  these.  This  power  of  abstract 
meditation,  when  it  is  so  sure  and  clear  as  we 
sometimes  find  it  with  Novalis,  is  a  much 
higher  and  rarer  one;  its  element  is  not  mathe- 
matics, but  that  Mathesis,  of  which  it  has  been 
said  many  a  Great  Calculist  has  not  even  a 
notion.  In  this  power  truly,  so  far  as  logical 
and  not  moral  power  is  concerned,  lies  the 
summary  of  all  Philosophic  talent:  which  talent 
accordingly  we  imagine  Novalis  to  have  pos- 
sessed in  a  very  high  degree ;  in  a  higher  de- 
gree than  almost  any  other  modern  writer  we 
have  met  with. 

His  chief  fault  again  figures  itself  to  us  as 
a  certain  undue  softness,  want  of  rapid  energy ; 
something  which  we  might  term  passiveness  ex- 
tending both  over  his  mind  and  his  character- 
There  is  a  tenderness  in  Novalis,  a  purity,  a 
clearness,  almost  as  of  a  woman ;  but  he  has 
not,  at  least  not  at  all  in  that  degree,  the  em- 
phasis and  resolute  force  of  a  man.  Thus,  in 
his  poetical  delineations,  as  we  complained 
above,  he  is  too  diluted  and  diffuse;  not  verbose 
properly;  not  so  much  abounding  in  superflu- 
ous words,  as  in  superfluous  circumstances, 
which  indeed  is  but  a  degree  better.  In  his 
philosophical  speculations,  we  feel  as  if,  under 
a  different  form,  the  same  fault  were  now  and 
then  manifested.  Here  again,  he  seems  to  us, 
in  one  sense,  too  languid,  too  passive.  He  sits, 
we  might  say,  among  the  rich,  fine,  thousand- 
fold combinations,  which  his  mind  almost  of 
itself  presents  him;  but,  perhaps,  he  shows  too 
little  activity  in  the  process,  is  too  lax  in  sepa- 
rating the  true  from  the  doubtful,  is  not  even 
at  the  trouble  to  express  his  truth  with  any  la- 
borious accuracy.  With  his  stillness,  with 
his  deep  love  of  Nature,  his  mild,  lofty,  spiritual 
tone  of  contemplation,  he  comes  before  us  in 
a  sort  of  Asiatic  character,  almost  like  our 
ideal  of  some  antique  Gymnosophist,  and  with 
the  weakness  as  well  as  the  strength  of  an 
Oriental.  However,  it  should  be  remembered 
that  his  works  both  poetical  and  philosophical, 
as  we  now  see  them,  appear  under  many  dis- 
advantages ;  altogether  immature,  and  not  as 
doctrines  and  delineations,  but  as  the  rude 
draught  of  such ;  in  which,  had  they  been  com- 
pleted, much  was  to  have  changed  its  shape, 
and  this  fault  with  many  others  might  have 
disappeared.  It  may  be,  therefore,  that  this 
is  only  a  superficial  fault,  or  even  only  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  fault,  and  has  its  origin  in  these 
circumstances,  and  in  our  imperfect  under- 
standing of  him.  In  personal  and  bodily  ha- 
bits, at  least,  Novalis  appears  to  have  been  the 


opposite  of  inert;  we  hear  expressly  of  his 
quickness  and  vehemence  of  movement. 

In  regard  to  the  character  of  his  genius,  or 
rather  perhaps  of  his  literary  significance,  and 
the  form  under  which  he  displayed  his  genius, 
Tieck  thinks  he  may  be  likened  to  Dante.   "  For 
him,"  says  he,  "it  had  become  the  most  natu- 
ral disposition  to  regard  the  commonest  and 
nearest  as  a  wonder,  and  the  strange,  the  super- 
natural as  something  common ;  men's  every- 
day  life   itself    lay    round  him  like   a  won- 
drous fable,  and  those  regions  which  the  most 
dream  of  or  doubt  of  as  of  a  thing  distant,  in- 
comprehensible, were  for  him  a  beloved  home. 
Thus  did  he,  uncorrupted  by  examples,  find, 
out  for  himself  a  new  method  of  delineation; 
and  in  his  multiplicity  of  meaning ;  in  his  view 
of  Love,  and  his  belief  in  Love,  as  at  once  his 
Instructor,  his  Wisdom,  his  Religion  ;  in  this 
too  that  a  single  grand  incident  of  life,  and  one 
deep  sorrow  and  bereavement  grew  to  be  the 
essence  of  his  Poetry  and  Contemplation, — he 
alone  among  the  moderns  resembles  the  lofty 
Dante ;  and  sings  us,  like  him,  an  unfathom- 
able, mystic  song,  far  different  from  that  of 
many  imitators,  who  think  to  put  on  mysticism 
and  put  it  off,  like  a  piece  of  dress."     Con- 
sidering the  tendency  of  his  poetic  endeavours, 
as  well  as  the  general  spirit  of  his  philosophy, 
this  flattering  comparison  may  turn  out  to  be 
better  founded  than  at  first  sight  it  seems  to  be. 
Nevertheless,  were  we   required  to  illustrate 
Novalis  in  this  way,  which  at  all  times  must 
be  a  very  loose  one,  we  should  incline  rather 
to  call  him  the  German  Pascal  than  the  Ger- 
man Dante.     Between  Pascal  and  Novalis,  a 
lover  of  such  analogies  might  trace  not  a  few 
points  of  resemblance.     Both  are  of  the  purest, 
most  affectionate  moral  nature  ;  both  of  a  high, 
fine,  discursive  intellect;  both  are  mathemati- 
cians and  naturalists,  yet  occupy  themselves 
chiefly  with  Religion :  nay,  the  best  writings 
of  both  are  left  in  the  shape  of  "  Thoughts," 
materials  of  a  grand  scheme,  which  each  of 
them,  with  the  views  peculiar  to  his  age,  had 
planned,  we  may  say,  for  the  furtherance  of 
Religion,  and  which  neither  of  them  lived  to 
execute.    Nor  in  all  this  would  it  fail  to  be 
carefully  remarked,  that  Novalis  was  not  the 
French  but  the  German  Pascal ;  and  from  the 
intellectual  habits  of  the  one  and  the  other, 
many  national  contrasts  and  conclusions  might 
be  drawn ;  which  we  leave  to  those  that  have 
a  taste  for  such  parallels. 

We  have  thus  endeavoured  to  communicate 
some  views,  not  of  what  is  vulgarly  called,  but 
of  what  is  German  Mystic;  to  afford  English 
readers  a  few  glimpses  into  his  actual  house- 
hold establishment,  and  show  them  by  their 
own  inspection  how  he  lives  and  works.  We 
have  done  it,  moreover,  not  in  the  style  of  de- 
rision, which  would  have  been  so  easy,  but  in 
that  of  serious  inquiry,  which  seemed  so  much 
more  profitable.  For  this  we  anticipate  not 
censure,  but  thanks,  from  our  readers.  Mys- 
ticism, whatever  it  may  be,  should,  like  other 
actually  existing  things,  be  understood  in  well- 
informed  minds.  We  have  observed,  indeed, 
that  the  old-established  laugh  on  this  subject 
has  been  getting  rather  hollow  of  late;  and 
seems  as  if,  ere  long,  it  would  in  a  great  mea- 


SIGNS  OF   THE   TIMES. 


187 


sure  die  away.  It  appears  to  us  that,  in  Eng- 
land, there  is  a  distinct  spirit  of  tolerant  and 
sober  investigation  abroad,  in  regard  to  this 
and  other  kindred  matters  ;  a  persuasion,  fast 
spreading  wider  and  wider,  that  the  plummet 
of  French  or  Scotch  Logic,  excellent,  nay,  in- 
dispensable as  it  is  for  surveying  all  coasts 
and  harbours,  will  absolutely  not  sound  the 
deep-seas  of  human  Inquiry;  and  that  many  a 
Voltaire  and  Hume,  well-gifted  and  highly  me- 
ritorious men,  were  far  wrong  in  reckoning 
that  when  their  six  hundred  fathoms  were  out, 
they  had  reached  the  bottom,  which,  as  in  the 
Atlantic,  may  lie  unknown  miles  lower.  Six 
hundred  fathoms  is  the  longest,  and  a  most 
valuable  nautical  line :  but  many  men  sound 
with  six  and  fewer  fathoms,  and  arrive  at  pre- 
cisely the  same  conclusion. 

^*The  day  will  come,"  said  Lichtenberg,  in 
bitter  irony,  "  when  the  belief  in  God  will  be 


like  that  in  nursery  Spectres  ;"  or,  as  Jean  Paul 
has  it,  "  Of  the  World  will  be  made  a  World- 
Machine,  of  the  iEther  a  Gas,  of  God  a  Force, 
and  of  the  Second  World — a  Coffin."  We  ra- 
ther think,  such  a  day  will  not  come.  At  all 
events,  while  the  battle  is  still  waging,  and 
that  Coffin-and-Gas  Philosophy  has  not  yet  se- 
cured itself  with  Tithes  and  penal  Statutes,  let 
there  be  free  scope  for  Mysticism,  or  whatever 
else  honestly  opposes  it.  A  fair  field,  and  no 
favour,  and  the  right  urill  prosper  1  "Our  pre- 
sent time,"  says  Jean  Paul  elsewhere,  "  is  in- 
deed a  criticising  and  critical  time,  hovering 
betwixt  the  wish  and  the  inability  to  believe ; 
a  chaos  of  conflicting  times  ;  but  even  a  cha- 
otic world  must  have  its  centre,  and  revolutioa 
round  that  centre ;  there  is  no  pure  entire  Con- 
fusion, but  all  such  presupposes  its  opposite, 
before  it  can  begin." 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


[Edinburgh  Review,  1829.] 


It  is  no  very  good  symptom  either  of  nations 
or  individuals,  that  they  deal  much  in  vatici- 
nation. Happy  men  are  full  of  the  present, 
for  its  bounty  suffices  them ;  and  wise  men 
also,  for  its  duties  engage  them.  Our  grand 
business  undoubtedly  is,  not  to  see  what  lies 
dimly  at  a  distance,  but  to  do  what  lies  clearly 
at  hand. 

Know'st  thou  Yesterday,  its  aim  and  reason  1 
Work'st  thou  well  To-day,  for  worthy  things  1 
Then  calmly  wait  the  Morrow's  hidden  season, 
And  fear  not  thou,  what  hap  soe'er  it  brings ! 

But  man's  "  large  discourse  of  reason"  vnll 
look  "before  and  after ;"  and,  impatient  of  "  the 
ignorant  present  time,"  will  indulge  in  antici- 
pation far  more  than  profits  him.  Seldom  can 
the  unhappy  be  persuaded  that  the  evil  of  the 
day  is  sufficient  for  it ;  and  the  ambitious  will 
not  be  content  with  present  splendour,  but 
paints  yet  more  glorious  triumphs,  on  the 
cloud-curtain  of  the  future. 

The  case,  however,  is  still  worse  with  na- 
tions. For  here  "the  prophets  are  not  one,  but 
many;  and  each  incites  and  confirms  the 
other;  so  that  the  fatidical  fury  spreads  wider 
and  wider,  till  at  last  even  Saul  must  join  in  it. 
For  there  is  still  a  real  magic  in  the  action 
and  reaction  of  minds  on  one  another.  The 
casual  deliration  of  a  few  becomes,  by  this 
mysterious  reverberation,  the  frenzy  of  many  ; 
men  lose  the  use,  not  only  of  their  understand- 
ings, but  of  their  bodily  senses;  while  the 
most  obdurate,  unbelieving  hearts  melt,  like 
the  rest,  in  the  furnace  where  all  are  cast  as 
victims  and  as  fuel.  It  is  grievous  to  think, 
that  this  noble  omnipotence  of  Sympathy  has 
been  so  rarely  the  Aaron's-rod  of  Truth  and 
Virtue,  and  so  often  the  Enchanter' s-rod  of 
Wickedness  and  Folly  !  No  solitary  miscre- 
ant, scarcely  any  solitary  maniac,  would  ven- 


ture on  such  actions  and  imaginations,  as 
large  communities  of  sane  men  have,  in  such 
circumstances,  entertained  as  sound  wisdom. 
Witness  long  scenes  of  the  French  Revolution  ! 
a  whole  people  drunk  with  blood  and  arrogance, 
and  then  with  terror  and  cruelty,  and  with  des- 
peration, and  blood  again  !  Levity  is  no  pro- 
tection against  such  visitations,  nor  the  utmost 
earnestness  of  character.  The  New  England 
Puritan  burns  witches,  wrestles  for  months 
with  the  horrors  of  Satan's  invisible  world, 
and  all  ghastly  phantasms,  the  daily  and 
hourly  precursors  of  the  Last  Day;  then  sud- 
denly bethinks  him  that  he  is  frantic,  weeps 
bitterly,  prays  contritely,  and  the  history  of 
that  gloomy  season  lies  behind  him  like  a 
frightful  dream. 

And  Old  England  has  had  her  share  of  such 
frenzies  and  panics ;  though  happily,  like 
other  old  maladies,  they  have  grown  milder  of 
late  :  and  since  the  days  of  Titus  Oates,  have 
mostly  passed  without  loss  of  men's  lives,  or 
indeed  without  much  other  loss  than  that  of 
reason,  for  the  time,  in  the  sufierers.  In  this 
mitigated  form,  however,  the  distemper  is  of 
pretty  regular  recurrence  ;  and  may  be  reck- 
oned on  at  intervals,  like  other  natural  visita- 
tions ;  so  that  reasonable  men  deal  with  it,  as 
the  Londoners  do  with  their  fogs, — go  cauti- 
'  ously  out  into  the  groping  crowd,  and  patiently 
carry  lanterns  at  noon ;  knowing,  by  a  well- 
grounded  faith,  that  the  sun  is  still  in  existence, 
and  will  one  day  reappear.  How  often  have 
we  heard,  for  the  last  fifty  years,  that  the 
country  was  wrecked,  and  fast  sinking;  where- 
as, up  to  this  date,  the  country  is  entire  and 
afloat !  The  "  State  in  Danger"  is  a  condition 
of  things,  which  we  have  witnessed  a  hundred 
times  ;  and  as  for  the  church,  it  has  seldom  been 
out  of  "  danger"  since  we  can  remember  it. 


188 


CAIJLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


All  men  are  aware,  that  the  present  is  a  1 
crisis  of  this  sort ;  and.  why  it  has  become  so. 
The  repeal  of  the  Test  Acts,  and  then  of  the 
Catholic  disabilities,  has  struck  many  of  their 
admirers  with  an  indescribable  astonishment. 
Those  things  seemed  fixed  and  immovable ; 
deep  as  the  foundations  of  the  world  ;  and  lo  ! 
in  a  moment  they  have  vanished,  and  their 
place  knows  them  no  more !  Our  worthy 
friends  mistook  the  slumbering  Leviathan  for 
an  island ;  often  as  they  had  been  assured, 
that  intolerance  was,  and  could  be  nothing  but 
a  Monster ;  and  so,  mooring  under  the  lee,  they 
had  anchored  comfortably  in  his  scaly  rind, 
thinking  to  take  good  cheer ;  as  for  some  space 
they  did.  But  now  their  Leviathan  has  sud- 
denly dived  under;  and  they  can  no  longer 
be  fastened  in  the  stream  of  time ;  but  must 
drift  forward  on  it,  even  like  the  rest  of  the 
world ;  no  very  appalling  fate,  we  think,  could 
they  but  understand  it:  which,  however,  they 
will  not  yet,  for  a  season.  Their  little  island 
is  gone,  and  sunk  deep  amid  confused  eddies; 
and  what  is  left  worth  caring  for  in  the  uni- 
verse 1  What  is  it  to  them,  that  the  great  con- 
tinents of  the  earth  are  still  standing ;  and  the 
polestar  and  all  our  loadstars,  in  the  heavens, 
still  shining  and  eternal  1  Their  cherished 
little  haven  is  gone,  and  they  will  not  be  com- 
forted! And  therefore,  day  after  day,  in  all 
manner  of  periodical  or  perennial  publica- 
tions, the  most  lugubrious  predictions  are  sent 
forth.  The  king  has  virtually  abdicated  ;  the 
church  is  a  widow,  without  jointure ;  public 
principle  is  gone ;  private  honesty  is  going ; 
society,  in  short,  is  fast  falling  in  pieces ;  and 
a  time  of  unmixed  evil  is  come  on  us.  At 
such  a  period,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  the 
rage  of  prophecy  should  be  more  than  usually 
excited.  Accordingly,  the  Millenarians  have 
come  forth  on  the  right  hand,  and  the  Millites 
on  the  left.  The  Fifth-monarchy  men  pro- 
phesy from  the  Bible,  and  the  Utilitarians  from 
Bentham.  The  one  announces  that  the  last  of 
the  seals  is  to  be  opened,  positively,  in  the 
year  1860  ;  and  the  other  assures  us,  that  "  the 
greatest  happiness  principle"  is  to  make  a 
heaven  of  earth,  in  a  still  shorter  time.  We 
know  thiese  symptoms  too  well,  to  think  it  ne- 
cessary or  safe  to  interfere  with  them.  Time 
and  the  hours  will  bring  relief  to  all  parties. 
The  grand  encourager  of  Delphic  or  other 
noises  is — the  Echo.  Left  to  themselves,  they 
will  soon  dissipate,  and  die  away  in  space. 

Meanwhile,  we  too  admit  that  the  present  is 
an  important  time  ;  as  all  present  time  neces- 
sarily is.  The  poorest  day  that  passes  over 
us  is  the  conflux  of  two  Eternities !  and  is 
made  up  of  currents  that  issue  from  the  remot- 
est Past,  and  flow  onwards  into  the  remotest 
Future.  We  were  wise  indeed,  could  we  dis- 
cern truly  the  signs  of  our  own  time ;  and  by 
knowledge  of  its  wants  and  advantages,  wisely 
adjust  our  own  position  in  it.  Let  us  then, 
instead  of  gazing  idly  into  the  obscure  distance, 
look  calmly  around  us  for  a  little,  on  the  per- 
plexed scene  where  we  stand.  Perhaps,  on 
a  more  serious  inspection,  something  of  its 
perplexity  will  disappear,  some  of  its  distinc- 
tive characters,  and  deeper  tendencies,  more 
clearly  reveal  themselves  ;  whereby  our  own 


relations  to  it,  our  own  true  aims  and  endea- 
vours in  it,  may  also  become  clearer. 

Were  we  required  to  characterize  this  age 
of  ours  by  any  single  epithet,  we  should  be 
tempted  to  call  it,  not  an  Heroical,  Devotional, 
Philosophical,  or  Moral  Age^  but,  above  all 
others,  the  Mechanical  Age.  I  It  is  the  Age  of 
Machinery,  in  every  outward  and  inward  sense 
of  that  wordji  the  age  which,  with  its  whole 
undivided  might,  forwards,  teaches,  and  prac- 
tises the  great  art  of  adopting  means  to  ends. 
Nothing  is  now  done  directly,  or  by  hand ;  all 
is  by  rule  and  calculated  contrivance.  For 
the  simplest  operation,  some  helps  and  accom- 
paniments, some  cunning,  abbreviating  pro- 
cess is  in  readiness.  Our  old  modes  of  exertion 
are  all  discredited,  and  thrown  aside.  TOn 
every  hand,  the  living  artisan  is  driven  from 
his  workshop,  to  make  room  for  a  speedier, 
inanimate  one.  The  shuttle  drops  from  the 
fingers  of  the  weaver,  and  falls  into  iron  fin- 
gers that  ply  it  faster.  The  sailor  furls  his 
sail,  and  lays  down  his  oar,  and  bids  a  strong, 
unwearied  servant,  on  vapourous  wings,  bear 
him  through  the  waters.  Men  have  crossed 
oceans  by  steam ;  the  Birmingham  Fire-king 
has  visited  the  fabulous  East;  and  the  genius 
of  the  Cape,  were  there  any  Camoens  now  to 
sing  it,  has  again  been  alarmed,  and  with  far 
stranger  thunders  than  Gama's.  There  is  no 
end  to  machinery.  Even  the  horse  is  stripped 
of  his  harness,  and  finds  a  fleet  fire-horse 
yoked  in  his  stead.  Nay,  we  have  an  artist 
that  hatches  chickens  by  steam  ;  the  very 
brood-hen  is  to  be  superseded  !  For  all 
earthly,  and  for  some  unearthly  purposes,  we 
have  machines  and  mechanic  furtherances; 
for  mincing  our  cabbages  ;  for  casting  us  into 
magnetic  sleep.  We  remove  mountains,  and 
make  seas  our  smooth  highway;  nothing  can 
resist  us.  We  war  with  rude  nature ;  and,  by 
our  resistless  engines,  come  ofl"  always  vic- 
torious, and  loaded  with  spoils. 

What  wonderful  accessions  have  thus  been 
made,  and  are  still  making,  to  the  physical 
power  of  mankind;,  how  much  better  fed, 
clothed,  lodged,  and,  in  all  outward  respects, 
accommodated,  men  now  are,  or  might  be,  by 
a  given  quantity  of  labour,  is  a  grateful  reflec- 
tion which  forces  itself  on  every  one.  What 
changes,  too,  this  addition  of  power  is  intro- 
ducing into  the  social  system;  how  wealth 
has  more  and  more  increasecj,  and  at  the  same 
time  gathered  itself  more  and  more  into  masses, 
strangely  altering  the  old  relations,  and  in- 
creasing the  distance  between  the  rich  and  the 
poor,  will  be  a  question  for  Political  Econo- 
mists, and  a  much  more  complex  and  import- 
ant one  than  any  they  have  yet  engaged  withj 
But  leaving  these  matters  for  the  present,  let 
us  observe  how  the  mechanical  genius  of  our 
time  has  diffused  itself  into  quite  other  pro- 
vinces. Not  the  external  and  physical  alone 
is  now  managed  by  machinery,  but  the  inter- 
nal and  spiritual  also.  Here,  too,  nothing  fol- 
lows its  spontaneous  course,  nothing  is  left  to 
be  accomplished  by  old,  natural  methods. 
Every  thing  has  its  cunningly  devised  imple- 
ments, its  pre-established  apparatT^s ;  it  is  not 
done  by  hand,  but  by  machinery.  Thus  we 
have  machines  for  Education  :  Lancastrian 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


189 


machines;  Hamiltonian  machines;  Monitors, 
maps,  and  emblems.  Instruction,  that  myste- 
rious communing  of  Wisdom  with  Ignorance, 
is  DO  longer  an  indefinable  tentative  process, 
requiring  a  study  of  individual  aptitudes,  and 
a  perpetual  variation  of  means  and  methods, 
to  attain  the  same  end ;  but  a  secure,  univer- 
sal, straight-forward  business,  to  be  conducted 
in  the  gross,  by  proper  mechanism,  with  such 
intellect  as  comes  to  hand.  Then,  we  have 
Religious  machines,  of  all  imaginable  varie- 
ties ;  the  Bible  Society,  professing  a  far  higher 
and  heavenly  structure,  is  found,  on  inquiry, 
to  be  altogether  an  earthly  contrivance,  sup- 
ported by  collection  of  moneys,  by  fomenting 
of  vanities,  by  puffing,  intrigue,  and  chicane ; 
and  yet,  in  effect,  a  very  excellent  machine  for 
converting  the  heathen.  It  is  the  same  in  all 
other  departments.  Has  any  man,  or  any 
society  of  men,  a  truth  to  speak,  a  piece  of 
spiritual  work  to  do,  they  can  nowise  proceed 
at  once,  and  with  the  mere  natural  organs,  but 
must  first  call  a  public  meeting,  appoint  com- 
mittees, issue  prospectuses,  eat  a  public  din- 
ner; in  a  word,  construct  or  borrow  machinery, 
wherewith  to  speak  it  and  do  it.  Without 
machinery  they  were  hopeless,  helpless  ;  a 
colony  of  Hindoo  weavers  squatting  in  the 
heart  of  Lancashire.  Theh  every  machine 
must  have  its  moving  power,  in  some  of  the 
great  currents  of  society :  Every  little  sect 
among  us,  Unitarians,  Utilitarians,  Anabap- 
tists, Phrenologists,  must  each  have  its  periodi- 
cal, its  monthly  or  quarterly  magazine, — 
hanging  out,  like  its  windmill,  into  the  popularis 
aura,  to  grind  meal  for  the  society. 

With  individuals,  in  like  manner,  natural 
strength  avails  little.  No  individual  now 
hopes  to  accomplish  the  poorest  enterprise 
single-handed,  and  without  mechanical  aids ; 
he  must  make  interest  with  some  existing 
co^pwation,  and  till  his  field  with  their  oxen. 
In  these  days,  more  emphatically  than  ever, 
"to  live,  signifies  to  unite  with  a  party,  or  to 
make  one."  Thilosophy,  Science,  Art,  Litera- 
ture, all  depend  on  machinery.  No  Newton, 
by  silent  meditation,  now  discovers  the  system 
of  the  world  from  the  falling  of  an  apple;  but 
some  quite  other  than  Newton  stands  in  his 
Museum,  his  Scientific  Institution,  and  behind 
whole  batteries  of  retorts,  digesters,  and  gal- 
vanic piles  imperatively  "interrogates  Nature," 
—who,  however,  shows  no  haste  to  answer.  In 
defect  of  Raphaels,  and  Angelos,  and  Mozarts, 
we  have  Royal  Academies  of  Painting,  Sculp- 
ture, Music;  whereby  the  languishing  spirit 
of  art  may  be  strengthened  by  the  more  gene- 
rous diet  of  a  Public  Kitchen.  Literature,  too, 
has  its  Paternoster-row  mechanism,  its  Trade 
dinners,  its  Editorial  conclaves,  and  huge  sub- 
terranean puffing  bellows ;  so  that  books  are 
not  only  printed,  but,  in  a  great  measure, 
written  and  sold,  by  machinery.  National 
culture,  spiritual  benefit  of  all  sorts,  is  under 
the  same  management.  No  Queen  Christina, 
in  these  times,  needs  to  send  for  her  Descartes  ; 
no  King  Frederic  for  his  Voltaire,  and  pain- 
fully nourish  him  with  pensions  and  flattery : 
but  any  sovereign  of  taste,  who  wishes  to  en- 
lighten his  people,  has  only  to  impose  a  new 
tax,  and  with  the  proceeds  establish  Philoso- 


phic Institutes.  Hence  the  Royal  and  Imperial 
Societies,  the  Bibliotheques,  Glyptotheques, 
Technotheques,  which  front  us  in  all  capital 
cities,  like  so  many  well-finished  hives,  to 
which  it  is  expected  the  stray  agencies  of 
Wisdom  will  swarm  of  their  own  accord,  and 
hive  and  make  honey.  In  like  manner,  among 
ourselves,  when  it  is  thought  that  religion  is 
declining,  we  have  only  to  vote  half  a  million's 
worth  of  bricks  and  mortar,  and  build  new 
churches.  In  Ireland,  it  seems  they  have  gone 
still  farther  ;  having  actually  established  a 
"  Penny-a-week  Purgatory  Society  !"  Thus 
does  the  Genius  of  Mechanism  stand  by  to 
help  us  in  all  difficulties  and  emergencies; 
and,  with  his  iron  back,  bears  all  our  burdens. 

These  things,  which  we  state  lightly  enough 
here,  are  yet  of  deep  import,  and  indicate  a 
mighty  change  in  our  whole  manner  of  exist- 
ence. For  the  same  habit  regulates  not  our 
modes  of  action  alone,  but  our  modes  of 
thought  and  feeling.  rMen  are  grown  mechani- 
cal in  head  and  in  heart,  as  well  as  in  hand. 
They  have  lost  faith  in  individual  endeavour, 
and  in  natural  force,  of  any  kind.  Not  for 
internal  perfection,  but  for  external  combina- 
tions and  arrangements,  for  institutions,  con- 
stitutions,— for  Mechanism  of  one  sort  or  other, 
do  they  hope  and  struggle.  Their  whole  efforts, 
attachments,  opinions,  turn  on  mechanism,  and 
are  of  a  mechanical  character. 

We  may  trace  this  tendency,  we  think,  very 
distinctly,  in  all  the  great  manifestations  of 
our  time;  in  its  intellectual  aspect,  the  studies 
it  most  favours,  and  its  manner  of  conducting 
them  ;  in  its  practical  aspects,  its  politics,  arts, 
religion,  morals ;  in  the  whole  sources,  and 
throughout  the  whole  currents,  of  its  spiritual, 
no  less  than  its  material  activity. 

Consider,  for  example,  the  slate  of  Science 
generally,  in  Europe,  at  this  period.  It  is  ad- 
mitted, on  all  sides,  that  the  Metaphysical  and 
Moral  Sciences  are  falling  into  decay,  while 
the  Physical  are  engrossing,  every  day,  more 
respect  and  attention.  In  most  of  the  European 
nations,  there  is  now  no  such  thing  as  a  Sci- 
ence of  Mind;  only  more  or  less  advancement 
in  the  general  science,  or  the  special  sciences, 
of  matter.  The  French  were  the  first  to  deseri 
this  school  of  Metaphysics ;  and  though  they 
have  lately  affected  to  revive  it,  it  has  yet  no 
signs  of  vitality.  The  land  of  Malebranche, 
Pascal,  Descartes,  and  Fenelon,  has  now  only 
its  Cousins  and  Villemains;  while,  in  the 
department  of  Physics,  it  reckons  far  other 
names.  Among  ourselves,  the  Philosophy  of 
Mind,  after  a  rickety  infancy,  which  never 
reached  the  vigour  of  manhood,  fell  suddenly 
into  decay,  languished,  and  finally  died  out, 
with  its  last  amiable  cultivator.  Professor 
Stewart.  In  no  nation  but  Germany  has  any 
decisive  effort  been  made  in  psychological 
science;  not  to  speak  of  any  decisive  result. 
The  science  of  the  age,  in  short,  is  physical, 
chemical,  physiological,  and,  in  all  shapes, 
mechanical.  Our  favourite  Mathematics,  the 
highly  prized  exponent  of  all  these  other 
sciences,  has  also  become  more  and  more 
mechanical.  Excellence,  in  what  is  called  its 
higher  departments,  depends  less  on  natural 
genius,  than  on  acquired  expertness  in  wield- 


190 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ing  its  machinery.  Without  undervaluing  the 
wonderful  results  which  a  Lagrange,  or  La- 
place, educes  by  means  of  it,  we  may  remark, 
that  its  calculus,  differential  and  integral,  is 
little  else  than  a  more  cunningly-constructed 
arithmetical  mill,  where  the  factors  being  put 
in,  are,  as  it  were,  ground  into  the  true  pro- 
duct, under  cover,  and  without  other  effort,  on 
our  part,  than  steady  turning  of  the  handle. 
We  have  more  Mathematics  certainly  than 
ever ;  but  less  Mathesis.  Archimedes  and 
Plato  could  not  have  read  the  Mecanique  Celeste ; 
but  neither  would  the  whole  French  Institute 
see  aught  in  that  saying,  "God  geometrizes  !" 
but  a  sentimental  rodomontade. 

From  Locke's  time  downwards,  our  whole 
Metaphysics  have  been  physical;  not  a  spi- 
ritual Philosophy,  but  a  material  one.  The 
singular  estimation  in  which  his  Essay  was 
so  long  held  as  a  scientific  work,  (for  the 
character  of  the  man  entitled  all  he  said  to 
veneration,)  will  one  day  be  thought  a  curious 
indication  of  the  spirit  of  these  times.  His 
whole  doctrine  is  mechanical,  in  its  aim  and 
origin,  in  its  method  and  its  results.  It  is  a 
mere  discussion  concerning  the  origin  of  our 
consciousness,  or  ideas,  or  whatever  else  they 
are  called ;  a  genetic  history  of  what  we  see 
in  the  mind.  But  the  grand  secrets  of  Neces- 
sity and  Free-will,  of  the  mind's  vital  or  non- 
vital  dependence  on  matter,  of  our  mysterious 
relations  to  Time  and  Space,  to  God,  to  the 
universe,  are  not,  in  the  faintest  degree,  touch- 
ed on  in  these  inquiries  ;  and  seem  not  to  have 
the  smallest  connection  with  them. 

The  last  class  of  our  Scotch  Metaphysicians 
had  a  dim  notion  that  much  of  this  was  wrong ; 
but  they  knew  not  how  to  right  it.  The  school 
of  Reid  had  also  from  the  first  taken  a  me- 
chanical course,  not  seeing  any  other.  The 
singular  conclusions  at  which  Hume,  setting 
out  from  their  admitted  premises,  was  arriv- 
ing, brought  this  school  into  being ;  they  let 
loose  Instinct,  as  an  undiscriminating  ban-dog, 
to  guard  them  against  these  conclusions; — 
they  tugged  lustily  at  the  logical  chain  by 
which  Hume  was  so  coldly  towing  them  and 
the  world  into  bottomless  abysses  of  Atheism 
and  Fatalism.  But  the  chain  somehow  snap- 
ped between  them;  and  the  issue  has  been 
that  nobody  now  cares  about  either, — any 
more  than  about  Hartley's,  Darwin's,  or  Priest- 
ley's contemporaneous  doings  in  England. 
Hartley's  vibrations  and  vibratiuncles  one 
would  think  were  material  and  mechanical 
enough;  but  our  continental  neighbours  have 
gone  still  farther.  One  of  their  philosophers 
has  lately  discovered,  that  "  as  the  liver  se- 
cretes bile,  so  does  the  brain  secrete  thought ;" 
which  astonishing  discovery  Dr.  Cabanis, 
more  lately  still,  in  his  Rapports  du  Physique  et 
du  Morale  de  V  Homme,  has  pushed  into  its  mi- 
nutest developments.  The  metaphysical  philo- 
sophy of  this  last  inquirer  is  certainly  no  sha- 
dowy or  unsubstantial  one.  He  fairly  lays  open 
our  moral  structure  with  his  dissecting-knives 
and  real  metal  probes  ;  and  exhibits  it  to  the  in- 
spection of  mankind,  by  Leuwenhoek  micro- 
scopes and  inflation  with  the  anatomical  blow- 
pipe. Thought,  he  is  inclined  to  hold,  is  still 
secreted  by  the  brain ;   but  then  Poetry   and 


Religion  (and  it  is  really  worth  knowing)  are, 
"  a  product  of  the  smaller  intestines  !"  We 
have  the  greatest  admiration  for  this  learned 
doctor:  with  what  scientific  stoicism  he  walks 
through  the  land  of  wonders,  unwondering; 
like  a  wise  man  through  some  huge,  gaudy, 
imposing  Vauxhall,  whose  fire-works,  cas- 
cades, and  symphonies,  the  vulgar  may  enjoy 
and  believe  in, — but  where  he  finds  nothing 
real  but  the  saltpetre,  pasteboard,  and  catgut. 
His  book  may  be  regarded  as  the  ultimatum 
of  mechanical  metaphysics  in  our  time ;  a  re- 
markable realization  of  what  in  Martinus 
Scriblerus  was  still  only  an  idea,  that  "  as  the 
jack  had  a  meat-roasting  quality,  so  had  the 
body  a  thinking  quality" — upon  the  strength 
of  which  the  Nurembergers  were  to  build  a 
wood  and  leather  man,"  who  should  reason  as 
well  as  most  country  parsons."  Vaucanson 
did  indeed  make  a  wooden  duck,  that  seemed 
to  eat  and  digest ;  but  that  bold  scheme  of  the 
Nurembergers  remained  for  a  m9re  modern 
virtuoso. 

This  condition  of  the  two  great  departments 
of  knowledge — the  outward,  cultivated  exclu- 
sively on  mechanical  principles  ;  the  inward 
finally  abandoned,  because,  cultivated  on  such 
principles,  it  is  found  to  yield  no  result — suf- 
ficiently indicates  the  intellectual  bias  of  our 
time,  its  all-pervading  disposition  towards  that 
line  of  inquiry.  In  fact,  an  inward  persua- 
sion has  long  been  diffusing  itself,  and  now 
and  then  even  comes  to  utterance,  that,  except 
the  external,  there  are  no  true  sciences ;  that 
to  the  inward  world  (if  there  be  any)  our  only 
conceivable  road  is  through  the  outward  ;  that, 
in  short,  what  cannot  be  investigated  and  un- 
derstood mechanically,  cannot  be  investigated 
and  understood  at  all.  We  advert  the  more 
particularly  to  these  intellectual  propensities, 
as  to  prominent  symptoms  of  our  age  ;  because 
Opinion  is  at  all  times  doubly  related  to  Ac- 
tion, first  as  cause,  then  as  effect;  and  the 
speculative  tendency  of  any  age  will  there- 
fore give  us,  on  the  whole,  the  best  indications 
of  its  practical  tendency. 

Nowhere,  for  example,  is  the  deep,  almost 
exclusive  faith,  we  have  in  Mechanism,  more 
visible  than  in  the  Politics  of  this  time.  Civil 
government  does,  by  its  nature,  include  much 
that  is  mechanical,  and  must  be  treated  ac- 
cordingly. We  term  it,  indeed,  in  ordinary 
language,  the  Machine  of  Society,  and  talk  of 
it  as  the  grand  working  wheel  from  which  all 
private  machines  must  derive,  or  to  which 
they  must  adapt,  their  movements.  Consider- 
ed merely  as  a  metaphor,  all  this  is  well 
enough  ;  but  here,  as  in  so  many  other  cases, 
the  "foam hardens  itself  into  a  shell,"  and  the 
shadow  we  have  wantonly  evoked  stands  ter- 
ribly before  us,  and  will  not  depart  at  our  bid- 
ding. Government  includes  much  also  that  is 
not  mechanical,  and  cannot  be  treated  me- 
chanically; of  which  latter  truth,  as  appears 
to  us,  the  political  speculations  and  exertions 
of  our  time  are  taking  less  and  less  cogni- 
sance. 

Nay,  in  the  very  outset,  we  might  note  the 
mighty  interest  taken  in  me^-e  political  arrange- 
ments, as  itself  the  sign  of  a  mechanical  age. 
The  whole  discontent  of  Europe  lakes  this  di- 


SIGNS  OP  THE  TIMES. 


191 


rection.  The  deep,  strong  cry  of  all  civilized 
nations — a  cry  which  every  one  now  sees, 
must  and  will  be  answered — is,  Give  us  a  re- 
form of  Government!  A  good  structure  of 
legislation,— a  proper  check  upon  the  execu- 
tive,— a  wise  arrangement  of  the  judiciary,  is 
all  that  is  wanting  for  human  happiness.  The 
Philosopher  of  this  age  is  not  a  Socrates,  a 
Plato,  a  Hooker,  or  Taylor,  who  inculcates  on 
men  the  necessity  and  infinite  worth  of  moral 
goodness,  the  great  truth  that  our  happiness 
depends  on  the  mind  which  is  within  us,  and 
jiot  on  the  circumstances  which  are  without 
us  ;  but  a  Smith,  a  De  Lolme,  a  Bentham,  who 
chiefly  inculcates  the  reverse  of  this, — that  our 
happiness  depends  entirely  on  external  circum- 
stances ;  nay,  that  the  strength  and  dignity  of 
the  mind  within  us  is  itself  the  creature  and 
consequence  of  these.  Were  the  laws,  the 
government,  in  good  order,  all  were  well  with 
us;  the  rest  would  care  for  itself!  Dissen- 
tients from  this  opinion,  expressed  or  implied, 
are  now  rarely  to  be  met  with;  widely  and 
angrily  as  men  differ  in  its  application,  the 
principle  is  admitted  by  all. 

Equally  mechanical,  and  of  equal  simpli- 
city, are  the  methods  proposed  by  both  parties 
for  completing  or  securing  this  all-sufficient 
perfection  of  arrangement.  It  is  no  longer 
the  moral,  religious,  spiritual  condition  of  the 
people  that  is  our  concern,  but  their  physical, 
practical,  economical  condition,  as  regulated 
by  publie  laws.  Thus  is  the  Body-politic 
more  than  ever  worshipped  and  tended :  but 
the  Soul-politic  less  than  ever.  Love  of  coun- 
try, in  any  high  or  generous  sense,  in  any 
other  than  an  almost  animal  sense,  or  mere 
habit,  has  little  importance  attached  to  it  in 
such  reforms,  or  in  the  opposition  shown 
them.  Men  are  to  be  guided  only  by  their 
self-interests.  Good  government  is  a  good 
balancing  of  these ;  and,  except  a  keen  eye 
and  appetite  for  self-interest,  requires  no  vir- 
tue in  any  quarter.  To  both  parties  it  is  em- 
phatically a  machine :  to  the  discontented,  a 
"taxing  machine;"  to  the  contented,  a  "ma- 
chine for  securing  property."  Its  duties  and 
its  faults  are  not  those  of  a  father,  but  of  an 
-     active  parish  constable. 

'  Thus  it  is  by  the  mere  condition  of  the  ma- 
chine ;  by  preserving  it  untouched,  or  else  by 
re-constructing  it,  and  oiling  it  anew,  that 
man's  salvation  as  a  social  being  is  to  be  in- 
sured and  indefinitely  promoted.  Contrive  the 
fabric  of  law  aright,  and  without  farther  effort 
on  your  part,  that  divine  spirit  of  freedom, 
which  all  hearts  venerate  and  long  for,  will  of 
herself  come  to  inhabit  it ;  and  under  her 
healing  wings  every  noxious  influence  will 
wither,  every  good  and  salutary  one  more 
and  more  expand.  Nay,  so  devoted  are  we  to 
this  principle,  and  at  the  same  time  so  curi- 
ously mechanical,  that  a  new  trade,  specially 
grounded  in  it,  has  arisen  among  us,  under  the 
name  of  "  Codification,"  or  code-making  in 
the  abstract ;  whereby  any  people,  for  a  rea- 
sonable consideration,  may  be  accommodated 
with  a  patent  code, — more  easily  than  curious 
•  individuals  with  patent  breeches,  for  the  peo- 
ple does  not  need  to  be  measured  first. 

To  us  who  live  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  and 


see  continually  the  faith,  hope,  and  practice 
of  every  one  founded  on  Mechanism  of  one 
kind  or  other,  it  is  apt  to  seem  quite  natural, 
and  as  if  it  could  never  have  been  otherwise. 
Nevertheless,  if  we  recollect  or  reflect  a  little, 
we  shall  find  both  that  it  has  been,  and  might 
again  be,  otherwise.  The  domain  of  Mechan- 
ism,— meaning  thereby  political,  ecclesiastical, 
or  other  outward  establishments, — was  once 
considered  as  embracing,  and  we  are  per- 
suaded can  at  any  time  embrace  but  a  limited 
portion  of  man's  interests,  and  by  no  means 
the  highest  portion. 

To  speak  a  little  pedantically,  there  is  a 
science  of  Dynamics  in  man's  fortunes  and  na- 
ture, as  well  as  of  Mechanics.  There  is  a  sci- 
ence which  treats  of,  and  practically  addresses, 
the  primary,  unmodified  forces  and  energies 
of  man,  the  mysterious  springs  of  Love,  and 
Fear,  and  Wonder,  of  Enthusiasm,  Poetry, 
Religion,  all  which  have  a  truly  vital  and  infi- 
nite character ;  as  well  as  a  science  which 
practically  addresses  the  fi,nite,  modified  deve- 
lopments of  these,  when  they  take  the  shape 
of  immediate  "  motives,"  as  hope  of  reward, 
or  as  fear  of  punishment. 

Now  it  is  certain,  that  in  former  times  the 
wise  men,  the  enlightened  lovers  of  their  kind, 
who  appeared  generally  as  Moralists,  Poets, 
or  Priests,  did,  without  neglecting  the  Mecha- 
nical province,  deal  chiefly  with  the  Dynami- 
cal ;  applying  themselves  chiefly  to  regulate, 
increase,  and  purify  the  inward  primary  pow- 
ers of  man  ;  and  fancying  that  herein  lay  the 
main  difficulty,  and  the  best  service  they  could 
undertake.  But  a  wide  difference  is  manifest 
in  our  age.  For  the  wise  men,  who  now  ap- 
pear as  Political  Philosophers,  deal  exclu- 
sively with  the  Mechanical  province ;  and 
occupying  themselves  in  counting  up  and  es- 
timating men's  motives,  strive  by  curious 
checking  and  balancing,  and  other  adjust- 
ments of  Profit  and  Loss,  to  guide  them  to 
their  true  advantage:  while,  unfortunately, 
those  same  "motives"  are  so  innumerable, 
and  so  variable  in  every  individual,  that  no 
really  useful  conclusion  can  ever  be  drawn 
from  their  enumeration.  But  though  Mecha- 
nism, wisely  contrived,  has  done  much  for 
man,  in  a  social  and  moral  point  of  view,  we 
cannot  be  persuaded  that  it  has  ever  been  the 
chief  source  of  his  worth  or  happiness.  Con- 
sider the  great  elements  of  human  enjoyment, 
the  attainments  and  possessions  that  exalt 
man's  life  to  its  present  height,  and  see  what 
part  of  these  he  owes  to  institutions,  to  Me- 
chanism of  any  kind ;  and  what  to  the  in- 
stinctive, unbounded  force,  which  Nature 
herself  lent  him,  and  still  continues  to  him. 
Shall  we  say,  for  example,  that  Science  and 
Art  are  indebted  principally  to  the  found- 
ers of  Schools  and  universities  1  Did  not 
Science  originate  rather,  and  gain  advance* 
ment,  in  the  obscure  closets  of  the  Roger  Ba- 
cons, Keplers,  Newtons  ;  in  the  workshops  of 
the  Fausts  and  the  Watts ;  wherever,  and  in 
what  guise  soever  Nature,  from  the  first  times 
downwards,  had  sent  a  gifted  spirit  upon  the 
earth  1  Again,  were  Homer  and  Shakspeare 
members  of  any  beneficial  guild,  or  made  Poets 
by  means  of  it  1     Were  Painting  and  Sculp- 


192 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ture  created  by  forethought,  brought  into  the 
world  by  institutions  for  that  endl  No;  Sci- 
ence and  Art  have,  from  first  to  last,  been  the 
free  gift  of  Nature  ;  an  unsolicited,  unexpected 
gift:  often  even  a  fatal  one.  These  things 
rose  up,  as  it  were  by  spontaneous  growth,  in 
the  free  soil  and  sunshine  of  Nature.  They 
were  not  planted  or  grafted,  nor  even  greatly 
multiplied  or  improved  by  the  culture  or  manur- 
ing of  institutions.  Generally  speaking,  they 
have  derived  only  partial  help  from  these: 
often  have  suffered  damage.  They  made  con- 
stitutions for  themselves.  They  originated  in 
the  Dynamical  nature  of  man,  and  not  in  his 
Mechanical  nature. 

Or,  to  take  an  infinitely  higher  instance,  that 
of  the  Christian  Religion,  which,  under  every 
theory  of  it,  in  the  believing  or  the  unbelieving 
mind,  must  be  ever  regarded  as  the  crowning 
glory,  or  rather  the  life  and  soul,  of  our  whole 
modern  culture:  How  did  Christianity  arise 
and  spread  abroad  among  men  1  Was  it  by 
institutions,  and  establishments,  and  well-ar- 
ranged systems  of  mechanism  1  Not  so ;  on 
the  contrary,  in  all  past  and  existing  institu- 
tions for  those  ends,  its  divine  spirit  has  inva- 
riably been  found  to  languish  and  decay.  It 
arose  in  the  mystic  deeps  of  man's  soul ;  and 
was  spread  abroad  by  the  "preaching  of  the 
word,"  by  simple,  altogether  natural  and  indi- 
vidual efforts ;  and  flew,  like  hallowed  fire, 
from  heart  to  heart,  till  all  were  purified  and 
illuminated  by  it;  and  its  heavenly  light  shone, 
as  it  still  shines,  and  as  sun  or  star  will  ever 
shine,  through  the  whole  dark  destinies  of 
man.  Here  again  was  no  Mechanism ;  man's 
highest  attainment  was  accomplished,  Dyna- 
mically, not  Mechanically.  Nay,  we  will  ven- 
ture to  say,  that  no  high  attainment,  not  even 
any  far-extending  movement  among  men,  was 
ever  accomplished  otherwise.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  if  we  read  History  with  any  degree  of 
thoughtfulness,  we  shall  find,  that  the  checks 
and  balances  of  Profit  and  Loss  have  never 
been  the  grand  agents  with  man ;  that  they  have 
never  been  roused  into  deep,  thorough,  all-per- 
vading efforts  by  any  computable  prospect  of 
Profit  and  Loss,  for  any  visible,  finite  object ; 
but  always  for  some  invisible  and  infinite  one. 
The  Crusades  took  their  rise  in  Religion; 
their  visible  object  was,  commercially  speak- 
ing, worth  nothing.  It  was  the  boundless.  In- 
visible world  that  was  laid  bare  in  the  imagi- 
nations of  those  men ;  and  in  its  burning 
light,  the  visible  shrunk  as  a  scroll.  Not  me- 
^  chanical,  nor  produced  by  mechanical  means, 
was  this  vast  movement.  No  dining  at  Free- 
masons' Tavern,  with  the  other  long  train  of 
modern  machinery ;  no  cunning  reconcilia- 
tion of  "  vested  interests,"  was  required  here  : 
only  the  passionate  voice  of  one  man,  the 
rapt  soul  looking  through  the  eyes  of  one 
man  ;  and  rugged,  steel-clad  Europe  trembled 
beneath  his  words,  and  followed  him  whither 
he  listed.  In  later  ages,  it  was  still  the  same. 
The  Reformation  had  an  invisible,  mystic,  and 
ideal  aim ;  the  result  was  indeed  to  be  embo- 
died in  external  things  ;  but  its  spirit,  its 
worth,  was  internal,  invisible,  infinite.  Our 
English  Revolution,  too,  originated  in  Reli- 
gion.   Men  did  battle,  in  those  days,  not  for 


Purse  sake,  but  for  Conscience  sake.  Nay, 
in  our  own  days,  it  is  no  way  different.  The 
French  Revolution  itself  had  something  higher 
in  it  than  cheap  bread  and  a  Habeas-corpus 
act.  Here,  too,  was  an  Idea  ;  a  Dynamic,  not 
a  Mechanic  force.  It  was  a  struggle,  though 
ablind  and  at  last  an  insane  one,  for  the  infinite, 
divine  nature  of  Right,  of  Freedom,  of  Country. 

Thus  does  man,  in  every  age,  vindicate,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  his  celestial  birth- 
right. Thus  does  nature  hold  on  her  wondrous, 
unquestionable  course ;  and  all  our  systems 
and  theories  are  but  so  many  froth-eddies  or 
sand-banks,  which  from  time  to  time  she  casts 
up  and  washes  away.  When  we  can  drain 
the  Ocean  into  our  mill-ponds,  and  bottle  up 
the  Force  of  Gravity,  to  be  sold  by  retail,  in 
our  gas-jars ;  then  may  we  hope  to  compre- 
hend the  infinitudes  of  man's  soul  under  for- 
mulas of  Profit  and  Loss ;  and  rule  over  this 
too,  as  over  a  patent  engine,  by  checks,  and 
valves,  and  balances. 

Nay,  even  with  regard  to  Government  itself, 
can  it  be  necessary  to  remind  any  one  that 
Freedom,  without  which  indeed  all  spiritual 
life  is  impossible,  depends  on  infinitely  more 
complex  influences  than  either  the  extension 
or  the  curtailment  of  the  "  democratic  interest  1" 
Who  is  there  that,  "taking  the  high  priori 
road,"  shall  point  out  what  these  influences 
are ;  what  deep,  subtle,  inextricably  entangled 
influences  they  have  been,  and  may  be  1  For 
man  is  not  the  creature  and  product  of  Me- 
chanism ;  but,  in  a  far  truer  sense,  its  creator 
and  producer :  it  is  the  noble  people  that  makes 
the  noble  Governnient;  rather  than  conversely. 
On  the  whole,  Institutions  are  much ;  but  they 
are  not  all.  The  freest  and  highest  spirits  of 
the  world  have  often  been  found  under  strange 
outward  circumstances:  Saint  Paul  and  his 
brother  Apostles  were  politically  slaves ;  Epic- 
tetus  was  personally  one.  Again,  forget  the 
influences  of  Chivalry  and  Religion,  and  ask, 
— what  countries  produced  Columbus  and  Las 
Casas  ]  Or,  descending  from  virtue  and  hero- 
ism, to  mere  energy  and  spiritual  talent:  Cor- 
tes, Pizarro,  Alba,  Ximenes  1  The  Spaniards 
of  the  sixteenth  century  were  indisputably  the 
noblest  nation  of  Europe;  yet  they  had  the  In- 
quisition, and  Philip  11.  They  have  the  same 
government  at  this  day;  and  are  the  lowest 
nation.  The  Dutch,  too,  have  retained  their 
old  constitution  ;  but  no  Siege  of  Leyden,  no 
William  the  Silent,  not  even  an  Egmont  or 
De  Witt,  any  longer  appears  among  them. 
With  ourselves,  also,  where  much  has  changed, 
effect  has  nowise  followed  cause,  as  it  should 
have  done :  two  centuries  ago,  the  Commons* 
Speaker  addressed  Queen  Elizabeth  on  bended 
knees,  happy  that  the  virago's  foot  did  not  even 
smite  him  ;  yet  the  people  were  then  governed, 
not  by  a  Castlereagh,  but  by  a  Burghley;  they 
had  their  Shakspeare  and  Philip  Sidney,  where 
we  have  our  Sheridan  Knowles  and  Beau 
Brummel. 

These  and  the  like  facts  are  so  familiar,  the 
truths  which  they  preach  so  obvious,  and  have 
in  all  past  times  been  so  universally  believed 
and  acted  on,  that  we  should  almost  feel 
ashamed  for  repeating  them ;  were  it  not  that, 
on  every  hand,  the  memory  of  them  seems  to 


SIGNS  OP  THE  TIMES. 


193 


have  passed  away,  or  at  best  died  into  a  faint 
tradition,  of  no  value  as  a  practical  principle. 
To  judge  by  the  loud  clamour  of  our  Constitu- 
tion builders,  Statists,  Economists,  directors, 
creators,  reformers  of  Public  Societies ;  in  a 
word,  all  manner  of  Mechanists,  from  the  Cart- 
wright  up  to  the  Code-maker;  and  by  the 
nearly  total  silence  of  all  Preachers  and  Teach- 
ers who  should  give  a  voice  to  Poetry,  Reli- 
gion, and  Morality,  we  might  fancy  either  that 
man's  Dynamical  nature  was,  to  all  spiritual 
intents,  extinct,  or  else  so  perfected,  that  no- 
thing more  was  to  be  made  of  it  by  the  old 
means ;  and  henceforth  only  in  his  Mechanical 
contrivances  did  any  hope  exist  for  him. 

To  define  the  limits  of  these  two  departments 
of  man's  activity,  which  work  into  one  another, 
and  by  means  of  one  another,  so  intricately 
and.  inseparably,  were  by  its  nature  an  impos- 
sible attempt.  Their  relative  importance,  even 
to  the  wisest  mind,  will  vary  in  different  times, 
according  to  the  special  wants  and  dispositions 
of  these  times.  Meanwhile,  it  seems  clear 
enough  that  only  in  the  right  co-ordination  of 
the  two,  and  the  Vigorous  forwarding  of  both, 
does  our  true  line  of  action  lie.  Undue  culti- 
vation of  the  inward  or  Dynamical  province 
leads  to  idle,  visionary,  impracticable  courses, 
and,  especially  in  rude  eras,  to  Superstition 
and  Fanaticism,  with  their  long  train  of  baleful 
and  well-known  evils.  Undue  cultivation  of 
the  outward,  again,  though  less  immediately 
prejudicial,  and  even  for  the  time  productive 
of  many  palpable  benefits,  must,  in  the  long 
run,  by  destroying  Moral  Force,  which  is  the 
parent  of  all  other  Force,  prove  not  less  cer- 
tainly, and  perhaps  still  more  hopelessly,  per- 
nicious. This,  we  take  it,  is  the  grand  charac- 
teristic of  our  age.  By  our  skill  in  Mechanism, 
it  has  come  to  pass  that,  in  the  management 
of  external  things,  we  excel  all  other  ages; 
while  in  whatever  respects  the  pure  moral  na- 
ture, in  true  dignity  of  soul  and  character,  we 
are  perhaps  inferior  to  most  civilized  ages. 

In  fact,  if  we  look  deeper,  we  shall  find  that 
this  faith  in  Mechanism  has  now  struck  its 
roots  deep  into  men's  most  intimate,  primary 
sources  of  conviction  ;  and  is  thence  sending 
up,  over  his  whole  life  and  activity,  innume- 
rable stems, — fruit-bearing  and  poison-bearing. 
The  truth  is,  men  have  lost  their  belief  in  the 
Invisible,  and  believe,  and  hope,' and  work  only 
in  the  Visible ;  or,  to  speak  it  in  other  words. 
This  is  not  a  Religious  age.  Only  the  material, 
the  immediately  practical,  not  the  divine  and 
spiritual,  is  important  to  us.  The  infinite,  ab- 
solute character  of  Virtue  has  passed  into  a 
finite,  conditional  one ;  it  is  no  longer  a  wor- 
ship of  the  Beautiful  and  Good ;  but  a  calcula- 
tion of  the  Profitable.  Worship,  indeed,  in  any 
sense,  is  not  recognised  among  us,  or  is  me- 
chanically explained  into  Fear  of  pain,  or 
Hope  of  pleasure.  Our  true  Deity  is  Mecha- 
nism. It  has  subdued  external  Nature  for  us, 
and,  we  think,  it  will  do  all  other  things.  We 
are  Giants  in  physical  power:  in  a  deeper  than 
a  metaphorical  sense,  we  are  Titans,  that 
strive,  by  heaping  mountain  on  mountain,  to 
conquer  Heaven  also. 

The  strong  mechanical  character,  so  visible 
in  the  spiritual  pursuits  and  methods  of  this 
25 


age,  may  be  traced  much  farther  into  the  con- 
dition and  prevailing  disposition  of  our  spiritual 
nature  itself.  Consider,  for  example,  the  gene- 
ral fashion  of  Intellect  in  this  era.  Intellect, 
the  power  man  has  of  knowing  and  believing, 
is  now  nearly  synonymous  with  Logic,  or  the 
mere  power  of  arranging  and  communicating. 
Its  implement  is  not  Meditation,  but  Argument. 
"  Cause  and  effect"  is  almost  the  only  category 
under  which  we  look  at,  and  work  with,  all 
Nature.  Our  first  question  with  regard  to  any 
object  is  not.  What  is  it  1  but.  How  is  it  ?  We 
are  no  longer  instinctively  driven  to  appre- 
hend, and  lay  to  heart,  what  is  Good  and  Love- 
ly, but  rather  to  inquire,  as  onlookers,  how  it 
is  produced,  whence  it  comes,  whither  it  goes. 
Our  favourite  Philosophers  have  no  love  and 
no  hatred ;  they  stand  among  us  not  to  do,  nor 
to  create  any  thing,  but  as  a  sort  of  Logic-mills 
to  grind  out  the  true  causes  and  effects  of  all 
that  is  done  and  created.  To  the  eye  of  a 
Smith,  a  Hume,  or  a  Constant,  all  is  well  that 
works  quietly.  An  Order  of  Ignatius  Loyola, 
a  Presbyterianism  of  John  Knox,  a  Wicklifle, 
or  a  Henry  the  Eighth,  are  simply  so  many 
mechanical  phenomena,  caused  or  causing. 

The  Euphuist  of  our  day  differs  much  from 
his  pleasant  predecessors.  An  intellectual 
dapperling  of  these  times  boasts  chiefly  of  his 
irresistible  perspicacity,  his  "  dwelling  in  the 
daylight  of  truth,"  and  so  forth  ;  which,  on  ex- 
amination, turns  out  to  be  a  dwelling  in  the 
rws/i-light  of  "  closet-logic,"  and  a  deep  uncon- 
sciousness that  there  is  any  other  light  to 
dwell  in  ;  or  any  other  objects  to  survey  with 
it.  Wonder  indeed,  is,  on  all  hands,  dying 
out :  it  is  the  sign  of  uncultivation  to  wonder. 
Speak  to  any  small  man  of  a  high,  majestic 
Reformation,  of  a  high,  majestic  Luther  to  lead 
it,  and  forthwith  he  sets  about  "  accounting" 
for  it!  how  the  "circumstances  of  the  time" 
called  for  such  a  character,  and  found  him,  we 
suppose,  standing  girt  and  road-ready,  to  do 
its  errand  ;  how  the  "circumstances  of  the 
time"  created,  fashioned,  floated  him  quietly 
along  into  the  result ;  how,  in  short,  this  small 
man,  had  he  been  there,  could  have  performed 
the  like  himself!  For  it  is  the  "force  of  cir- 
cumstances" that  does  every  thing ;  the  force 
of  one  man  can  do  nothing.  Now  all  this  is 
grounded  on  little  more  than  a  metaphor.  We 
figure  Society  as  a  "  Machine,"  and  that  mind 
is  opposed  to  mind,  as  body  is  to  body ;  where- 
by two,  or  at  most  ten,  little  minds  must  be 
stronger  than  one  great  mind.  Notable  ab- 
surdity! For  the  plain  truth,  very  plain,  we 
think,  is,  that  minds  are  opposed  to  minds  in 
quile  a  different  way ;  and  one  man  that  has  a 
higher  Wisdom,  a  hitherto  unknown  spiritual 
Truth  in  him,  is  stronger,  not  than  ten  men 
that  have  it  not,  or  than  ten  thousand,  but  than 
all  men,  that  have  it  not ;  and  stands  among 
them  with  a  quite  ethereal,  angelic  power,  as 
with  a  sword  out  of  Heaven's  own  armory, 
sky-tempered,  which  no  buckler,  and  no  tower 
of  brass,  will  finally  withstand. 

But  to  us,  in  these  limes,  such  considera- 
tions rarely  occur.  We  enjoy,  we  see  nothing 
by  direct  vision ;  but  only  by  reflection,  and 
in  anatomical  dismemberment.  Like  Sir  Hu- 
dibras,  for  every  Why,  we  must  have  a  ^\'hcre- 
R 


194 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


fore.  We  have  our  little  theory  on  all  human 
and  divine  things.  Poetry,  the  workings  of 
genius  itself,  which  in  all  times,  with  one  or 
another  meaning,  has  been  called  Inspiration, 
and  held  to  be  mysterious  and  inscrutable,  is 
no  longer  without  its  scientific  exposition.  The 
building  of  the  lofty  rhyme  is  like  any  other 
masonry  or  bricklaying :  we  have  theories  of 
its  rise,  height,  decline,  and  fall, — which  latter, 
it  would  seem,  is  now  near,  among  all  people. 
Of  our  "Theories  of  Taste,"  as  they  are  call- 
ed, wherein  the  deep,  infinite,  unspeakable 
Love  of  Wisdom  and  Beauty,  which  dwells 
in  all  men,  is  "  explained,"  made  mechanically 
visible,  from  "  Association,"  and  the  like,  why 
should  we  say  any  thing  ]  Hume  has  written 
us  a  "  Natural  History  of  Religion  ;"  in  which 
one  Natural  History,  all  the  rest  are  included. 
Strangely,  too,  does  the  general  feeling  coin- 
cide with  Hume's  in  this  wonderful  problem ; 
for  whether  his  "Natural  History"  be  the  right 
one  or  not,  that  Religion  must  have  a  Natural 
History,  all  of  us,  cleric  and  laic,  seem  to  be 
agreed.  He  indeed  regards  it  as  a  Disease,  we 
again  as  Health  ;  so  far  there  is  a  diflference  ; 
but  in  our  first  principle  we  are  at  one. 

To  what  extent  theological  Unbelief,  we 
mean  intellectual  dissent  from  the  Church,  in 
its  view  of  Holy  Writ,  prevails  at  this  day, 
would  be  a  highly  important,  were  it  not,  un- 
der any  circumstances,  an  almost  impossible 
inquiry.  But  the  Unbelief,  which  is  of  a  still 
more  fundamental  character,  every  man  may 
see  prevailing,  with  scarcely  any  but  the  faint- 
est contradiction,  all  around  him  ;  even  in  the 
Pulpit  itself  Religion  in  most  countries,  more 
or  less  in  every  country,  is  no  longer  what  it 
was,  and  should  be, — a  thousand-voiced  psalm 
from  the  heart  of  Man  to  his  invisible  Father, 
the  fountain  of  all  Goodness,  Beauty,  Truth,  and 
revealed  in  every  revelation  of  these  ;  but  for 
the  most  part,  a  wise,  prudential  feeling 
grounded  on  a  mere  calculation  ;  a  matter,  as 
all  others  now  are,  of  Expediency  and  Utility  : 
whereby  some  smaller  quantum  of  earthly  en- 
joyment may  be  exchanged  for  a  far  larger 
quantum  of  celestial  enjoyment.  Thus  Reli- 
gion, too,  is  Profit ;  a  working  for  wages  ;  not 
Reverence,  but  vulgar  Hope  or  Fear.  Many, 
we  know,  very  many,  we  hope,  are  still  reli- 
gious in  a  far  different  sense ;  were  it  not  so, 
our  case  were  too  desperate :  But  to  witness 
that  such  is  the  temper  of  the  times,  we  take 
any  calm  observant  man,  who  agrees  or  disa- 
grees in  our  feeling  on  the  matter,  and  ask  him 
whether  our  viexo  of  it  is  not  in  general  well- 
founded.  , 

Literature,  too,  if  we  consider  it,  gives  simi- 
lar testimony.  At  no  former  era  has  Litera- 
ture, the  printed  communication  of  Thought, 
been  of  such  importance  as  it  is  now.  We 
often  hear  that  the  Church  is  in  danger;  and 
truly  so  it  is, — in  a  danger  it  seems  not  to 
know  of:  For,  with  its  tithes  in  the  most  per- 
fect safety,  its  functions  are  becoming  more 
and  more  superseded.  The  true  Church  of 
England,  at  this  moment,  lies  in  the  Editors 
of  its  Newspapers.  These  preach  to  the  peo- 
ple daily,  weekly;  admonishing  kings  them- 
selves ;  advising  peace  or  war,  with  an  au- 
thority which  only  the  first  Reformers  and  a 


long-past  class  of  Popes  were  possessed  of; 
inflicting  moral  censure  ;  imparting  moral  en- 
couragement, consolation,  edification ;  in  all 
ways,  diligently  "  administering  the  Discipline 
of  the  Church."  It  may  be  said,  too,  that  in 
private  disposition,  the  new  Preachers  some- 
what resemble  the  Mendicant  Friars  of  old 
times :  outwardly  full  of  holy  zeal ;  inwardly 
not  without  stratagem,  and  hunger  for  terres- 
trial things.  But  omitting  this  class,  and  the 
boundless  host  of  watery  personages  who  pipe, 
as  they  are  able,  on  so  many  scrannel  straws, 
let  us  look  at  the  higher  regions  of  Literature, 
where,  if  anywhere,  the  pure  melodies  of  Poe- 
sy and  Wisdom  should  be  heard.  Of  natural 
talent  there  is  no  deficiency :  one  or  two  richly- 
endowed  individuals  even  give  us  a  superiority 
in  this  respect.  But  what  is  the  song  they 
sing  1  Is  it  a  tone  of  the  Memnon  Statue, 
breathing  music  as  the  light  first  touches  it  1 
a  "liquid  wisdom,"  disclosing  to  our  sense  the 
deep,  infinite  harmonies  of  Nature  and  man's 
soul  1  Alas,  no  !  It  is  not  a  matin  or  vesper 
hymn  to  the  Spirit  of  all  Beauty,  but  a  fierce 
clashing  of  cymbals,  and  shouting  of  multi- 
tudes, as  children  pass  through  the  fire  to  Mo- 
lech  !  Poetry  itself  has  no  eye  for  the  Invisi- 
ble. Beauty  is  no  longer  the  god  it  worships, 
but  some  brute  image  of  Strength;  which  we 
may  well  call  an  idol,  for  true  Strength  is  one 
and  the  same  with  Beauty,  and  its  worship  also 
is  a  hymn.  The  meek,  silent  Light  can  mould, 
create,  and  purify  all  Nature ;  but  the  loud 
Whirlwind,  the  sign  and  product  of  Disunion, 
of  Weakness,  passes  on,  and  is  forgotten. 
How  widely  this  veneration  for  the  physically 
Strongest  has  spread  itself  through  Literature, 
any  one  may  judge,  who  reads  either  criticism 
or  poem.  We  praise  a  work,  not  as  "  true," 
but  as  "  strong;"  our  highest  praise  is  that  it 
has  "  affected  "  us,  has  "  terrified  "  us.  All  this, 
it  has  been  well  observed,  is  the  "maximum 
of  the  Barbarous,"  the  symptom,  not  of  vigor- 
ous refinement,  but  of  luxurious  corruption. 
It  speaks  much,  too,  for  men's  indestructible 
love  of  truth,  that  nothing  of  this  kind  will 
abide  with  them ;  that  even  the  talent  of  a 
Byron  cannot  permanently  seduce  us  into 
idol-worship  ;  but  that  he,  too,  with  all  his  wild 
syren  charming,  already  begins  to  be  disre- 
garded and  forgotten. 

Again,  with  respect  to  our  Moral  condition  : 
here  also,  he  who  runs  may  read  that  the  same 
physical, mechanical  influences  areevery  where 
busy.  For  the  "superior  morality,"  of  which 
we  hear  so  much,  we  too,  would  desire  to  be 
thankful :  at  the  same  time,  it  were  but  blind- 
ness to  deny  that  this  "superior  morality"  is 
properly  rather  an  "inferior  criminality,"  pro- 
duced not  by  greater  love  of  Virtue,  but  by 
greater  perfection  of  Police;  and  of  that  far 
subtler  and  stronger  Police,  called  Public 
Opinion.  This  last  watches  over  us  with  its 
Argus  eyes  more  keenly  than  ever ;  but  the 
"inward  eye"  seems  heavy  with  sleep.  Of  any 
belief  in  invisible,  divine  things,  we  find  as  iew 
traces  in  our  Morality  as  elsewhere.  It  is  by 
tangible,  material  considerations  that  we  are 
guided, not  by  inward  and  spiritual.  Self-denial, 
the  parent  of  all  virtue,  in  any  true  sense  of 
that  word,  has  perhaps  seldom  been  rarer :  so 


SIGNS  OP  THE  TIMES. 


195 


rare  is  it,  that  the  most,  even  in  their  abstract 
speculations,  regard  its  existence  as  a  chimera. 
Virtue  is  Pleasure,  is  Profit;  no  celestial,  but 
an  earthly  thing.  Virtuous  men,  Philanthro- 
pists, Martyrs,  are  happy  accidents;  their 
**  taste"  lies  the  right  way  !  In  all  senses,  we 
worship  and  follow  after  Power ;  which  may 
be  called  a  physical  pursuit.  No  man  now 
loves  Truth,  as  Truth  must  be  loved,  with  an 
infinite  love ;  but  only  with  a  finite  love,  and  as 
it  were  par  amours.  Nay,  properly  speaking, 
he  does  not  believe  and  know  it,  but  only  "thinks''' 
it,  and  that  "  there  is  every  probability !"  He 
preaches  it  aloud,  and  rushes  courageously 
forth  with  it, — if  there  is  a  multitude  huzzaing 
at  his  back!  yet  ever  keeps  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  and  the  instant  the  huzzaing  lan- 
guishes, he  too  stops  short.  In  fact,  what  mo- 
rality we  have  takes  the  shape  of  Ambition,  of 
Honour;  beyond  money  and  money's  worth,  our 
only  rational  blessedness  is  popularity.  It  were 
but  a  fool's  trick  to  die  for  conscience.  Only  for 
"  character,"  by  duel,  or  in  case  of  extremity, 
by  suicide,  is  the  wise  man  bound  to  die.  By 
arguing  on  the  "  force  of  circumstances,"  we 
have  argued  away  all  force  from  ourselves ; 
and  stand  leashed  together,  uniform  in  dress 
and  movement,  like  the  rowers  of  some  bound- 
less galley.  This  and  that  may  be  right  and 
true ;  but  we  must  not  do  it.  Wonderful "  Force 
of  Public  Opinion !"  We  must  act  and  walk 
in  all  points  as  it  prescribes ;  follow  the  traffic 
it  bids  us,  realize  the  sum  of  money,  the  degree 
of  "  influence"  it  expects  of  us,  or  we  shall  be 
lightly  esteemed ;  certain  mouthfuls  of  articu- 
late wind  will  be  blown  at  us,  and  this,  what 
mortal  courage  can  front]  Thus,  while  civil 
Liberty  is  more  and  more  secured  to  us,  our 
moral  Liberty  is  all  but  lost.  Practically  con- 
sidered, our  creed  is  Fatalism:  and,  free  in 
hand  and  foot,  we  are  shackled  in  heart  and 
soul,  with  far  straiter  than  Feudal  chains. 
Truly  may  we  say  with  the  Philosopher,  "  the 
deep  meaning  of  the  laws  of  Mechanism  lies 
heavy  on  us ;"  and  in  the  closet,  in  the  market- 
place, in  the  temple,  by  the  social  hearth,  en- 
cumbers the  whole  movements  of  our  mind, 
and  over  our  noblest  faculties  is  spreading  a 
night-mare  sleep. 

These  dark  features,  we  are  aware,  belong 
more  or  less  to  other  ages,  as  well  as  to  ours. 
This  faith  in  Mechanism,  in  the  all-importance 
of  physical  things,  is  in  every  age  the  common 
refuge  of  Weakness  and  blind  Discontent;  of 
all  who  believe,  as  many  wnll  ever  do,  that 
man's  true  good  lies  without  him,  not  within. 
We  are  aware  also,  that,  as  applied  to  our- 
selves in  all  their  aggravation,  they  form  but 
half  a  picture ;  that  in  the  whole  picture  there 
are  bright  lights  as  well  as  gloomy  shadows. 
If  we  here  dwell  chiefly  on  the  latter,  let  us  not 
be  blamed :  it  is  in  general  more  profitable  to 
reckon  up  our  defects,  than  to  boast  of  our  at- 
tainments. 

Neither,  with  all  these  evils  more  or  less 
clearly  before  us,  have  we  at  any  time  despaired 
of  the  fortunes  of  society.  Despair,  or  even 
despondency,  in  that  respect,  appears  to  us,  in 
all  cases,  a  groundless  feeling.  We  have  a 
faith  in  the  imperishable  dignity  of  man ;  in 


the  high  vocation  to  which,  throughout  this  his 
earthly  history,  he  has  been  appointed.  How- 
ever it  may  be  with  individual  nations,  what- 
ever melancholic  speculators  may  assert,  it 
seems  a  weH-ascertained  fact  that,  in  all  times, 
reckoning  even  from  those  of  the  Heracleids 
and  Pelasgi,  the  happiness  and  greatness  of 
mankind  at  large  have  been  continually  pro- 
gressive. Doubtless  this  age  also  is  advancing. 
Its  very  unrest,  its  ceaseless  activity,  its  dis- 
content, contains  matter  of  promise.  Know- 
ledge, education,  are  opening  the  eyes  of  the 
humblest, — are  increasing  the  number  of  think- 
ing minds  without  limit.  This  is  as  it  should 
be ;  for,  not  in  turning  back,  not  in  resisting, 
but  only  in  resolutely  struggling  forward,  does 
our  life  consist.  Nay,  after  all,  our  spiritual 
maladies  are  but  of  Opinion ;  we  are  but  fet- 
tered by  chains  of  our  own  forging,  and  which 
ourselves  also  can  rend  asunder.  This  deep, 
paralyzed  subjection  to  physical  objects  comes 
not  from  Nature,but  from  ourown  unwise  mode 
of  viewing  Nature.  Neither  can  we  understand 
that  man  wants,  at  this  hour,  any  faculty  of 
heart,  soul,  or  body,  that  ever  belonged  to  him. 
"  He,  who  has  been  born,  has  been  a  First 
Man ;"  has  had  lying  before  his  young  eyes, 
and  as  yetunhardened  into  scientific  shapes,  a 
world  as  plastic,  infinite,  divine,  as  lay  before 
the  eyes  of  Adam  himself.  If  Mechanism,  like 
some  glass  bell,  encircles  and  imprisons  us,  if 
the  soul  looks  forth  on  a  fair  heavenly  country 
which  it  cannot  reach,  and  pines,  and  in  its 
scanty  atmosphere  is  ready  to  perish, — yet  the 
bell  is  but  of  glass  ;  "  one  bold  stroke  to  break 
the  bell  in  pieces,  and  thou  art  delivered!" 
Not  the  invisible  world  is  wanting,  for  it  dwells 
in  man's  soul,  and  this  last  is  still  here.  Are 
the  solemn  temples  in  which  the  Divinity  was 
once  visibly  revealed  among  us,  crumbling 
away  1  We  can  repair  them,  we  can  rebuild 
them.  The  wisdom,  the  heroic  worth  of  our 
forefathers,  which  we  have  lost,  we  can  recover. 
That  admiration  of  old  nobleness,  which  now 
so  often  shows  itself  as  a  faint  dilettantism,  will 
one  day  become  a  generous  emulation,  and 
man  may  again  be  all  that  he  has  been,  and 
more  than  he  has  been.  Nor  are  these  the 
mere  daydreams  of  fancy;  they  are  clear  pos- 
sibilities; nay,  in  this  time,  they  are  even  as- 
suming the  character  of  hopes.  Indications 
we  do  see,  in  other  countries  and  in  our  own, 
signs  infinitely  cheering  to  us,  that  Mechanism 
is  not  always  to  be  our  hard  taskmaster,  but 
one  day  to  be  our  pliant,  all-ministering  ser- 
vant; that  a  new  and  brighter  spiritual  era  is 
slowly  evolving  itself  for  all  men.  But  on 
these  things  our  present  course  forbids  us  to 
enter. 

Meanwhile,  that  great  outward  changes  are 
in  progress  can  be  doubtful  to  no  one.  The 
time  is  sick  and  out  of  joint.  Many  things 
have  reached  their  height;  and  it  is  a  wise 
adage  that  tells  us,  "  the  darkest  hour  is  nearest 
the  dawn."  Whenever  we  can  gather  any  in- 
dication of  the  public  thought,  whether  from 
printed  books,  as  in  France  or  Germany,  or 
from  Carbonari  rebellions  and  other  political 
tumults,  as  in  Spain,  Portugal,  Italy,  and 
Greece,  the  voice  it  utters  is  the  same.  The 
thinking  minds  of  all  nations  call  for  change. 


106 


CARL YLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


There  is  a  deep-lying  struggle  in  the  whole 
fabric  of  society;  a  boundless,  grinding  colli- 
sion of  the  New  with  the  Old.  The  French 
Revolution,  as  is  now  visible  enough,  was  not 
the  parent  of  this  mighty  movement,  but  its 
offspring.  Those  two  hostile  influences,  which 
always  exist  in  human  things,  and  on  the  con- 
stant intercommunion  of  which  depends  their 
health  and  safety,  had  lain  in  separate  masses, 
accumulating  through  generations,  and  France 
was  the  scene  of  their  fiercest  explosion  ;  but 
the  final  issue  was  not  unfolded  in  that  coun- 
try :  nay,  it  is  not  )'^et  anywhere  unfolded. 
Political  freedom  is  hitherto  the  object  of  these 
efforts;  but  they  will  not  and  cannot  stop  there. 
It  is  towards  a  higher  freedom  than  mere  free- 
dom from  oppression  by  his  fellow-mortal  that 
man  dimly  aims.  Of  this  higher,  heavenly 
freedom,  which  is  "man's  reasonable  service," 


all  his  noble  institutions,  his  faithful  endea- 
vours, and  loftiest  attainments,  are  but  the 
body,  and  more  and  more  approximated  em- 
blem. 

On  the  whole, as  this  wondrous  planet,  Earth, 
is  journeying  with  its  fellows  through  infinite 
space,  so  are  the  wondrous  destinies  embarked 
on  it  journeying  through  infinite  time,  under  a 
higher  guidance  than  ours.  For  the  present, 
as  our  astronomy  informs  us,  its  path  lies  to- 
wards Hercules,  the  constellation  of  Physical 
Power:  But  that  is  not  our  most  pressing  con- 
cern. Go  where  it  will,  the  deep  Heavei?  will 
be  around  it.  Therein  let  us  have  hope  and 
sure  faith.  To  reform  a  world,  to  reform  a 
nation,  no  wise  man  will  undertake ;  and  all 
but  foolish  men  know  that  the  only  solid, 
though  a  far  slower  reformation,  is  what  each 
begins  and  perfects  on  himself. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER  AGAIN. 


[Foreign  Review,  1830.] 


It  is  some  six  years  since  the  name  "  Jean 
Paul  Friedrich  Richter"  was  first  printed  with 
English  types ;  and  some  six-and-forty  since  it 
has  stood  emblazoned  and  illuminated  on  all 
true  literary  Indicators  among  the  Germans ; 
a  fact,  which,  if  we  consider  the  history  of 
many  a  Kotzebue  and  Chateaubriand,  within 
that  period,  may  confirm  the  old  doctrine,  that 
the  best  celebrity  does  not  always  spread  the 
fastest ;  but  rather,  quite  contrariwise,  that  as 
blown  bladders  are  far  more  easily  carried 
than  metallic  masses,  though  gold  ones,  of 
equal  bulk,  so  the  Playwright,  Poetaster,  Philo- 
sophe,  will  often  pass  triumphantly  beyond 
seas,  while  the  Poet  and  Philosopher  abide 
quietly  at  home.  Such  is  the  order  of  nature  : 
a  Spurzheim  flies  from  Vienna  to  Paris  and 
London,  within  the  year;  a  Kant,  slowly  ad- 
vancing, may,  perhaps,  reach  us  from  Konigs- 
berg  within  the  century :  Newton,  merely  to 
cross  the  narrow  Channel,  required  fifty  years ; 
Shakspeare,  again,  three  times  as  many.  It  is 
true  there  are  examples  of  an  opposite  sort; 
now  and  then,  by  same  rare  chance,  a  Goethe, 
a  Cervantes,  will  occur  in  literature,  and 
Kings  may  laugh  over  Bon  Quixote  while  it  is 
yet  unfinished,  and  scenes  from  Werter  be 
painted  on  Chinese  tea-cups,  while  the  author 
is  still  a  stripling.  These,  however,  are  not 
the  rule,  but  the  exceptions;  nay,  rightly  in- 
terpreted, the  exceptions  which  confirm  it.  In 
general,  that  sudden  tumultuous  popularity 
comes  more  from  partial  delirium  on  both  sides, 
than  from  clear  insight;  and  is  of  evil  omen 
to  all  concerned  with  it.  How  many  loud 
Bacchus-festivals  of  this  sort  have  we  seen 
prove  to  be  Pseudo-Bacchanalia,  and  end  in 
directly  the  inverse  of  Orgies  !  Drawn  by  his 
team  of  lions,  the  jolly  god  advances  as  a  real 


*  Wahrheit  aus  Jean  Paul's  Leben.   (Biography  of  .Tcan 
Paul.)  lates,  2tes,  3tes  Bdndchen.    Breslau,  1826,  '27,  '28. 


god,  with  all  his  thyrsi,  cymbals,  Phallophori, 
and  Moenadic  women :  the  air,  the  earth  is 
giddy  with  their  clangor,  their  Evohes ;  but, 
alas !  in  a  little  while,  the  lion-team  shows 
long  ears,  and  becomes  too  clearly  an  ass- 
team  in  lion-skins;  the  Maenads  wheel  round 
in  amazement ;  and  then  the  jolly  god,  dragged 
from  his  chariot,  is  trodden  into  the  kennels  as 
a  drunk  mortal. 

That  no  such  apotheosis  was  appointed  for 
Richter  in  his  own  country,  or  is  now  to  be 
anticipated  in  any  other,  we  cannot  but  regard 
as  a  natural,  and  nowise  unfortunate  circum- 
stance. What  divinity  lies  in  him  requires  a 
calmer  worship,  and  from  quite  another  class 
of  worshippers.  Neither,  in  spite  of  that  forty 
years'  abeyance,  shall  we  accuse  England  of 
any  uncommon  blindness  towards  him:  nay, 
taking  all  things  into  account,  we  should  rather 
consider  his  actual  footing  among  us,  as  evinc- 
ing not  only  an  increased  rapidity  in  literary 
intercourse,  but  an  intrinsic  improvement  in 
the  manner  and  objects  of  it.  Our  feeling  of 
foreign  excellence,  we  hope,  must  be  becoming 
truer:  opr  Insular  taste  must  be  opening  more 
and  more  into  a  European  one.  For  Richter  is 
by  no  means  a  man  whose  merits,  like  his 
singularities,  force  themselves  on  the  general 
eye;  indeed,  without  great  patience,  and  some 
considerable  Catholicism  of  disposition,  no 
reader  is  likely  to  prosper  much  with  him. 
He  has  a  fine,  high,  altogether  unusual  talent; 
and  a  manner  of  expressing  it  perhaps  still 
more  unusual.  He  is  a  Humorist  heartily  and 
throughout ;  not  only  in  low  provinces  of 
thought,  where  this  is  more  common,  but  in 
the  loftiest  provinces,  where  it  is  well  nigh  un- 
exampled ;  and  thus,  in  wild  sport,  "playing 
bowls  with  the  sun  and  moon,"  he  fashions 
the  strangest  ideal  world,  which  at  first  glance 
looks  no  better  than  a  chaos.  The  Germans 
themselves  find  much  to  bear  with  in  him: 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


197 


and  for  readers  of  any  other  nation,  he  is  in- 
volved in  almost  boundless  complexity;  a 
mighty  maze,  indeed,  but  in  which  the  plan,  or 
traces  of  a  plan,  are  nowhere  visible.  Far 
from  appreciating  and  appropriating  the  spirit 
of  his  writings,  foreigners  find  it  in  the  highest 
difficult  to  seize  their  grammatical  meaning. 
Probably  there  is  not,  in  any  modern  language, 
so  intricate  a  writer;  abounding,  without 
measure,  in  obscure  allusions,  in  the  most 
twisted  phraseology;  perplexed  into  endless 
entanglements  and  dislocations,  parenthesis 
within  parenthesis ;  not  forgetting  elisions, 
sudden  whirls,  quibs,  conceits,  and  all  manner 
of  inexplicable  crotchets :  the  whole  moving 
on  in  the  gayest  manner,  yet  nowise  in  what 
seem  military  lines,  but  rather  in  huge  party- 
coloured  mob-masses.  How  foreigners  must 
find  themselves  bested  in  this  case,  our  readers 
may  best  judge  from  the  fact,  that  a  work  with 
the  following  title  was  undertaken  some  twenty 
years  ago,  for  the  benefit  of  Richter's  own 
countrymen :  "  K.  Reinhold's  Lexicon  for  Jean 
Paul's  works,  or  explanation  of  all  the  foreign  words 
and  tmusual  modes  of  speech  which  occur  in  his 
writings  ;  with  short  notices  of  the  historical  persons 
and  facts  therein  alluded  to ;  and  plain  German 
versions  of  the  more  difficult  passages  in  the  context: 
— a  necessary  assistance  for  all  who  would  read 
those  works  with  profit!'^  So  much  for  the 
dress  or  vehicle  of  Richter's  thoughts  ;  now  let 
it  only  be  remembered  farther,  that  the  thoughts 
themselves  are  often  of  the  most  abstruse 
description ;  so  that  not  till  after  laborious 
meditation,  can  much,  either  of  truth  or  of 
falsehood,  be  discerned  in  them;  and  we  have 
a  man,  from  whom  readers  with  weak  nerves, 
and  a  taste  in  any  degree  sickly,  will  not  fail 
to  recoil,  perhaps  with  a  sentiment  approach- 
ing to  horror.  And  yet,  as  we  said,  notwith- 
standing all  these  drawbacks,  Richter  already 
meets  with  a  certain  recognition  in  England ; 
he  has  his  readers  and  admirers ;  various 
translations  from  his  works  have  been  pub- 
lished among  us  ;  criticisms,  also,  not  without 
clear  discernment,  and  nowise  wanting  in  ap- 
plause ;  and  to  all  this,  so  far  as  we  can  see, 
even  the  un-German  part  of  the  public  has 
listened  with  some  curiosity  and  hopeful  an- 
ticipation. From  which  symptoms  we  should 
infer  two  things,  both  very  comfortable  to  us 
in  our  present  capacity:  First,  that  the  old 
strait-laced,  microscopic  sect  of  Belles-lettres- 
men,  whose  divinity  was  "Elegance,"  a  creed 
of  French  growth,  and  more  admirable  for 
men-milliners  than  for  critics  and  philosophers, 
must  be  rapidly  declining  in  these  Islands; 
and,  secondly,  which  is  a  much  more  personal 
consideration,  that,  in  still  farther  investigating 
and  exhibiting  this  wonderful  Jean  Paul,  we 
have  attempted  what  will  be,  for  many  of  our 
readers,  no  unwelcome  service. 

Our  inquiry  naturally  divides  itself  into  two 
departments, the  Biographical  and  the  Critical; 
concerning  both  of  which,  in  their  order,  we 
have  some  observations  to  make ;  and  what,  in 
regard  to  the  latter  department  at  least,  we 
reckon  more  profitable,  some  rather  curious 
documents  to  present 

It  does  not  appear  that  Richter's  life,  exter- 
nally considered,  differed  much  in    general 


character  from  other  literary  lives,  which,  for 
most  part,  are  so  barren  of  incident :  the  earlier 
portion  of  it  was  straitened  enough,  but  not 
otherwise  distinguished  ;  the  latter  and  busiest 
portion  of  it  was,  in  like  manner,  altogether 
private;  spent  chiefly  in  provincial  towns,  and 
apart  from  high  scenes  or  persons  ;  its  princi- 
pal occurrences  the  new  books  he  wrote,  its 
whole  course  a  spiritual  and  silent  one.  He 
became  an  author  in  his  nineteenth  year;  and 
with  a  conscientious  assiduity,  adhered  to  that 
employment;  not  seeking,  indeed  carefully 
avoiding,  any  interruption  or  disturbance 
therein,  were  it  only  for  a  day  or  an  hour. 
Nevertheless,  in  looking  over  those  sixty  vo- 
lumes of  his,  we  feel  as  if  Richter's  history 
must  have  another,  much  deeper  interest  and 
worth,  than  outward  incidents  could  impart  to 
it.  For  the  spirit  which  shines  more  or  less 
completely  through  his  writings,  is  one  of  pe- 
rennial excellence ;  rare  in  all  times  and  situa- 
tions, and  perhaps  nowhere  and  in  no  time 
more  rare  than  in  literary  Europe,  at  this  era. 
We  see  in  this  man  a  high,  self-subsistent, 
original,  and,  in  many  respects,  even  great 
character.  He  shows  himself  a  man  of  won- 
derful gifts,  and  with,  perhaps,  a  still  happier 
combination  and  adjustment  of  these  :  in  whom 
Philosophy  and  Poetry  are  not  only  reconciled; 
but  blended  together  into  a  purer  essence,  into 
Religion;  who,  with  the  softest, most  universal 
sympathy  for  outward  things,  is  inwardly  calm, 
impregnable ;  holds  on  his  way  through  all 
temptations  and  afflictions,  so  quietly,  yet  so 
inflexibly ;  the  true  literary  man,  among  a  thou- 
sand false  ones,  the  Apollo  among  neatherds; 
in  one  word,  a  man  understanding  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  living  in  the  midst  of  it ; 
yet  whose  life  is,  in  some  measure,  an  heroic 
and  devout  one.  No  character  of  this  kind, 
we  are  aware,  is  to  be  formed  without  mani- 
fold and  victorious  struggling  with  the  world ; 
and  the  narrative  of  such  struggling,  what  lit- 
tle of  it  can  be  narrated  and  interpreted,  will 
belong  to  the  highest  species  of  history.  The 
acted  life  of  such  a  man,  it  has  been  said,  "  is 
itself  a  Bible;"  it  is  a  "Gospel  of  Freedom," 
preached  abroad  to  all  men  ;  whereby,  among 
mean  unbelieving  souls,  we  may  know  that 
nobleness  has  not  yet  become  impossible ;  and, 
languishing  amid  boundless  triviality  and  des- 
picability,  still  understand  that  man's  nature 
is  indefeasibly  divine,  and  so  hold  fast  what  is 
the  most  important  of  all  faith,  the  faith  in 
ourselves. 

But  if  the  acted  life  of  a  pius  Vates  is  so  high 
a  matter,  the  written  life,  which,  if  properly 
written,  would  be  a  translation  and  interpreta- 
tion thereof,  must  also  have  great  value.  It 
has  been  said  that  no  Poet  is  equal  to  his 
Poem,  which  saying  is  partially  true;  but,  in 
a  deeper  sense,  it  may  also  be  asserted,  and 
with  still  greater  truth,  that  no  Poem  is  equal 
to  its  Poet.  Now,  it  is  Biography  that  first 
gives  us  both  Poet  and  Poem ;  by  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  one,  elucidating  and  completing 
that  of  the  other.  That  ideal  outline  of  him- 
self, which  a  man  unconsciously  shadows  forth 
in  his  writings,  and  which,  rightly  deciphered, 
will  be  truer  than  any  other  representation  of 
him,  it  is  the  task  of  the  Biographer  to  fill  up 
B  2 


198 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


into  an  actual  coherent  figure,  and  bring  home 
to  our  experience,  or  at  least  clear,  undoubting 
admiration,  thereby  to  instruct  and  edify  us  in 
many  ways.  Conducted  on  such  principles, 
the  Biography  of  great  men,  especially  of  great 
Poets,  that  is,  of  men  in  the  highest  degree 
noble  minded  and  wise,  might  become  one  of 
the  most  dignified  and  valuable  species  of 
composition.  As  matters  stand,  indeed,  there 
are  few  Biographies  that  accomplish  any  thing 
of  this  kind ;  the  most  are  mere  Indexes  of  a 
Biography,  which  each  reader  is  to  write  out 
for  himself,  as  he  peruses  them  ;  not  the  living 
body,  but  the  dry  bones  of  a  body,  which  should 
have  been  alive.  To  expect  any  such  Prome- 
thean virtue  in  a  common  Life-writer  were 
unreasonable  enough.  How  shall  that  unhap- 
py Biographic  brotherhood,  instead  of  writing 
like  Index-makers  and  Government-clerks, 
suddenly  become  enkindled  with  some  sparks 
of  intellect,  or  even  of  genial  fire ;  and  not  only 
collecting  dates  and  facts,  but  making  use  of 
them,  look  beyond  the  surface  and  economical 
form  of  a  man's  life,  into  its  substance  and 
spirit  ]  The  truth  is,  Biographies  are  in  a 
similar  case  with  Sermons  and  Songs :  they 
have  their  scientific  rules,  their  ideal  of  perfec- 
tion and  of  imperfection,  as  all  things  have ; 
but  hitherto  their  rules  are  only,  as  it  were, 
unseen  Laws  of  Nature,  not  critical  Acts  of 
Parliament,  and  threaten  us  with  no  immedi- 
ate penalty:  besides,  unlike  Tragedies  and 
Epics,  such  works  may  be  something  without 
being  all :  their  simplicity  of  form,  moreover, 
is  apt  to  seem  easiness  of  execution ;  and  thus, 
for  one  artist  in  those  departments,  we  have  a 
thousand  bunglers. 

With  regard  to  Richter,  in  particular,  to  say 
that  his  biographic  treatment  has  been  worse 
than  usual,  were  saying  much ;  yet  worse  than 
we  expected  it  has  certainly  been.  Various 
"Lives  of  Jean  Paul,"  anxiously  endeavouring 
to  profit  by  the  public  excitement,  while  it  lasted, 
and  communicating,  in  a  given  space,  almost  a 
minimum  of  information,  have  been  read  by 
us,  within  the  last  four  years,  with  no  great 
disappointment.  We  strove  to  take  thankfully 
what  little  they  had  to  give ;  and  looked  for- 
ward, in  hope,  to  that  promised  "  Autobiogra- 
phy," wherein  all  deficiencies  were  to  be  sup- 
plied. Several  years  before  his  death,  it  would 
seem,  Richter  had  determined  on  writing  some 
account  of  his  own  life ;  and  with  his  cus- 
tomary honesty,  had  set  about  a  thorough  pre- 
paration for  this  task.  After  revolving  many 
plans,  some  of  them  singular  enough,  he  at 
last  determined  on  the  form  of  composition ; 
and  with  a  half-sportful  allusion  to  Goethe's 
Dichtung  und  Wahrheit  aus  meinem  Leben,  had 
prefixed  to  his  work  the  title  Wahrheit  aus 
meinem  Leben  (Truth  from  my  Life)  ;  having  re- 
linquished, as  impracticable,  the  strange  idea 
of  writing,  parallel  to  it,  a  Dichtung  (Fiction) 
also,  under  cover  of  "  Nicolaus  Margraf," — a 
certain  Apothecary,  existing  only  as  hero  of 
one  of  his  last  Novels  !  In  this  work,  which 
weightier  avocations  had  indeed  retarded  or 
suspended,  considerable  progress  was  said  to 
have  been  made  ;  and  on  Richter's  decease, 
Herr  Otto,  a  man  of  talents,  who  had  been  his 
intimate  friend  for  half  a  life-time,  undertook 


the  editing  and  completing  of  it;  not  without 
sufficient  proclamation  and  assertion,  which  in 
the  meanwhile  was  credible  enough,  that  to 
him  only  could  the  post  of  Richter's  biographer 
belong 

Three  little  Volumes  of  that  Wahrheit  aus 
Jean  PauVs  Leben,  published  in  the  course  of 
as  many  years,  are  at  length  before  us.  The 
First  volume,  which  came  out  in  1826,  oc- 
casioned some  surprise,  if  not  disappointment ; 
yet  still  left  room  for  hope.  It  was  the  com- 
mencement of  a  real  Autobiography,  and  writ- 
ten wiih  much  heartiness  and  even  dignity  of 
manner,  though  taken  up  under  a  quite  unex- 
pected point  of  view,  in  that  spirit  of  genial 
humour,  of  gay  earnestness,  which,  with  all  its 
strange  fantastic  accompaniments,  often  sat  on 
Jean  Paul  so  gracefully,  and  to  which,  at  any 
rate,  no  reader  of  his  works  could  be  a  stranger. 
By  virtue  of  an  autocratic  ukase,  Paul  had 
appointed  himself  "  Professor  of  his  own  His- 
tory," and  delivered  to  the  Universe  three 
beautiful  "Lectures"  on  that  subject;  boasting, 
justly  enough,  that,  in  his  special  department, 
he  was  better  informed  than  any  other  man 
whatever.  He  was  not  without  his  oratorical 
secrets  and  professorial  habits :  thus,  as  Mr. 
Wortley,  in  writing  his  parliamentary  speech 
to  be  read  within  his  hat,  had  marked,  in  va- 
rious passages,  "  Here  cough,"  so  Paul  with 
greater  brevity,  had  an  arbitrary  hieroglyph 
introduced  here  and  there,  among  his  papers, 
and  purporting,  as  he  tells  us,  Meine  Herren, 
niemand  scharrc,  niemand  gdhne ! — "  Gentlemen, 
no  scraping,  no  yawning !" — a  hieroglyph,  we 
must  say,  which  many  public  speakers  might 
stand  more  in  need  of  than  he. 

Unfortunately,  in  the  Second  volume,  no 
other  Lectures  came  to  light,  but  only  a  string 
of  disconnected,  indeed  quite  heterogeneous 
Notes,  intended  to  have  been  fashioned  into 
such;  the  full  free  stream  of  oratory  dissipated 
itself  into  unsatisfactory  drops.  With  the 
Third  volume,  which  is  by  much  the  longest, 
Herr  Otto  appears  more  decidedly  in  his  own 
person,  though  still  rather  with  the  scissors 
than  with  the  pen ;  and,  behind  a  multitude  of 
circumvallations  and  outposts,  endeavours  to 
advance  his  history  a  little;  the  Lectures 
having  left  it  still  almost  at  the  very  com- 
mencement. His  peculiar  plan,  and  the  too 
manifest  purpose  to  continue  speaking  in  Jean 
Paul's  manner,  greatly  obstruct  his  progress ; 
which,  indeed,  is  so  inconsiderable,  that  at  the 
end  of  this  third  volume,  that  is,  after  some 
seven  hundred  small  octavo  pages,  we  find 
the  hero,  as  yet,  scarcely  beyond  his  twentieth 
year,  and  the  history  proper  still  only,  as  it 
were,  beginning.  We  cannot  but  regret  that 
Herr  Otto,  whose  talent  and  good  purpose,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  relation  to  Richter,  demand 
regard  from  us,  had  not  adopted  some  straight- 
forward method,  and  spoken  out  in  plain  prose, 
which  seems  a  more  natural  dialect  for  him, 
what  he  had  to  say  on  this  matter.  Instead  of 
a  multifarious  combination,  tending  so  slowly, 
if  at  all,  towards  unity,  he  might,  without 
omitting  those  "Lectures,"  or  any  "Note"  that 
had  value,  have  given  us  a  direct  Narrative, 
which,  if  it  had  wanted  the  line  of  Beauty, 
might  have  had  the  still  more  indispensable 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


199 


line  of  Regularity,  and  been,  at  all  events,  far 
shorter.  Till  Herr  Otto's  work  is  completed, 
we  cannot  speak  positively;  but, in  the  mean- 
while, we  must  say  that  it  wears  an  unpros- 
perous  aspect,  and  leaves  room  to  fear  that, 
after  all,  Richter's  Biography  may  still  long 
continue  a  problem.  As  for  ourselves,  in  this 
state  of  matters,  what  help,  towards  character- 
izing Jean  Paul's  practical  Life,  we  can  afford, 
is  but  a  few  slight  facts  gleaned  from  Herr 
Otto's  and  other  meaner  works ;  and  which, 
even  in  our  own  eyes,  are  extremely  insuf- 
ficient. 

Richter  was  born  at  Wonsiedel  in  Baireuth, 
in  the  year  1763;  and  as  his  birth-day  fell  on 
the  2 1st  of  March,  it  was  sometimes  wittily 
said  that  he  and  the  Spring  were  born  together. 
He.  himself  mentions  this,  and  with  a  laudable 
intention:  "this  epigrammatic  fact,"  says  he, 
"  that  I  the  Professor  and  the  Spring  came  into 
the  world  together,  I  have  indeed  brought  out 
a  hundred  times  in  conversation,  before  now; 
but  I  fire  it  off  here  purposely,  like  a  cannon- 
salute,  for  the  hundred  and  first  time,  that  so 
by  printing  I  may  ever  henceforth  be  unable 
to  offer  it  again  as  bonmot-bonbon,  when,  through 
the  Printer's  Devil,  it  has  already  been  pre- 
sented to  all  the  world."  Destiny,  he  seems 
to  think,  made  another  witticism  on  him;  the 
word  Richter  being  appellative  as  well  as  pro- 
per, in  the  German  tongue,  where  it  signifies 
Judge.  His  Christian  name,  Jean  Paul,  which 
long  passed  for  some  freak  of  his  own,  and  a 
pseudonym,  he  seems  to  have  derived  honest- 
ly enough,  from  his  maternal  grandfather, 
Johann  Paul  Kuhn,  a  substantial  cloth-maker, 
in  Hof;  only  translating  the  German  Johann 
into  the  French  Jean.  The  Richters,  for  at 
least  two  generations,  had  been  schoolmasters, 
or  very  subaltern  churchmen,  distinguished 
for  their  poverty  and  their  piety ;  the  grand- 
father, it  appears,  is  still  remembered  in  his 
little  circle,  as  a  man  of  quite  remarkable  in- 
nocence and  holiness ;  "  in  Neustadt,"  says 
his  descendant,  "  they  will  show  you  a  bench 
behind  the  organ,  where  he  knelt  on  Sundays, 
and  a  cave  he  had  made  for  himself  in  what 
is  called  the  Little  Culm,  where  he  was  wont 
to  pray."  Holding,  and  laboriously  discharg- 
ing, three  school  or  church  offices,  his  yearly 
income  scarcely  amounted  to  fifteen  pounds  : 
"  and  at  this  Hunger-fountain,  common  enough 
for  Baireuth  school-people,  the  man  stood 
thirty-five  years  long,  and  cheerfully  drew." 
Preferment  had  been  slow  in  visiting  him  :  but 
atlength, "it  came  to  pass,"  says  Paul,  "just 
in  my  birth-year,  that,  on  the  6th  of  August, 
probably  through  special  connections  with  the 
Higher  Powers,  he  did  obtain  one  of  the  most 
important  places;  in  comparison  with  which, 
truly,  Rectorate,  and  Town,  and  cave  in  the 
Culmberg,  were  well  worth  exchanging;  a 
place,  namely,  in  the  Neustadt  Churchyard.* — 
— His  good  wife  had  been  promoted  thither 
twenty  years  before  him.  My  parents  had  taken 

*  Oottcsacker  (God's-field,)  not  Kirchhof,  the  more 
common  ternj,  and  exactly  corresponding  to  ours,  is 
the  word  Richter  uses  here,— and  almost  always  else- 
where, which  in  his  writings  he  has  often  occasion 
to  do. 


me,  an  infant,  along  with  them  to  his  death- 
bed. He  was  in  the  act  of  departing,  when  a 
clergyman  (as  my  father  has  often  told  me) 
said  to  them :  Now,  let  the  old  Jacob  lay  his 
hand  on  the  child,  and  bless  him.  I  was  held 
into  the  bed  of  death,  and  he  laid  his  hand  oa 
my  head. — Thou  good  old  grandfather !  Often 
have  I  thought  of  thy  hand,  blessing  as  it  grew 
cold, — when  Fate  led  me  out  of  dark  hours 
into  clearer, — and  already  I  can  believe  in  thy 
blessing,  in  this  material  world,  whose  life, 
foundation,  and  essence  is  Spirit !" 

The  father,  who  at  this  time  occupied  the 
humble  post  of  Tertius,  (under  schoolmaster) 
and  Organist  at  Wonsiedel,  was  shortly  after- 
wards appointed  clergyman  in  the  hamlet  of 
Jodiz;  and  thence,  in  the  course  of  years, 
transferred  to  Schwarzenbach  on  the  Saale. 
He  too  was  of  a  truly  devout  disposition,  though 
combining  with  it  more  energy  of  character, 
and,  apparently,  more  general  talent;  being 
noted  in  his  neighbourhood  as  a  bold,  zealous 
preacher;  and  still  partially  known  to  the 
world,  we  believe,  for  some  meritorious  com- 
positions in  Church-music.  In  poverty  he 
cannot  be  said  to  have  altogether  equalled  his 
predecessor,  who  through  life  ate  nothing  but 
bread  and  beer ;  yet  poor  enough  he  was ; 
no  less  cheerful  than  poor.  The  thriving 
bufgher's  daughter,  whom  he  took  to  wife,  had, 
as  we  guess,  brought  no  money  with  her,  but 
only  habits  little  advantageous  for  a  school- 
master, or  parson ;  at  all  events,  the  worthy 
man,  frugal  as  his  household  was,  had  con- 
tinual difficulties,  and  even  died  in  debt.  Paul, 
who  in  those  days  was  called  Fritz,  narrates 
gaily,  how  his  mother  used  to  despatch  him  to 
Hof,  her  native  town,  with  a  provender  bag 
strapped  over  his  shoulders,  under  pretext  of 
purchasing  at  a  cheaper  rate  there ;  but  in 
reality  to  get  his  groceries  and  dainties  fur- 
nished gratis  by  his  grandmother.  He  was 
wont  to  kiss  his  grandfather's  hand  behind  the 
loom,  and  speak  with  him  ;  while  the  good  old 
lady,  parsimonious  to  all  the  world,  but  lavish 
to  her  own,  privily  filled  his  bag  with  the 
good  things  of  this  life,  and  even  gave  him 
almonds  for  himself,  which,  however,  he  kept 
for  a  friend.  One  other  little  trait,  quite  new 
in  ecclesiastical  annals,  we  must  here  com- 
municate. Paul,  in  summing  up  the  joys  of 
existence  at  Jodiz,  mentions  this  among  the 
number: 

"  In  Autumn  evenings  (and  though  the 
weather  were  bad)  the  Father  used  to  go  in  his 
night-gown,  with  Paul  and  Adam,  into  a  pota- 
toe-field  lying  over  the  Saale.  Theoneyounker 
carried  a  mattock,  the  other  a  hand-basket. 
Arrived  on  the  ground,  the  Father  set  to  dig- 
ging new  potatoes,  so  many  as  were  wanted 
for  supper;  Paul  gathered  them  from  the  bed 
into  the  basket,  whilst  Adam,  clambering  in 
the  hazel  thickets,  looked  out  for  the  best  nuts. 
After  a  time,  Adam  had  to  come  down  from 
his  boughs  into  the  bed,  and  Paul  in  his  turn  as- 
cended. And  thus,  with  potatoes  and  nuts, 
they  returned  contentedly  home  ;  and  the  plea- 
sure of  having  run  abroad,  some  mile  in  space, 
some  hour  in  time,  and  then  of  celebrating  the 
harvest-home,  by  caudle  light,  when  they  came 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


back, — let  every  one  paint  to  himself  as  bril- 
liantly as  the  receiver  thereof. " 

To  such  persons  as  argue  that  the  respecta- 
bility of  the  cloth  depends  on  its  price  at  the 
clothier's,  it  must  appear  surprising  that  a 
Protestant  clergyman,  who  not  only  was  in  no 
case  to  keep  fox-hounds,  but  even  saw  it  con- 
venient to  dig  his  own  potatoes,  should  not 
have  fallen  under  universal  odium,  and  felt  his 
usefulness  very  considerably  diminished.  No- 
thing of  this  kind,  however,  becomes  visible 
in  the  history  of  the  Jodiz  Parson :  we  find  him 
a  man  powerful  in  his  vocation ;  loved  and 
venerated  by  his  flock ;  nay,  associating  at 
will,  and  ever  as  an  honoured  guest,  with  the 
gentry  of  Voigtland,  not  indeed  in  the  cha- 
racter of  gentleman,  yet  in  that  of  priest, 
which  he  reckoned  far  higher.  Like  an  old 
Lutheran,  says  his  son,  he  believed  in  the 
great,  as  he  did  in  ghosts ;  but  without  any 
shade  of  fear.  The  truth  is,  the  man  had  a 
cheerful,  pure,  religious  heart ;  was  diligent 
in  business,  and  fervent  in  spirit:  and,  in  all 
the  relations  of  his  life,  found  this  well-nigh 
sufficient  for  him. 

To  our  Professor,  as  to  Poets  in  general,  the 
recollections  of  childhood  had  always  some- 
thing of  an  ideal,  almost  celestial  character. 
Often,  in  his  fictions,  he  describes  such  scenes, 
with  a  fond  minuteness ;  nor  is  poverty  any 
deadly,  or  even  unwelcome  ingredient  in  them. 
On  the  whole,  it  is'  not  by  money,  or  money's 
worth,  that  man  lives  and  has  his  being.  "  Is 
not  God's  Universe  within  our  head,  whether 
there  be  a  torn  scull-cap  or  a  king's  diadem 
without  ?  "  Let  no  one  imagine  that  Paul's 
young  years  were  unhappy  ;  still  less  that  he 
looks  back  on  them  in  a  lachrymose,  sentimen- 
tal manner,  with  the  smallest  symptom  either 
of  boasting  or  whining.  Poverty  of  a  far 
sterner  sort  than  this  would  have  been  a  light 
matter  to  him  ;  for  a  kind  mother.  Nature  her- 
self, had  already  provided  against  it;  and,  like 
the  mother  of  Achilles,  rendered  him  invul- 
nerable to  outward  things.  There  was  a  bold, 
deep,  joyful  spirit  looking  through  those  young 
eyes ;  and  to  such  a  spirit  the  world  has  no- 
thing poor,  but  all  is  rich,  and  full  of  loveli- 
ness and  wonder.  That  our  readers  may  glance 
with  us  into  this  foreign  Parsonage,  we  shall 
translate  some  paragraphs  from  Paul's  second 
Lecture,  and  thereby  furnish,  at  the  same  lime,  a 
specimen  of  his  professorial  style  and  temper. 
"  To  represent  the  Jodiz  life  of  our  Hans 
Paul, — for  by  this  name  we  shall  for  a  time 
distinguish  him,  yet  ever  changing  it  with 
others, — our  best  course,  I  believe,  will  be  to 
conduct  him  through  a  whole  Idyl-year;  divid- 
ing the  normal  year  into  four  seasons,  as  so 
many  quarterly  Idyls ;  four  Idyls  exhaust  his 
happiness. 

"  For  the  rest,  let  no  one  marvel  at  finding 
an  Idyl-kingdom  and  pastoral-world  in  a  little 
hamlet  and  parsonage.  In  the  smallest  bed 
you  can  raise  a  tulip-tree,  which  shall  extend 
its  flowery  boughs  over  all  the  garden  ;  and  the 
life-breath  of  joy  can  be  inhaled  as  well  through 
a  window,  as  in  the  open  wood  and  sky.  Nay, 
is  not  Man's  Spirit  (with  all  its  infinite  celes- 
tial-spaces) walled  in  within  a  six-feet  Body, 
with  integuments,  and  Malpighian  mucuses, 


and  capillary  tubes ;  and  has  only  five  strait 
world-windows,  of  Senses,  to  open  for  the 
boundless,  round-eyed,  round-sunned  All; — 
and  yet  it  discerns  and  reproduces  an  All ! 

"  Scarcely  do  I  know  with  which  of  the  four 
quarterly  Idyls  to  begin  ;  for  each  is  a  little 
heavenly  forecourt  to  the  next :  however,  the 
climax  of  joys,  if  we  start  with  Winter  and 
January,  will  perhaps  be  most  apparent.  In  the 
cold,  our  Father  had  commonly,  like  an  Alpine 
herdsman,  come  down  from  the  upper  altitude 
of  his  study ;  and,  to  the  joy  of  the  children, 
was  dwelling  on  the  plain  of  the  general  fami- 
ly-room. In  the  morning,  he  sat  by  a  window, 
committing  his  Sunday's  sermon  to  memory; 
and  the  three  sons,  Fritz,  (who  I  myself  am,) 
and  Adam,  and  Gottlieb,  carried,  by  turns,  the 
full  cofl[ee-cup  to  him,  and  still  more  gladly 
carried  back  the  empty  one,  because  the  car- 
rier was  then  entitled  to  pick  the  unmelted  re- 
mains of  the  sugar-candy  (taken  against 
cough)  from  the  bottom  thereof.  Out  of  doors, 
truly,  the  sky  covered  all  things  with  silence ; 
the  brook  with  ice,  the  village  with  snow :  but 
in  our  room,  there  was  life  :  under  the  stove  a 
pigeon-establishment ;  on  the  windows,  finch 
cages ;  on  the  floor  the  invincible  bull  brach, 
our  Bonne,  the  night-guardian  of  the  court- 
yard ;  and  a  poodle,  and  the  pretty  Scharmantel, 
(Poll,)  a  present  from  the  Lady  von  Plotho ; — 
and  close  by,  the  kitchen,  with  two  maids ;  and 
farther  off",  against  the  other  end  of  the  house, 
our  stable,  with  all  sorts  of  bovine,  swinish, 
and  feathered  cattle,  and  their  noises ;  the 
threshers,  with  their  flails,  also  at  work  within 
the  court-yard,  I  might  reckon  as  another  item. 
In  this  way,  with  nothing  but  society  on  all 
hands,  the  whole  male  portion  of  the  house- 
hold easily  spent  their  fore-noon  in  tasks  of 
memory,  not  far  from  the  female  portion,  as 
busily  employed  in  cooking. 

"  Holidays  occur  in  every  occupation  ;  thus 
I  too  had  my  airing  holidays, — analogous  to  wa- 
tering holidays, — so  that  I  could  travel  out  in  the 
snow  of  the  court-yard,  and  to  the  barn  with  its 
threshing.  Nay,  was  there  a  delicate  embassy  to 
be  transacted  in  the  village, — for  example,  to  the 
schoolmaster,  to  the  tailor, — I  was  sure  to  be  de- 
spatched thither  in  the  middle  of  my  lessons :  and 
thus  I  still  got  forth  into  the  open  air  and  the  cold, 
and  measured  myself  with  the  new  snow.  At 
noon,  before  our  own  dinner,  we  children  might 
also,  in  the  kitchen,  have  the  hungry  satisfaction 
to  see  the  threshers  fall  to  and  consume  their 
victuals. 

"  The  afternoon,  again,  was  still  more  im- 
portant, and  richer  in  joys.  Winter  shortened 
and  sweetened  our  lessons.  In  the  long  dusk, 
our  Father  walked  to  and  fro ;  and  the  chil- 
dren, according  to  ability,  trotted  under  his 
night-gown,  holding  by  his  hands.  At  sound 
of  the  Vesper  bell,  we  placed  ourselves  in  a 
circle,  and  in  concert  devotionaliy  chanted  the 
hymn,  Die  finstre  Nacht  bricht  stark  herein,  (The 
gloomy  Night  is  gathering  round.)  Only  in 
villages,  not  in  towns,  where  properly  there  is 
more  night  than  day  labour,  have  the  evening 
chimes  a  meaning  and  beauty,  and  are  the 
swan-song  of  the  day :  the  evening-bell  is  as 
it  were  the  mufiie  of  the  over  loud  heart,  and 
like  a  ranee  des  vaches  of  the  plains,  calls  men 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER, 


201 


from  their  running  and  toiling,  into  the  land 
of  silence  and  dreams.  After  a  pleasant  watch- 
ing about  the  kitchen  door,  for  the  moonrise 
of  candle-light,  we  saw  our  wide  room  at  once 
illuminated  and  barricaded;  to  wit,  the  window 
shutters  were  closed  and  bolted ;  and  behind 
these  window  bastions  and  breast-works,  the 
child  felt  himself  snugly  nestled,  and  well  se- 
cured against  Knecht  Ruprecht,*  who  on  the 
outside  could  not  get  in,  but  only  in  vain  keep 
growling  and  humming. 

"  About  this  period  too  it  was  that  we  chil- 
dren might  undress,  and  in  long  train-shirts 
skip  up  and  down.  Idyllic  joys  of  various 
sorts  alternated :  our  Father  either  had  his 
quarto  Bible,  interleaved  with  blank  folio 
sheets,  before  him,  and  was  marking,  at  each 
verse,  the  book  wherein  he  had  read  any  thing 
concerning  it; — or  more  commonly  he  had  his 
ruled  music-paper ;  and,  undisturbed  by  this 
racketting  of  children,  was  composing  whole 
concerts  of  church-music,  with  all  their  divi- 
sions ;  constructing  his  internal  melody  with- 
out any  help  of  external  tones,  (as  Reichard 
too  advises,)  or  rather,  in  spite  of  all  external 
mistones.  In  both  cases,  in  the  last  with  the 
more  pleasure,  I  looked  on  as  he  wrote  ;  and 
rejoiced  specially,  when,  by  pauses  of  various 
instruments,  whole  pages  were  at  once  filled 
up.  The  children  all  sat  sporting  on  that  long 
writing  and  eating  table,  or  even  under  it.  *** 
"Then,  at  length,  how  did  the  winter  even- 
ing, once  a  week,  mount  in  worth,  when  the 
old  errand-woman,  coated  in  snow,  with  her 
fruit,  flesh,  and  general  ware  basket,  entered 
the  kitchen  from  Hof;  and  we  all,  in  this  case, 
had  the  distant  town  in  miniature  before  our 
eyes,  nay,  before  our  noses,  for  there  were 
pastry  cakes  In  it !" 

Thus  in  dull  winter  imprisonment,  among 
all  manner  of  bovine,  swinish,  and  feathered 
cattle,  with  their  noises,  may  Idyllic  joys  be 
found,  if  there  is  an  eye  to  see  them,  and  a 
heart  to  taste  them.  Truly  happiness  is  cheap, 
did  we  apply  to  the  right  merchant  for  it.  Paul 
warns  us  elsewhere  not  to  believe,  for  these 
Idyls,  that  there  were  no  sour  days,  no  chidings, 
and  the  like,  at  Jodiz :  yet,  on  the  whole,  he 
had  good  reason  to  rejoice  in  his  parents.  They 
loved  him  well;  his  Father,  he  says,  would 
"shed  tears"  over  any  mark  of  quickness  or 
talent  in  little  Fritz:  they  were  virtuous  also, 
and  devout,  which,  after  all,  is  better  than  being 
rich.  "Ever  and  anon,"  says  he,  "I  was 
hearing  some  narrative  from  biy  Father,  how 
he  and  other  clergymen  had  taken  parts  of 
their  dress  and  given  them  to  the  poor;  he  re- 
lated these  things  with  joy,  not  as  an  admoni- 
tion, but  merely  as  a  necessary  occurrence: 
O  God  !  I  thank  Thee  for  my  Father  !" 

Richter's  education  was  not  of  a  more  sump- 
tuous sort  than  his  board  and  lodging.  Some 
disagreement  with  the  Schoolmaster  at  Jodiz 
had  induced  the  Parson  to  take  his  sons  from 
school,  and  determine  to  teach  them  himself. 
This  determination  he  executed  faithfully  in- 
deed, yet  in  the  most  limited  style;  his  method 
being  no  Pestalozzian  one,  but  simply  the  old 
scheme  of  task-work  and  force-work,  operating 

♦  The  Rawhead  (with  bloody  bones)  of  Germany. 
26 


on  a  Latin  grammar  and  a  Latin  vocabulary : 
and  the  two  boys  sat  all  day,  and  all  year,  at 
home,  without  other  preceptorial  nourishment 
than  getting  by  heart  long  lists  of  words.  Fritz 
learned  honestly  nevertheless,  and  in  spite  of 
his  brother  Adam's  bad  example.  For  the 
rest,  he  was  totally  destitute  of  books,  except 
such  of  his  Father's  theological  ones  as  he 
could  come  at  by  stealth :  these,  for  want  of 
better,  he  eagerly  devoured ;  understanding,  as 
he  says,  nothing  whatever  of  their  contents. 
With  no  less  impetuosity,  and  no  less  profit, 
he  perused  the  antiquated  sets  of  Newspapers, 
which  a  kind  patroness,  the  Lady  von  Plotho, 
already  mentioned,  was  in  the  habit  of  furnish- 
ing to  his  Father,  not  in  separate  sheets,  but  in 
sheaves  monthly.  This  was  the  extent  of  his 
reading.  Jodiz  too  was  the  most  sequestered 
of  all  hamlets ;  had  neither  natural  nor  artifi- 
cial beauty;  no  memorable  thing  could  be  seeu 
there,  in  a  lifetime.  Nevertheless,  under  an 
immeasurable  Sky,  and  in  a  quite  wondrous 
World  it  did  stand  ;  and  glimpses  into  the  in- 
finite spaces  of  the  Universe,  and  even  into 
the  infinite  spaces  of  Man's  Soul,  could  be  had 
there  as  well  as  elsewhere.  Fritz  had  his  own 
thoughts,  in  spite  of  schoolmasters  :  a  little 
heavenly  seed  of  Knowledge,  nay  of  Wisdom, 
had  been  laid  in  him,  and  with  no  gardener, 
but  Nature  herself,  it  was  silently  growing. 
To  some  of  our  readers,  the  following  circum- 
stance may  seem  unparalleled,  if  not  unintel- 
ligible ;  to  others  nowise  so : 

"  In  the  future  Literary  History  of  our  hero, 
it  will  become  doubtful  whether  he  was  not  born 
more  for  Philosophy  than  for  Poetry.  In  ear- 
liest times,  the  word  Weltweisheit,  (Philosophy, 
World-nnsdom,) — yet  also  another  word,  Morgeti' 
land,  (East,  Morning-land,) — was  to  me  an  open 
Heaven's-gate,  through  which  I  looked  in,  over 
long,  long  gardens  of  joy. — Never  shall  I  forget 
that  inward  occurrence,  till  now  narrated  to  no 
mortal,  wherein  I  witnessed  the  birth  of  my 
Self-consciousness,  of  which  I  can  still  give 
the  place  and  time.  One  forenoon,  I  was 
standing,  a  very  young  child,  in  the  outer  door, 
and  looking  leftward  at  the  stack  of  fuel  wood, 
— when,  all  at  once  the  internal  vision, — I  am 
a  Me,  (ich  bin  ein  Ich,)  came  like  a  flash  from 
heaven  before  me,  and  in  gleaming  light  ever 
afterwards  continued :  then  had  my  Me,  for  the 
first  time,  seen  itself,  and  for  ever.  Deceptions 
of  memory  are  scarcely  conceivable  here;  for, 
in  regard  to  an  event  occurring  altogether  in 
the  veiled  Holy-of-Holies  of  man,  and  whose 
novelty  alone  has  given  permanence  to  such 
everyday  recollections  accompanying  it,  no 
posterior  description  from  another  party  would 
have  mingled  itself  with  accompanying  cir- 
cumstances at  all." 

It  was  in  his  thirteenth  year  that  the  family 
removed  to  that  better  church-living  at  Schwar- 
zenbach ;  with  which  change,  so  far  as  school 
education  was  concerned,  prospects  consider- 
ably brightened  for  him.  The  public- Teacher 
there  was  no  deep  scholar  or  thinker,  yet  a 
lively,  genial  man,  and  warmly  interested  in 
his  pupils ;  among  whom  he  soon  learned  to 
distinguish  Fritz,  as  a  boy  of  altogether  supe- 
rior gifts.  What  was  of  still  more  importance, 
Fritz  now  got  access  to  books ;  entered  into  a 


202 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


coarse  of  highly  miscellaneous,  self-selected 
reading;  and  what  with  Romances,  what  with 
Belles-Lettres  works,  and  Hutchesonian  Phi- 
losophy, and  controversial  Divinity,  saw  an 
astonishing  scene  opening  round  him  on  all 
hands.  His  Latin  and  Greek  were  now  better 
taught;  he  even  began  learning  Hebrew.  Two 
clergymen  of  the  neighbourhood  took  pleasure 
in  his  company,  young  as  he  was ;  and  were 
of  great  service  now  and  afterwards :  it  was 
under  their  auspices  that  he  commenced  com- 
position, and  also  speculating  on  Theology, 
wherein  he  "inclined  strongly  to  the  heterodox 
side." 

In  the  *' family  room,"  however,  things  were 
not  nearly  so  flourishing.  The  Professor's 
three  Lectures  terminate  before  this  date;  but 
we  gather  from  his  Notes  that  surly  clouds 
hung  over  Schwarzenbach,  that  "his  evil  days 
began  there."  The  Father  was  engaged  in 
more  complex  duties  than  formerly,  went  often 
from  home,  was  encumbered  with  debt,  and 
lost  his  former  cheerfulness  of  humour.  For 
his  sons  he  saw  no  outlet  except  the  hereditary 
craft  of  School-keeping;  and  let  the  matter 
rest  there,  taking  little  farther  charge  of  them. 
In  some  three  years,  the  poor  man,  worn  down 
with  manifold  anxieties,  departed  this  life ; 
leaving  his  pecuniary  affairs,  which  he  had 
long  calculated  on  rectifying  by  the  better  in- 
come of  Schwarzenbach,  sadly  deranged. 

Meanwhile,  Friedrich  had  been  sent  to  the 
Hof  Gymnasium,  (Town-school,)  where,  not- 
withstanding this  event,  he  continued  some 
time,  two  years  in  all,  apparently  the  most  pro- 
fitable period  of  his  whole  tuition  ;  indeed,  the 
only  period  when,  properly  speaking,  he  had 
any  tutor  but  himself.  The  good  old  cloth- 
making  grandfather  and  grandmother  took 
charge  of  him,  under  their  roof;  and  he  had  a 
body  of  teachers,  all  notable  in  their  way. 
Herr  Otto  represents  him  as  a  fine,  trustful, 
kindly,  yet  resolute  youth,  who  went  through 
his  persecutions,  preferments,  studies,  friend- 
ships, and  other  school-destinies  in  a  highly 
creditable  manner ;  and  demonstrates  this,  at 
great  length,  by  various  details  of  facts,  far  too 
minute  for  insertion  here.  As  a  trait  of  Paul's 
intellectual  habitudes,  it  may  be  mentioned 
that,  at  this  time,  he  scarcely  made  any  pro- 
gress in  History  or  Geography,  much  as  he 
profited  in  all  other  branches ;  nor  was  the 
dull  teacher  entirely  to  blame,  but  also  the  in- 
disposed pupil :  imieed,  it  was  not  till  long 
afterwards,  that  he  overcame  or  suppressed 
his  contempt  for  those  studies,  and  with  an 
effort  of  his  own  acquired  some  skill  in  them.* 
The  like  we  have  heard  of  other  Poets  and 
Philosophers,  especially  when  their  teachers 
chanced  to  be  prosaists  and  unphilosophical. 
Richter  boasts  that  he  was  never  punished  at 
school;   yet  between  him  and  the  Historico- 


*  "  All  History,"  thus  he  writes  in  his  thirty-second 
year,  "in  so  far  as  it  is  an  affair  of  memory,  can  only  be 
reckoned  a  sapless,  heartless,  thistle  for  pedantic  chaf- 
finches ;— but,  on  the  other  hand,  like  Nature,  it  has  high- 
est value,  in  as  far  as  we,  by  means  of  it,  as  by  means 
of  Nature,  can  divine  and  read  the  Infinite  Spirit,  who, 
with  Nature  and  History,  as  with  letters,  legibly  writes 
to  us.  He  Avho  finds  a  God  in  the  physical  world,  will 
also  find  one  in  the  moral,  which  is  History.  Nature 
forcei  on  our  heart  a  Creator ;  History,  a  Providence." 


geographical  Conrector(Second  Master)  no  good 
understanding  could  subsist.  On  one  tragi- 
comical occasion,  of  another  sort,  they  came 
into  still  more  decided  collision.  The  zealous 
Conrector,  a  most  solid,  painstaking  man, 
desirous  to  render  his  Gymnasium  as  like  a 
University  as  possible,  had  imagined  that  a 
series  of  "Disputations,"  some  foreshadow  of 
those  held  at  College,  might  be  a  useful,  as 
certainly  enough  it  would  be  an  ornamental 
thing.  By  ill  luck,  the  worthy  President  had 
selected  some  church-article  for  the  theme  of 
such  a  Disputation:  one  boy  was  to  defend, 
and  it  fell  to  Paul's  lot  to  impugn  the  dogma,  a 
task  which,  as  hinted  above,  he  was  very  spe- 
cially qualified  to  undertake.  Now,  honest 
Paul  knew  nothing  of  the  limits  of  this  game ; 
never  dreamt  but  he  might  argue  with  his 
whole  strength,  to  whatever  results  it  might 
lead.  In  a  very  few  rounds,  accordingly,  his 
antagonist  was  borne  out  of  the  ring,  as  good 
as  lifeless ;  and  the  Conrector  himself,  seeing 
the  danger,  had,  as  it  were,  to  descend  from 
his  presiding  chair,  and  clap  the  gauntlets  on 
his  own  more  experienced  hands.  But  Paul, 
nothing  daunted,  gave  him  also  a  Rowland  for 
an  Oliver;  nay,  as  it  became  more  and  more 
manifest  to  all  eyes,  was  fast  reducing  him 
also  to  the  frightfullest  extremity.  The  Con- 
rector's  tongue  threatened  cleaving  to  the  roof 
of  his  mouth  ;  for  his  brain  was  at  a  stand,  or 
whirling  in  eddies,  only  his  gall  was  in  active 
play.  Nothing  remained  for  him  but  to  close 
the  debate  abruptly  by  a  "  Silence,  Sirrah  !" — 
and  leave  the  room,  with  a  face  (like  that  of 
the  much  more  famous  Subrector  Hans  von 
Fiichslein)*  "of  a  mingled  colour,  like  red 
bole,  green  chalk,  tinsel-yellow,  and  vomisse- 
ment  de  la  reinc." 

With  his  studies  in  the  Leipzig  University, 
whither  he  proceeded  in  1781,  begins  a  far 
more  important  era  for  Paul ;  properly,  the  era 
of  his  manhood,  and  first  entire  dependence  on 
himself.  In  regard  to  literary  or  scientific 
culture,  it  is  not  clear  that  he  derived  much 
furtherance  from  Leipzig;  much  more,  at  least, 
than  the  mere  neighbourhood  of  libraries  and 
fellow-learners  might  anywhere  else  have  af- 
forded him.  Certain  professorial  courses  he 
did  attend,  and  with  diligence ;  but  too  much 
in  the  character  of  critic,  as  well  as  of  pupil : 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  "measuring  minds" 
with  men  so  much  older  and  more  honourable 
than  he ;  and  ere  long,  his  respect  for  many  of 
them  had  not  a  little  abated.  What  his  ori- 
ginal plan  of  studies  was,  or  whether  he  had 
any  fixed  plan,  we  do  not  learn ;  at  Hof,  without 
election  or  rejection  on  his  own  part,  he  had 
been  trained  with  some  view  to  Theology  ;  but 
this  and  every  other  professional  view  soon 
faded  away  in  Leipzig,  owing  to  a  variety  of 
causes ;  and  Richter,  now  still  more  decidedly 
a  self-teacher,  broke  loose  from  all  corporate 
guilds  whatsoever,  and  in  intellectual  culture, 
as  in  other  respects,  endeavoured  to  seek  out 
a  basis  of  his  own.  He  read  multitudes  of 
books,  and  wrote  down  whole  volumes  of  ex- 
cerpts, and  private  speculations  ;  labouring  in 
all  directions  with  insatiable  eagerness ;   but 


*  See  ^uintus  Fixlein,  c.  7. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


203 


fVom  the  University  he  derived  little  guidance, 
and  soon  came  to  expect  little.  Ernesti,  the 
only  truly  eminent  man  of  the  place,  had  died 
shortly  after  Paul's  arrival  there. 

Nay,  it  was  necessity  as  well  as  choice  that 
detached  him  from  professions :  he  had  not  the 
means  to  enter  any.  Quite  another  and  far 
more  pressing  set  of  cares  lay  around  him  : 
not  how  he  could  live  easily  in  future  years, 
but  how  he  could  live  at  all  in  the  present,  was 
the  grand  question  with  him.  Whatever  it 
might  be  in  regard  to  intellectual  matters,  cer- 
tainly in  regard  to  moral  matters,  Leipzig  was 
his  true  seminary,  where,  with  many  stripes. 
Experience  taught  him  the  wisest  lessons.  It 
was  here  that  he  first  saw  Poverty,  not  in  the 
shape  of  Parsimony,  but  in  the  far  sterner  one 
of  actual  Want;  and,  unseen  and  single- 
handed,  wrestling  with  Fortune  for  life  and 
death,  first  proved  what  a  rugged,  deep-rooted, 
indomitable  strength,  under  such  genial  soft- 
ness, dwelt  in  him;  and  from  a  buoyant  cloud- 
capt  Youth,  perfected  himself  into  a  clear,  free, 
benignant  and  lofty-minded  Man. 

Meanwhile  the  steps  toward  such  a  consum- 
mation were  painful  enough.  His  old  School- 
master at  Schwarzenbach,  himself  a  Leipziger, 
had  been  wont  to  assure  him  that  he  might  live 
for  nothing  in  Leipzig,  so  easily  were  "  free- 
tables,"  "  stipendia,'"  Tphvate  teaching,  and  the 
like,  to  be  procured  there,  by  youths  of  merit. 
That  Richter  was  of  this  latter  species,  the 
Rector  of  the  Hof  Gymnasium  bore  honour- 
able witness  ;  inviting  the  Leipzig  dignitaries, 
in  his  Testimonium,  to  try  the  candidate  them- 
selves ;  and  even  introducing  him  in  person 
(for  the  two  had  travelled  together)  to  various 
influential  men:  but  all  these  things  availed 
him  nothing.  The  Professors  he  found  be- 
leaguered by  a  crowd  of  needy  sycophants, 
diligent  in  season,  and  out  of  season,  whose 
whole  tactics  were  too  loathsome  to  him ;  on 
all  hands,  he  heard  the  sad  saying:  Lipsia  vult 
expcctari,  Leipzig  preferments  must  be  waited 
for.  Now,  waiting  was  of  all  things  the  most 
inconvenient  for  poor  Richter.  In  his  pocket 
he  had  little;  friends,  except  one  fellow-student, 
he  had  none;  and  at  home  the  finance  depart- 
ment had  fallen  into  a  state  of  total  perplexity, 
fast  verging  towards  final  ruin.  The  worthy 
old  Cloth-Manufacturer  was  now  dead ;  his 
wife  soon  followed  him  :  and  the  Widow  Rich- 
ter, her  favourite  daughter,  who  had  removed 
to  Hof,  though  against  the  advice  of  all  her 
friends,  that  she  might  be  near  her,  now  stood 
alone  there,  with  a  young  family,  and  in  the 
most  forlorn  situation.  She  was  appointed 
chief  heir,  indeed ;  but  former  benefactions  had 
left  far  less  to  inherit  than  had  been  expected; 
nay,  the  other  relatives  contested  the  whole 
arrangement,  and  she  had  to  waste  her  remain- 
ing substance  in  lawsuits,  scarcely  realizing 
from  it,  in  the  shape  of  borrowed  pittances  and 
by  forced  sales,  enough  to  supply  her  with 
daily  bread.  Nor  was  it  poverty  alone  that 
she  had  to  sufier,  but  contumely  no  less  ;  the 
Hof  public  openly  finding  her  guilty  of  Un- 
thrift,  and,  instead  of  assistance,  repeating  to 
her  dispraise,  over  their  coffee,  the  old  proverb, 
**  Hard  got,  soon  gone  ;"  for  which  all  evils  she 
had  no  remedy  but  loud  complainings  to  Hea- 


ven and  Earth.  The  good  woman,  with  the 
most  honest  dispositions,  seems,  in  fact,  to  have 
had  but  a  small  share  of  wisdom :  far  too  small 
for  her  present  trying  situation.  Herr  Otto 
says  that  Richter's  portraiture  of  Lenette,in  the 
Elume7i'Frucht  und  iJor?ie)i-Siiicke,  (Flower,Fruity 
and  Thorn  Pieces,)  contains  many  features  of 
his  mother:  Lenette  is  of  "an  upright,  but 
common  and  limited  nature  ;"  assiduous,  even 
to  excess,  in  sweeping  and  scouring:  true- 
hearted,  religious  in  her  way,  yet  full  of  dis- 
contents, suspicion,  and  headstrong  whims  :  a 
spouse  for  ever  plagued  and  plaguing;  as  the 
brave  Sebastian  Siebenkils,  that  true  Diogenes 
of  impoverished  Poors'-Advocates,  often  felt, 
to  his  cost,  beside  her.  Widow  Richter's 
family,  as  well  as  her  fortune,  was  under  bad 
government,  and  sinking  into  lower  and  lower 
degradation :  Adam,  the  brother,  mentioned 
above,  as  Paul's  yokefellow  in  Latin  and 
potatoe-digging,  had  now  fallen  away  even 
from  the  humble  pretension  of  being  a  School- 
master, or,  indeed,  of  being  any  thing ;  for,  after 
various  acts  of  vagrancy,  he  had  enlisted  in  a 
marching  regiment;  with  which,  or  in  other 
devious  courses,  he  marched  on,  and  only  the 
grand  billet-master.  Death,  found  him  fixed 
quarters.  The  Richter  establishment  had  part- 
ed from  its  old  moorings,  and  was  now,  with 
wind  and  tide,  fast  drifting  towards  fatal  whirl- 
pools. 

In  this  state  of  matters,  the  scarcity  of  Leip- 
zig could  nowise  be  supplied  from  the  fulness 
of  Hof:  but  rather  the  two  households  stood 
like  concave  mirrors  reflecting  one  another's 
keen  hunger  into  a  still  keener  for  both.  What 
outlook  was  there  for  the  poor  Philosopher  of 
nineteen  1  Even  his  meagre  "  bread  and  milk** 
could  not  be  had  for  nothing  ;  it  became  a  se- 
rious consideration  for  him  that  the  shoe- 
maker, who  was  to  sole  his  boots,  "did  not 
trust."  Far  from  aflTording  him  any  sufficient 
moneys,  his  straitened  mother  would  willingly 
have  made  him  borrow  for  her  own  wants ; 
and  was  incessantly  persuading  him  to  get 
places  for  his  brothers.  Richter  felt,  too,  that 
except  himself,  desolate,  helpless  as  he  was, 
those  brothers,  that  old  mother,  had  no  stay  on 
earth.  There  are  men  with  whom  it  is  as 
with  Schiller's  Friedland :  "Night  must  it  be 
ere  Friedland's  star  will  beam."  On  this  for- 
saken youth  Fortune  seemed  to  have  let  loose 
her  bandogs,  and  hungry  Ruin  had  him  in  the 
wind ;  without  was  no  help,  no  counsel :  but 
there  lay  a  giant  force  within ;  and  so  from 
the  depths  of  that  sorrow  and  abasement,  his 
better  soul  rose  purified  and  invincible,  like 
Hercules  from  his  long  Labours.  A  high, 
cheerful  Stoicism  grew  up  in  the  man.  Po- 
verty, Pain,  and  all  Evil,  he  learned  to  regard, 
not  as  what  they  seemed,  but  as  what  they 
were;  he  learned  to  despise  them,  nay,  in  kind 
mockery  to  sport  with  them,  as  with  bright- 
spotted  wild  beasts  which  he  had  tamed  and 
harnessed.  "  What  is  Poverty,"  said  he,  "  who 
is  the  man  that  whines  under  it  ?  The  pain 
is  but  as  that  of  piercing  the  ears  of  a  maiden, 
and  you  hang  jewels  in  the  wound."  Dark 
thoughts  he  had,  but  they  settled  into  no  abid- 
ing gloom:  "sometimes,"  says  Otto,  "he 
would  wave  his  finger  across  his  brow,  as  il" 


204 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


driving  back  some  hostile  series  of  ideas ;" 
and  farther  complaint  he  did  not  utter.*  Dur- 
ing this  sad  period,  he  wrote  out  for  himself 
a  little  manual  of  practical  philosophy,  nam- 
ing It  Jndachtsbuch,  (Book  of  Devotion,)  which 
contains  such  maxims  as  these  : 

"  Every  unpleasant  feeling  is  a  sign  that  I 
have  become  untrue  to  my  resolutions. — 
Epictetus  was  not  unhappy. — 

"  Not  chance,  but  I  am  to  blame  for  my  suf- 
ferings. 

"  It  were  an  impossible  miracle  if  none  be- 
fel  thee :  look  for  their  coming,  therefore ; 
each  day  make  thyself  sure  of  many. 

"  Say  not,  were  my  sorrows  other  than  these, 
I  should  bear  them  better. 

"  Think  of  the  host  of  Worlds,  and  of  the 
plagues  on  this  World-mote. — Death  puts  an 
end  to  the  whole. — 

"  For  virtue's  sake  I  am  here  :  but  if  a  man, 
for  his  task,  forgets  and  sacrifices  all,  why 
shouldst  not  thou  1 — 

"  Expect  injuries,  for  men  are  weak,  and 
thou  thyself  doest  such  too  often. 

"  Mollify  thy  heart  by  painting  out  the  suf- 
ferings of  thy  enemy ;  think  of  him  as  of  one 
spiritually  sick,  who  deserves  sympathy. — 

"Most  men  judge  so  badly;  why  wouldst 
thou  be  praised  by  a  child? — No  one  would 
respect  thee  in  a  beggar's  coat:  what  is  a 
respect  that  is  paid  to  woollen  cloth,  not  to 
tlieer 

These  are  wise  maxims  for  so  young  a  man  ; 
but  what  was  wiser  still,  he  did  not  rest  satis- 
fied with  mere  maxims,  which,  how  true  so- 
ever, are  only  a  dead  letter,  till  Action  first 
gives  them  life  and  worth.  Besides  devout 
prayer  to  the  gods,  he  set  his  own  shoulder  to 
the  wheel.  "  Evil,"  says  he,  "  is  like  a  night- 
mare ;  the  instant  you  begin  to  strive  with  it, 
to  bestir  yourself,  it  has  already  ended."  With- 
out farther  parleying,  there  as  he  stood,  Rich- 
ter  grappled  with  his  Pate,  and  resolutely 
determined  on  self-help.  His  means,  it  is 
true,  were  of  the  most  unpromising  sort,  yet 
the  only  means  he  had:  the  writing  of  Books  ! 
He  forthwith  commenced  writing  them.  The 
Chronldndische  Prozesse,  (Greenland  Lawsuits,)  a 
collection  of  satirical  sketches,  full  of  wild, 
gay  wit,  and  keen  insight,  was  composed  in 
that  base  environment  of  his,  with  unpaid 
milkscores  and  unsoled  boots  ;  and  even  still 
survives,  though  the  Author,  besides  all  other 
disadvantages,  was  then  only  in  his  nineteenth 
year.  But  the  heaviest  part  of  the  business 
yet  remained ;  that  of  finding  a  purchaser  and 
publisher.  Richter  tried  all  Leipzig  with  his 
manuscript,  in  vain ;  to  a  man,  with  that  total 
contempt  of  Grammar  which  Jedediah  Cleish- 
botham  also  complains  of,  they  "  declined  the 
article"  Paul  had  to  stand  by,  as  so  many 
have  done,  and  see  his  sunbeams  weighed  on 
hay-scales,  and  the  hay-balance  give  no  symp- 
toms of  moving.  But  Paul's  heart  moved  as 
little  as  the  balance ;  Leipzig  being  now  ex- 

*In  bodily  pain,  he  was  wont  to  show  the  like  endur- 
ance and  indifference.  At  one  period  of  his  life,  he  had 
violent  headaches,  which  forced  him,  for  the  sake  of  a 
elight  alleviation,  to  keep  his  head  perfectly  erect ;  you 
might  see  him  talking  with  a  calm  face,  and  all  his  old 
gaiety,  and  only  known  by  this  posture  that  he  was  suf- 
fering. 


hausted,  the  World  was  all  before  him  where 
to  try;  he  had  nothing  for  it,  but  to  search  till 
he  found,  or  till  he  died  searching.  One  Voss 
of  Berlin  at  length  bestirred  himself;  accepted, 
printed  the  Book,  and  even  gave  him  sixteen 
Louis  (Vor  for  it.  What  a  Potosi  was  here  !  Paul 
determined  to  be  an  author  henceforth,  and 
nothing  but  an  author ;  now  that  his  soul 
might  even  be  kept  in  his  body  by  that  trade. 
His  mother,,  hearing  that  he  had  written  a 
book,  thought  that  perhaps  he  could  even 
write  a  sermon,  and  was  for  his  coming  down 
to  preach  in  the  High  Church  of  Hof.  "  What 
is  a  sermon,"  said  Paul,  "  which  every  mise- 
rable student  can  spout  forth  ?  Or,  think  you, 
there  is  a  parson  in  Hof  that,  not  to  speak  of 
writing  my  Book,  can,  in  the  smallest  degree, 
understand  it  1" 

But  unfortunately  his  Potosi  was  like  other 
mines;  the  metalliferous  vein  did  not  last; 
what  miners  call  a  shift  or  trouble  occurred  in 
it,  and  now  there  was  nothing  but  hard  rock 
to  hew  on.  The  Gronldndische  Prozesse,  though 
printed,  did  not  sell ;  the  public  was  in  quest 
of  pap  and  treacle,  not  of  fierce  curry  like 
this.  The  Reviewing  world  mostly  passed  it 
by  without  notice ;  one  poor  dog  in  Leipzig 
even  lifted  up  his  leg  over  it.  "  For  any  thing 
we  know,"  saith  he,  "  much,  if  not  all  of  what 
the  Author  here,  in  bitter  tone,  sets  forth  on 
book-making,  theologians,  women,  and  so  on, 
may  be  true  ;  but  throughout  the  whole  work, 
the  determination  to  be  witty  acts  on  him  so 
strongly,  that  we  cannot  doubt  but  his  book 
will  excite  in  all  rational  readers  so  much  dis- 
gust, that  they  will  see  themselves  constrained 
to  close  it  again  without  delay."  And  here- 
with the  ill-starred  quadruped  passes  on,  as  if 
nothing  special  had  happened.  "  Singular  !" 
adds  Herr  Otto,  "  this  review,  which,  at  the 
time  pretended  to  some  ephemeral  atten- 
tion, and  likely  enough  obtained  it,  would 
have  fallen  into  everlasting  oblivion,  had  not 
its  connection  with  that  very  work,  which 
every  rational  reader  was  to  close  again,  or  ra- 
ther never  to  open,  raised  it  up  for  a  moment !" 
One  moment,  say  we,  is  enough :  let  it  drop 
again  into  that  murky  pool,  and  sink  there  to 
endless  depths ;  for  all  flesh,  and  reviewer- 
flesh  too,  is  fallible  and  pardonable. 

Richter's  next  Book  was  soon  ready ;  but,  in 
this  position  of  affairs,  no  man  would  buy  it. 
The  Selection  from  the  Papers  of  the  Devil,  such 
was  its  wonderful  title,  lay  by  him,  on  quite 
another  principle  than  the  Horatian  one,  for 
seven  long  years.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  ex- 
hibited, and  corresponded,  and  left  no  stone 
unturned;  ransacking  the  world  for  a  pub- 
lisher; there  was  none  anywhere  to  be  met 
with.  The  unwearied  Richter  tried  other  plans. 
He  presented  Magazine  Editors  with  essays, 
some  one  in  ten  of  which  might  be  accepted ; 
he  made  joint  stock  with  certain  provincial 
literati  of  the  Hof  district,  who  had  cash,  and 
published  for  themselves ;  he  sometimes  bor- 
rowed, but  was  in  hot  haste  to  repay  it;  he 
lived  as  the  young  ravens;  he  was  often  in 
danger  of  starving.  "The  prisoner's  allow- 
ance," says  he,  "  is  bread  and  water,  but  I  had 
only  the  latter." 

"Nowhere,"  observes    Richter  ou  another 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


205 


occasion,  "can  you  collect  the  stress-memorials 
and  siege-medals  of  Poverty  more  pleasantly 
and  philosophically  than  at  College :  the  Aca- 
demic Burschen  exhibit  to  us  how  many  Hu- 
morists and  Diogeneses  Germany  has  in  it.* 
Travelling  through  this  parched  Sahara,  with 
nothing  round  him  but  stern  sandy  solitude, 
and  no  landmark  on  Earth,  but  only  loadstars 
in  the  Heaven,  Richter  does  not  anywhere 
appear  to  have  faltered  in  his  progress ;  for  a 
moment  to  have  lost  heart,  or  even  to  have  lost 
good  humour.  '  The  man  who  fears  not  death,' 
says  the  Greek  Poet, 'will  start  at  no  shadows.' 
Paul  had  looked  Desperation  full  in  the  face, 
and  found  that  for  him  she  was  not  desperate. 
Sorely  pressed  on  from  without,  his  inward 
energy,  his  strength  both  of  thought  and  resolve 
did  but  increase,  and  establish  itself  on  a  surer 
and  surer  foundation;  he  stood  like  a  rock 
amid  the  beating  of  continual  tempests ;  nay,  a 
rock  crowned  with  foliage ;  and  in  its  clefts, 
nourishing  flowers  of  sweetest  perfume.  For 
there  was  a  passionate  fire  in  him,  as  well  as 
a  stoical  calmness ;  tenderest  Love  was  there, 
and  devout  Reverence;  and  a  deep  genial 
Humour  lay,  like  warm  sunshine,  softening  the 
whole,  blending  the  whole  into  light  sportful 
harmony.  In  these  its  hard  trials,  whatever 
was  noblest  in  his  nature  came  out  in  still 
surer  clearness.  It  was  here  that  he  learned 
to  distinguish  what  is  perennial  and  imperish- 
able in  man,  from  what  is  transient  and 
earthly ;  and  to  prize  the  latter,  were  it  king's 
crowns  and  conqueror's  triumphal  chariots, 
but  as  the  wrappage  of  the  jewel;  we  might 
say,  but  as  the  finer  or  coarser  Paper  on  which 
the  Heroic  Poem  of  Life  is  to  be  written.  A 
lofty  indestructible  faith  in  the  dignity  of  man 
took  possession  of  him,  and  a  disbelief  in  all 
other  dignities;  and  the  vulgar  world,  and 
what  it  could  give  him,  or  withhold  from  him, 
was,  in  his  eyes,  but  a  small  matter.  Nay, 
had  he  not  found  a  voice  for  these  things ; 
which,  though  no  man  would  listen  to  it,  he 
felt  to  be  a  true  one,  and  that  if  true  no  tone  of 
it  could  be  altogether  lost.  Preaching  forth  the 
Wisdom,  which  in  the  dark  deep  wells  of 
Adversity  he  had  drawn  up,  he  felt  himself 
strong,  courageous,  even  gay.  He  had  "an 
internal  world  wherewith  to  fence  himself 
against  the  frosts  and  heats  of  the  external." 
Studying,  writing,  in  this  mood,  though  grim 
Scarcity  looked  in  on  him  through  the  win- 
dows, he  ever  looked  out  again  on  that  fiend 
with  a  quiet,  half-satirical  eye.  Surely,  we 
should  find  it  hard  to  wish  any  generous  nature 

*  By  certain  speculators  on  German  affairs,  much  has 
been  written  and  talked  about  what  is,  after  all,  a  very 
slender  item  in  German  affairs,  the  Burschenleben,  or 
manners  of  the  young  men  at  Universities.  We  must 
regret  that  in  discussing  this  matter,  since  it  was  thought 
worth  discussing,  the  true  significance  and  soul  of  it 
should  not  have  been,  by  some  faint  indication,  pointed 
out  to  us.  Apart  from  its  duelling  punctilios,  and  beer- 
songs,  and  tobacco-smoking,  and  other  fopperies  of  the 
system,  which  are  to  the  German  student  merely  what 
coach-driving  and  horse-dealing,  and  other  kindred  fop- 
peries, are  to  the  English,  Burschenism  is  not  without 
its  meaning  more  than  Oxfordism  or  Cambridgeism. 
The  Bursch  strives  to  say  in  the  strongest  language  he 
can  :  "  See  !  I  am  an  unmonied  scholar,  and  a  free  man  ;" 
the  Oxonian  and  Cantab  again  endeavour  to  say  :  "  See  ! 
I  am  a  monied  scholar,  and  a  spirited  gentleman."  We 
rather  think  the  Bursch's  assertion,  were  it  rightly 
worded,  would  be  the  more  profitable  of  the  two. 


such  fortune:  yet  is  one  such  man,  nursed 
into  manhood,  amid  these  stern,  truth-telling 
influences,  worth  a  thousand  popular  ballad- 
mongers,  and  sleek  literary  gentlemen,  kept 
in  perpetual  boyhood  by  influences  that  al- 
ways lie. 

"In  my  Historical  Lectures,"  says  Paul, 
"  the  business  of  Hungering  will  in  truth  more 
and  more  make  its  appearance, — with  the  hero 
it  rises  to  a  great  height, — about  as  often  as 
Feasting  in  ThummeVs  Travels,  and  Tea-drink- 
ing in  Richardson's  Clarissa;  nevertheless,  I 
cannot  help  saying  to  Poverty:  Welcome!  so 
thou  come  not  at  quite  too  late  a  time  !  Wealth 
bears  heavier  on  talent  than  Poverty;  under 
gold-mountains  and  thrones,  who  knows  how 
many  a  spiritual  giant  may  lie  crushed  down 
and  buried!  When  among  the  flames  of 
youth,  and  above  all  of  hotter  powers  as  well, 
the  oil  of  Riches  is  also  poured  in, — little  will 
remain  of  the  phoenix  but  his  ashes;  and  only 
a  Goethe  has  force  to  keep,  even,  at  the  sun  of 
good  fortune,  his  phoenix-wings  unsinged.  The 
poor  Historical  Professor,  in  this  place,  would 
not,  for  much  money,  have  had  much  money 
in  his  youth.  Fate  manages  Poets,  as  men  do 
singing  birds ;  you  overhang  the  cage  of  the 
singer  and  make  it  dark,  till  at  length  he  has 
caught  the  tunes  you  play  to  him,  and  can  sing 
them  rightly." 

There  have  been  many  Johnsons,  Heynes, 
and  other  meaner  natures,  in  every  country, 
that  have  passed  through  as  hard  a  probation 
as  Richter's  was,  and  borne  permanent  traces 
of  its  good  and  its  evil  influences ;  some,  with 
their  modesty  and  quiet  endurance,  combining 
a  sickly  dispiritment,  others  a  hardened  dull- 
ness or  even  deadness  of  heart :  nay,  there  are 
some  whom  Misery  itself  cannot  teach,  but 
only  exasperate;  who,  far  from  parting  with 
the  mirror  of  their  Vanity,  when  it  is  trodden 
in  pieces,  rather  collect  the  hundred  fragments 
of  it,  and  with  more  fondness  and  more  bitter- 
ness than  ever,  behold  not  one  but  a  hundred 
images  of  Self  therein  ;  to  these  men  Pain  is  a 
pure  evil,  and  as  school-dunces  their  hard 
Pedagogue  will  only  whip  them  to  the  end. 
But,  in  modern  days,  and  even  among  the 
better  instances,  there  is  scarcely  one  that  we 
remember  who  has  drawn,  from  Poverty  and 
suffering,  such  unmixed  advantage  as  Jean 
Paul ;  acquiring  under  it  not  only  Herculean 
strength,  but  the  softest  tenderness  of  soul ;  a 
view  of  man  and  man's  life  not  less  cheerful, 
even  sportful,  than  it  is  deep  and  calm.  To 
Fear  he  is  a  stranger;  not  only  the  rage  of 
men,  "the  ruins  of  nature  would  strike  him 
fearless ;"  yet  he  has  a  heart  vibrating  to  all 
the  finest  thrills  of  Mercy,  a  deep  loving  sym- 
pathy with  all  created  things.  There  is,  we 
must  say,  something  Old-Grecian  in  this  form 
of  mind  ;  yet  Old-Grecian  under  the  new  con- 
ditions of  our  own  time ;  not  an  Ethnic,  but  a 
Christian  greatness.  Richter  might  have  stood 
beside  Socrates,  as  a  faithful,  though  rather 
tumultuous  disciple :  or  belter  still,  he  might 
have  bandied  repartees  with  Diogenes,  who,  if 
he  could  nowhere  find  Men,  must  at  least  have 
admitted  that  this  too  was  a  Spartan  Boy. 
Diogenes  and  he,  much  as  they  differed,  mostly 
to  the  disadvantage  of  the  former,  would  have 


ao6 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


found  much  in  common :  above  all,  that  reso- 
lute self-dependence,  and  quite  settled  indiffer- 
ence to  the  "force  of  public  opinion."  Of  this 
latter  quality,  as  well  as  of  various  other  qual- 
ities in  Richter,  we  have  a  curious  proof  in 
the  Episode,  which  Herr  Otto  here  for  the  first 
time  details  with  accuracy,  and  at  large,  "  con- 
cerning the  Costume  controversies."  There 
is  something  great  as  well  as  ridiculous  in  this 
whole  story  of  the  Costume,  which  we  must 
not  pass  unnoticed.  It  was  in  the  second  year 
of  his  residence  at  Leipzig,  and  when,  as  we 
have  seen,  his  necessities  were  pressing 
enough,  that  Richter,  finding  himself  unpa- 
tronised  by  the  World,  thought  it  might  be 
reasonable  if  he  paid  a  little  attention,  as  far 
as  convenient,  to  the  wishes,  rational  orders, 
and  even  whims  of  his  only  other  Patron, 
namely,  of  Himself.  Now  the  long  visits  of 
the  hair-dresser,  with  his  powders,  pufis,  and 
pomatums,  were  decidedly  irksome  to  him,  and 
even  too  expensive ;  besides,  his  love  of  Swift 
and  Sterne  made  him  love  the  English  and 
their  modes ;  which  things  being  considered, 
Paul  made  free  to  cut  off  his  cue  altogether, 
and  with  certain  other  alterations  in  his  dress, 
to  walk  abroad  in  what  was  called  the  English 
fashion.  We  rather  conjecture  that,  in  some 
points,  it  was  after  all  but  Pseudo-English  ;  at 
least,  we  can  find  no  tradition  of  any  such 
mode  having  then  or  ever  been  prevalent  here 
in  its  other  details.  For  besides  the  docked 
cue,  he  had  shirts  a  la  Hamlet-  wore  his  breast 
open,  without  neckcloth :  in  such  guise  did  he 
appear  openly.  Astonishment  took  hold  of 
the  minds  of  men.  German  students  have 
more  license  than  most  people  in  selecting 
fantastic  garbs;  but  the  bare  neck  and  want 
of  cue  seemed  graces  beyond  the  reach  of  true 
art.  We  can  figure  the  massive,  portly  cynic, 
with  what  humour  twinkling  in  his  eye  he 
came  forth  among  the  elegant  gentlemen ; 
feeling,  like  that  juggler-divinity  Ram-Dass, 
well-known  to  Baptist  Missionaries,  that  "he 
had  fire  enough  in  his  stomach  to  burn  away 
all  the  sins  of  the  world."  It  was  a  species  of 
pride,  even  of  foppery,  we  will  admit ;  but  a 
tough,  strong-limbed  species,  like  that  which 
in  ragged  gown  "trampled  on  the  pride  of 
Plato." 

Nowise  in  so  respectable  a  light,  however, 
did  a  certain  Magister,  or  pedagogue  dignitary 
of  Richter's  neighbourhood,  regard  the  matter. 
Poor  Richter,  poor  in  purse,  rich  otherwise, 
had,  at  this  time,  hired  himself  a  small  mean 
garden-house,  that  he  might  have  a  little  fresh 
air,  through  summer, in  his  studies:  the  Magis- 
ter, who  had  hired  a  large  sumptuous  one  in  the 
same  garden,  naturally  met  him  in  his  walks, 
bare-necked,  cue-less;  and  perhaps  not  liking 
the  cast  of  his  countenance,  strangely  twisted 
into  Sardonic  wrinkles,  with  all  its  broad 
honest  benignity, — took  it  in  deep  dudgeon 
that  such  an  unauthorized  character  should 
venture  to  enjoy  nature  beside  him.  But  what 
was  to  be  done?  Supercilious  looks,  even 
frowning,  would  accomplish  nothing;  the  Sar- 
donic visage  was  not  to  be  frowned  into  the 
smallest  terror.  The  Magister  wrote  to  the 
landlord,  demanding  that  this  nuisance  should 
be  abated.    Richter,  with  a  praiseworthy  love 


of  peace,  wrote  to  the  Magister,  promising  to 
do  what  he  could :  he  would  not  approach  his 
(the  Magister's)  house  so  near  as  last  night, 
would  walk  only  in  the  evenings  and  mornings, 
and  thereby  for  most  part  keep  out  of  sight  the 
apparel  "  which  convenience,  health,  and 
poverty  had  prescribed  for  him."  These  were 
fair  conditions  of  a  boundary-treaty;  but  the 
Magister  interpreted  them  in  too  literal  a  sense, 
and  soon  found  reason  to  complain  that  they 
had  been  infringed.  He  again  took  pen  and 
ink,  and  in  peremptory  language  represented 
that  Paul  had  actually  come  past  a  certain 
Statue,  which,  without  doubt,  stood  within  the 
debatable  land;  threatening  him,  therefore, 
with  Herr  Korner,  the  landlord's  vengeance, 
and  withal  openly  testifying  his  own  contempt 
and  just  rage  against  him.  Paul  answered, 
also  in  writing,  that  he  had  nowise  infringed 
his  promise,  this  Statue  or  any  other  Statue 
having  nothing  to  do  with  it;  but  that  now  he 
did  altogether  revoke  said  promise,  and  would 
henceforth  walk  whensoever  and  wheresoever 
seemed  good  to  him,  seeing  he  too  paid  for  the 
privilege.  "  To  me,"  observed  he,  "  Herr 
Korner  is  not  dreadful  (filrchtcrlich ;)"  and  for 
the  Magister  himself  he  put  down  these  re- 
markable words:  "You  despise  my  mean 
name;  tievertheless  take  note  of  it ;  for  you  will 
not  have  done  the  latter  long,  till  the  former  vnll  not 
be  in  your  power  to  do:  I  speak  ambiguously, 
that  I  may  not  speak  arrogantly."  Be  it  noted, 
at  the  same  time,  that  with  a  noble  spirit  of 
accommodation,  Richter  proposed  yet  new 
terms  of  treaty;  which  being  accepted,  he, 
pursuant  thereto,  with  bag  and  baggage  forth- 
with evacuated  the  garden,  and  returned  to  his 
"  town-room  at  the  Three  Roses,  in  Peter- 
strasse;"  glorious  in  retreat,  and  "leaving  his 
Paradise,"  as  Herr  Otto  with  some  conceit  re- 
marks, "  no  less  guiltlessly  than  voluntarily, 
for  a  certain  bareness  of  breast  and  neck; 
whereas  our  First  Parents  were  only  allowed 
to  retain  theirs,  so  long  as  they  felt  themselves 
innocent  in  total  nudity."  What  the  Magister 
thought  of  the  "  mean  name,"  some  years 
afterwards,  we  do  not  learn. 

But  if  such  tragical  things  went  on  in  Leip- 
zig, how  much  more  when  he  went  down  to 
Hof  in  the  holidays,  where,  at  any  rate,  the 
Richters  stood  in  slight  esteem !  It  will  sur- 
prise our  readers  to  learn  that  Paul,  with  the 
mildest  tempered  pertinacity,  resisted  all  ex- 
postulations of  friends,  and  persecutions  of 
foes,  in  this  great  cause ;  and  went  about  a  la 
Handet,  for  the  space  of  no  less  than  seven 
years !  He  himself  seemed  partly  sensible 
that  it  was  affectation ;  but  the  man  would 
have  his  humour  out.  "On  the  whole,"  says  he, 
"  /  hold  the  constant  regard  we  pay,  in  all  our  ac- 
tions, to  the  judgment  of  others,  as  the  poison  of  our 
peace,  our  reason,  and  our  virtue.  At  this  slave- 
chain  I  have  long  filed,  and  I  scarcely  ever 
hope  to  break  it  entirely  asunder.  I  wish  to 
accustom  myself  to  the  censure  of  others,  and 
appear  a  fool,  that  I  may  learn  to  endure  fools." 
So  speaks  the  young  Diogenes,  embracing  his 
frozen  pillar  by  way  of  "  exercitation ;"  as  if 
the  world  did  not  give  us  frozen  pillars  enough 
in  this  kind  without  our  wilfully  stepping 
aside   to   seek   them !     Better  is   that  other 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


207 


maxim :  "  He  who  differs  from  the  world  in 
important  matters  should  the  more  carefully 
conform  to  it  in  indifferent  ones."  Nay,  by 
degrees  Richter  himself  saw  into  this,  and 
having  now  proved  satisfactorily  enough  that 
he  could  take  his  own  way  when  he  so  pleased, 
— leaving,  as  is  fair,  the  "  most  sweet  voices" 
to  take  theirs  also, — he  addressed  to  his  friends 
(chiefly  the  Voigtland  Literati  above  alluded 
to)  the  following  circular : 

"  Advertisement. 

•*  The  undersigned  begs  to  give  notice,  that 
whereas  cropt  hair  has  as  many  enemies  as 
red  hair,  and  said  enemies  of  the  hair  are  ene- 
mies likewise  of  the  person  it  grows  on; 
whereas  farther,  such  a  fashion  is  in  no  respect 
Christian,  since  otherwise  Christian  persons 
would  have  it;  and  whereas,  especially,  the 
Undersigned  has  suffered  no  less  from  his  hair 
than  Absalom  did  from  his,  though  on  contrary 
grounds ;  and  whereas  it  has  been  notified  that 
the  public  purposed  to  send  him  into  his  grave, 
since  the  hair  grew  there  without  scissors  :  he 
hereby  gives  notice  that  he  will  not  push  mat- 
ters to  such  extremity.  Be  it  known,  there- 
fore, to  the  nobility,  gentry,  and  a  discerning 
public  in  general,  that  the  Undersigned  pro- 
poses, on  Sunday  next,  to  appear  in  various 
important  streets  (of  Hof)  with  a  short  false 
cue ;  and  with  this  cue  as  with  a  magnet,  and 
cord-of-love,  and  magic-rod,  to  possess  him- 
self forcibly  of  the  affections  of  all  and  sundry, 
be  they  who  they  may." 

And  thus  ended  "gloriously,"  as  Herr  Otto 
thinks,  the  long  "clothes-martyrdom;"  from 
the  course  of  which,  besides  its  intrinsic 
comicality,  we  may  learn  two  things :  first, 
that  Paul  nowise  wanted  a  due  indifference  to 
the  popular  wind,  but,  on  fit  or  unfit  occasion, 
could  stand  on  his  own  basis  stoutly  enough, 
wrapping  his  cloak  as  himself  listed;  and 
secondly,  that  he  had  such  a  buoyant,  elastic 
humour  of  spirit,  that  besides  counter-pressure 
against  Poverty,  and  Famine  itself,  there  was 
still  a  clear  overplus  left  to  play  fantastic 
tricks  withal,  at  which  the  angels  could  not 
indeed  weep,  but  might  well  shake  their  heads 
and  smile.     We  return  to  our  history. 

Several  years  before  the  date  of  this  "  Ad- 
vertisement," namely,  in  1784,  Paul,  who  had 
now  determined  on  writing,  with  or  without 
readers,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  finding  no 
furtherance  in  Leipzig,  but  only  hunger  and 
hardship,  bethought  him  that  he  might  as  well 
write  in  Hof  beside  his  mother,  as  there.  His 
publishers,  when  he  had  any,  were  in  other 
cities ;  and  the  two  households,  like  two  dying 
embers,  might  perhaps  show  some  feeble  point 
of  red-heat  between  them,  if  cunningly  laid 
together.  He  quitted  Leipzig,  after  a  three 
years'  residence  there ;  and  fairly  commenced 
housekeeping  on  his  own  score.  Probably 
there  is  not  in  the  whole  history  of  Literature 
any  record  of  a  literary  establishment  like  this 
at  Hof;  so  ruggedly  independent,  so  simple, 
not  to  say  altogether  unfurnished.  Lawsuits 
had  now  done  their  work,  and  the  Widow 
Richter,  with  her  family,  was  living  in  a 
"  house  containing  one  apartment."  Paul  had 
no  books,  except  '*  twelve  manuscript  volumes 


of  excerpts,"  and  the  considerable  library 
which  he  carried  in  his  head;  with  which 
small  resources,  the  public,  especially  as  he 
had  still  no  cue,  could  not  well  see  what  was 
to  become  of  him.  Two  great  furtherances, 
however,  he  had,  of  which  the  public  took  no 
sufficient  note:  a  real  Head  on  his  shoulders, 
not  as  is  more  common,  a  mere  hat-wearing, 
empty  effigies  of  a  head ;  and  the  strangest, 
stoutest,  indeed,  a  quite  noble  Heart  within 
him.  Here,  then,  he  could,  as  is  the  duty  of 
man,  "prize  his  existence,  more  than  his 
manner  of  existence,"  which  latter  was,  in- 
deed, easily  enough  dis-esteemed.  Come  of  it 
what  might,  he  determined,  on  his  own 
strength,  to  try  issues  to  the  uttermost  with 
Fortune;  nay,  while  fighting  like  a  very  Ajax 
against  her,  to  keep  laughing  in  her  face  till 
she  too  burst  into  laughter,  and  ceased  frown- 
ing at  him.  He  would  nowise  slacken  in  his 
Authorship,  therefore,  but  continued  stubborn- 
ly toiling,  as  at  his  right  work,  let  the  weather 
be  sunny  or  snowy.  For  the  rest.  Poverty  was 
written  on  the  posts  of  his  door,  and  within  on 
every  equipment  of  his  existence  ;  he  that  ran 
might  read  in  large  characters  :  "  Good  Chris- 
tian people,  you  perceive  that  I  have  little 
money;  what  inference  do  you  draw  from  if?" 
So  hung  the  struggle,  and  as  yet  were  no  signs 
of  victory  for  Paul.  It  was  not  till  1788  thai 
he  could  find  a  publisher  for  his  Teufels  Papieren; 
and  even  then  few  readers.  But  no  dishearten- 
ment  availed  with  him:  authorship  was  once 
for  all  felt  to  be  his  true  vocation  ;  and  by  it 
he  was  minded  to  continue  at  all  hazards. 
For  a  short  while,  he  had  been  tutor  in  some 
family,  and  had  again  a  much  more  tempting 
offer  of  the  like  sort,  but  he  refused  it,  purpos- 
ing henceforth  to  "  bring  up  no  children  but 
his  own, — his  books,"  let  Famine  say  to  it 
what  she  pleased. 

"•With  his  mother,"  says  Otto,  "  and  at  times 
also  with  several  of  his  brothers,  but  always 
with  one,  he  lived  in  a  mean  house,  which  had 
only  a  single  apartment;  and  this  went  on 
even  when, — after  the  appearance  of  the 
Miimien, — his  star  began  to  rise,  ascending 
higher  and  higher,  and  never  again  declin- 
ing. *  •  * 

"As  Paul,  in  the  characters  of  Walt  and 
Vult,*  (it  is  his  direct  statement  in  these 
Notes,)  meant  to  depict  himself;  so  it  may  be 
remarked,  that  in  the  delineation  of  Lenette, 
his  mother  stood  before  his  mind,  at  the  period 
when  this  down-pressed  and  humiliated  woman 
began  to  gather  heart,  and  raise  herself  up 
again  ;f  seeing  she  could  no  longer  doubt  the 
truth  of  his  predictions,  that  Authorship  must, 
and  would  prosper  with  him.  She  now  the 
more  busily,  in  one  and  the  same  room  where 


*  Qottwalt  and  Quoddeusvult,  two  Brothers  (see  Paul's 
Flegeljahre)  of  the  most  opposite  temi)eraments :  the 
former  a  still,  soft-hearted  tearful  enthusiast,  the  other  a 
madcap  humourist,  honest  at  bottom,  but  bursting  out 
on  all  hands  with  the  strangest  explosions,  speculative 
and  practical. 

t  "  Quite  up  indeed,  she  could  never  more  rise  ;  and 
in  silent  humility,  avoiding  any  loud  expression  of  satis- 
faction, she  lived  to  enjoy  with  timorous  gladness,  the 
delight  of  seeing  her  son's  worth  publicly  recognised, 
and  his  acquaintance  sought  by  the  most  influential 
men,  and  herself,  too,  honoured,  on  this  account,  as  she 
had  never  before  been." 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Paul  was  writing  and  studying,  managed  the 
household  operations  ;  cooking,  washing, 
scouring,  handling  the  broom,  and  these  being 
finished,  spinning  cotton.  Of  the  painful  in- 
come earned  by  this  latter  employment,  she 
kept  a  written  account.  One  such  revenue- 
book,  under  the  title,  Was  ich  ersponnen,  (Earned 
by  spinning,)  which  extends  from  March, 
1793,  to  September,  1794,  is  still  in  existence. 
The  produce  of  March,  the  first  year,  stands 
entered  there  as  2  florins,  51  kreutzers,  3  pfen- 
nings, [somewhere  about  four  shillings  !] ;  that 
of  April,  &c. ;  *  at  last  that  of  September,  1794, 
as  2  fl.  1  kr. ;  and  on  the  last  page  of  the  little 
book,  stands  marked,  that  Samuel  (the  young- 
est son)  had,  on  the  9th  of  this  same  Septem- 
ber, got  new  boots,  which  cost  3  thalers, — 
almost  a  whole  quarter's  revenue  !' " 

Considering  these  things,  how  mournful 
would  it  have  seemed  to  Paul  that  Bishop  Dog- 
bolt  could  not  get  translated,  because  of  Poli- 
tics ;  and  the  too  high-souled  Viscount  Plum- 
cake,  thwarted  in  courtship,  was  seized  with  a 
perceptible  dyspepsia ! 

We  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  this  portion 
of  Paul's  history,  because  we  reckon  it  inte- 
resting in  itself;  and  that  if  the  spectacle  of  a 
great  man  struggling  with  adversity  be  a  fit 
one  for  the  gods  to  look  down  on,  much  more 
must  it  be  so  for  mean  fellow-mortals  to  look 
up  to.  For  us  in  Literary  England,  above  all, 
such  conduct  as  Richter's  has  a  peculiar  in- 
terest, in  these  times ;  the  interest  of  entire 
novelty.  Of  all  literary  phenomena,  that  of  a 
literary  man  daring  to  believe  that  he  is  poor, 
may  be  regarded  as  the  rarest.  Can  a  man 
without  capital  actually  open  his  lips  and 
speak  to  mankind]  Had  he  no  landed  pro- 
perty, then:  no  connection  with  the  higher 
classes ;  did  he  not  even  keep  a  gig  ?  By 
these  documents  it  would  appear  so.  This 
was  not  a  nobleman,  nor  gentleman,  nor  gig- 
man  ;*  but  simply  a  man ! 

On  the  whole,  what  a  wondrous  spirit  of 
gentility  does  animate  our  British  Literature 
at  this  era!  We  have  no  Men  of  Letters  now, 
but  only  Literary  Gentlemen.  Samuel  John- 
son was  the  last  that  ventured  to  appear  in 
that  former  character,  and  support  himself,  on 
his  own  legs,  without  any  crutches,  purchased 
or  stolen  :  rough  old  Samuel,  the  last  of  all  the 
Romans  !  Time  was,  when  in  English  Litera- 
ture, as  in  English  Life,  the  comedy  of  "Every 
Man  in  his  Humour"  was  daily  enacted  among 
us ;  but  how  the  poor  French  word,  French  in 
every  sense,  "  Qw'm  dira-t-on?''  spellbinds  us 
all,  and  we  have  nothing  for  it  but  to  drill  and 
cane  each  other  into  one  uniform,  regimental 
"  nation  of  gentlemen."  «  Let  him  who  would 
write  heroic  poems,"  said  Milton,  "make  his 
life  a  heroic  poem."  Let  him  who  would 
write  heroic  poems,  say  we,  put  money  in  his 
purse;  or  if  he  have  no  gold  money,  let  him 

*  In  Thurtell's  trial  (says  the  Quarterly  Review)  oc- 
curred the  following  colloquy:  "  Q.  What  sort  of  per- 
son was  Mr.  Wearel  .A.  He  was  always  a  respectable 
person.  Q.  What  do  you  mean  by  respectable  ?  Ji.  He 
kept  a  pig."— Since  then  we  have  seen  a  "  Defensio 
Oigmanica,  or  Apology  for  the  Gigmen  of  Great  Britain," 
composed  not  without  eloquence,  and  which  we  hope 
one  day  to  prevail  on  our  friend,  a  man  of  some  whims, 
to  give  to  the  public.  I 


put  in  copper-money,  or  pebbles,  and  chink 
with  it  as  with  true  metal,  in  the  ears  of  man- 
kind, that  they  may  listen  to  him.  Herein, 
does  the  secret  of  good  writing  now  consist,  as 
that  of  good  living  has  always  done.  When 
we  first  visited  Grub-street,  and  with  bared 
head  did  reverence  to  the  genius  of  the  place, 
with  a  "Salve,  magna  parens!"  we  were  asto- 
nished to  learn,  on  inquiry,  that  the  Authors 
did  not  dwell  there  now,  but  had  all  removed, 
years  ago,  to  a  sort  of  "High  Life  below 
Stairs,"  far  in  the  West.  For  why,  what  re- 
medy was  there;  did  not  the  wants  of  the  age 
require  it  ?  How  can  men  write  without  High 
Life  ;  and  how,  except  below  Stairs,  as 
Shoulder-knot,  or  as  talking  Katerfelto,  or  by 
secondhand  communication  with  these  two, 
can  the  great  body  of  men  acquire  any  know- 
ledge thereof?  Nay,  has  not  the  Atlantis,  or 
true  Blissful  Island  of  Poesy,  been,  in  all 
times,  understood  to  lie  Westward,  though 
never  rightly  discovered  till  now  1  Our  great 
fault  with  writers  used  to  be,  not  that  they 
were  intrinsically  more  or  less  completed 
Dolts,  with  no  eye  or  ear  for  the  "open  secret," 
of  the  world,  or  for  any  thing,  save  the  "  open 
display"  of  the  world, — for  its  gilt  ceilings, 
marketable  pleasures,  war-chariots,  and  all 
manner,  to  the  highest  manner,  of  Lord  Mayor 
shows,  and  Guildhall  dinners,  and  their  own 
small  part  and  lot  therein ;  but  the  head  and 
front  of  their  offence  lay  in  this,  that  they  had 
not  "  frequented  the  society  of  the  upper 
classes."  And  now,  with  our  improved  age, 
and  this  so  universal  extension  of  "  High  Life 
below  Stairs,"  what  a  change  has  been  intro- 
duced, what  benign  consequences  will  follow ! 
One  consequence  has  already  been  a  degree 
of  Dapperism  and  Dilettantism  and  ricketty 
Debility  unexampled  in  the  history  of  Litera- 
ture, and  enough  of  itself  to  "make  us  the 
envy  of  surrounding  nations  ;"  for  hereby  the 
Literary  man,  once  so  dangerous  to  the  quies- 
cence of  society,  has  now  become  perfectly 
innoxious,  so  that  a  look  will  quail  him,  and 
he  can  be  tied  hand  and  foot  by  a  spinster's 
thread.  Hope  there  is,  that  henceforth  neither 
Church  nor  State  will  be  put  in  jeopardy  by 
literature.  The  old  Literary  man,  as  we  have 
said,  stood  on  his  own  legs ;  had  a  whole 
heart  within  him,  and  might  be  provoked  into 
many  things.  But  the  new  Literary  man,  on 
the  other  hand,  cannot  stand  at  all,  save  in 
stays ;  he  must  first  gird  up  his  weak  sides 
with  the  whalebone  of  a  certain  fashionable, 
knowing,  half-squirarchal  air, — be  it  inherited, 
bought,  or,  as  is  more  likely,  borrowed  or 
stolen,  whalebone ;  and  herewith  he  stands  a 
little  without  collapsing.  If  the  man  now 
twang  his  jew's-harp  to  please  the  children, 
what  is  to  be  feared  from  bim ;  what  more  is 
to  be  required  of  him  1 

Seriously  speaking,  we  must  hold  it  a  re- 
markable thing  that  every  Englishman  should 
be  a  "gentleman;"  that  in  so  democratic  a 
country,  our  common  title  of  honour,  which  all 
men  assert  for  themselves,  should  be  one 
which  professedly  depends  on  station,  on  acci- 
dents rather  than  on  qualities ;  or  at  best,  as 
Coleridge  interprets  it,  "  on  a  certain  indiffer- 
ence to  money  matters,"  which  certain  indiffer- 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


209 


cnce  again  must  be  wise  or  mad,  you  would 
think,  exactly  as  one  possesses  much  money, 
or  possesses  little !  We  suppose  it  must  be 
the  commercial  genius  of  the  nation,  counter- 
acting and  suppressing  its  political  genius ;  for 
the  Americans  are  said  to  be  still  more  notable 
in  this  respect  than  we.  Now,  what  a  hollow, 
windy  vacuity  of  internal  character  this  indi- 
cates ;  how,  in  place  of  a  rightly  ordered  heart, 
we  strive  only  to  exhibit  a  full  purse ;  and  all 
pushing,  rushing,  elbowing  on  towards  a  false 
aim,  the  courtier's  kibes  are  more  and  more 
galled  by  the  toe  of  the  peasant;  and  on  every 
side,  instead  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  we 
have  Neediness,  Greediness,  and  Vain-glory; 
all  this  is  palpable  enough.  Fools  that  we  are ! 
Why  should  we  wear  our  knees  to  horn  and 
sorrowfully  beat  our  breasts,  praying  day  and 
night  to  Mammon,  wiio,  if  he  would  even  hear 
us,  has  almost  nothing  to  give  1  For  granting 
that  the  deaf  brute-god  were  to  relent  for  our 
sacrificings  ;  to  change  our  gilt  brass  into  solid 
gold,  and  instead  of  hungry  actors  of  rich 
gentility,  make  us  all  in  very  deed  Rothschild- 
Howards  to-morrow,  what  good  were  it  1  Are 
we  not  already  denizens  of  this  wondrous  Eng- 
land, with  its  high  Shakspeares  and  Hamp- 
dens;  nay,  of  this  wondrous  Universe,  with  its 
Galaxies  and  Eternities,  and  unspeakable 
Splendours,  that  we  should  so  worry  and 
scramble,  and  tear  one  another  in  pieces,  for 
some  acres,  (nay,  still  oftener,  for  the  show  of 
some  acres,)  more  or  less,  of  clay  property, 
the  largest  of  which  properties,  the  Sutherland 
itself,  is  invisible  even  from  the  Moon  1  Fools 
that  we  are !  To  dig,  and  bore  like  ground- 
worms  in  those  acres  of  ours,  even  if  we  have 
acres;  and  far  from  beholding  and  enjoying 
the  heavenly  Lights,  not  to  know  of  them 
except  by  unheeded  and  unbelieved  report! 
Shall  certain  pounds  sterling  that  we  have  in 
the  Bank  of  England,  or  the  ghosts  of  certain 
pounds  that  we  would  fain  seem  to  have,  hide 
from  us  the  treasures  we  are  all  born  to  in 
this  the  "City  of  God r' 

My  inheritance  how  wide  and  fair ! 
Time  is  rt»y  estate,  to  Time  I'm  heir. 

But  leaving  the  money-changers,  and  honour- 
hunters,  and  gigmen  of  every  degree,  to  their 
own  wise  ways,  which  they  will  not  alter,  we 
must  again  remark  as  a  singular  circumstance, 
that  the  same  spirit  should,  to  such  an  extent, 
have  taken  possession  of  Literature  also.  This 
is  the  eye  of  the  world,  enlightening  all,  and 
instead  of  the  shows  of  things  unfolding  to  us 
things  themselves :  has  the  eye  too  gone  blind  ; 
has  the  Poet  and  Thinker  adopted  the  philoso- 
phy of  the  Grocer  and  Valet  in  Livery?  Nay, 
let  us  hear  Lord  Byron  himself  on  the  subject. 
Some  years  ago,  there  appeared  in  the  Maga- 
zines, and  to  the  admiration  of  most  editorial 
gentlemen,  certain  extracts  from  Letters  of 
Lord  Byron's,  which  carried  this  philosophy 
to  rather  a  high  pitch.  His  Lordship,  we 
recollect,  mentioned,  that,  "  all  rules  for  Poetry 
were  not  worth  a  d — n,"  (saving  and  except- 
ing, doubtless,  the  ancient  Rule-of-Thumb, 
which  must  still  have  place  here  ;)  after  which 
aphorism  his  Lordship  proceeded  to  state  that 
the  great  ruin  of  all  British  Poets  sprang  from 
87 


a  simple  source;  their  exclusion  from  High 
Life  in  London,  excepting  only  some  shape  of 
that  High  Life  below  Stairs,  which,  however, 
was  nowise  adequate :  "  he  himself  and  Tho- 
mas Moore  were  perfectly  familiar  in  such 
upper  life :  he  by  birth,  Moore  by  happy  acci- 
dent, and  so  they  could  both  write  Poetry ;  the 
others  were  not  familiar,  and  so  could  not  write 
it." — Surely  it  is  fast  growing  time  that  all  this 
should  be  drummed  out  of  our  Planet,  and  for- 
bidden to  return. 

Richter,  for  his  part,  was  quite  excluded 
from  the  West-end  of  Hof :  for  Hof  too  has  its 
West-end;  "every  mortal  longs  for  his  parade- 
place;  would  still  wish,  at  banquets,  to  be 
master  of  some  seat  or  other,  wherein  to  over- 
top this  or  that  plucked  goose  of  the  neighbour- 
hood." So  poor  Richter  could  only  be  admitted 
to  the  West-en.d  of  the  Universe,  where  truly 
he  had  a  very  superior  establishment.  The 
legal,  clerical,  and  other  conscript  fathers  of 
Hof  might,  had  they  so  inclined,  have  lent  him 
a  few  books,  told  or  believed  some  fewer  lies 
of  him,  and  thus  positively  and  negatively 
shown  the  young  adventurer  many  a  little  ser- 
vice ;  but  they  inclined  to  none  of  these  things, 
and  happily  he  was  enabled  to  do  without 
them.  Gay,  gentle,  frolicsome  as  a  lamb,  yet 
strong,  forbearant,  and  royally  courageous  as 
a  lion,  he  worked  along,  amid  the  scouring  of 
kettles,  the  hissing  of  frying-pans,  the  hum  of 
his  mother's  wheel; — and  it  is  not  without  a 
proud  feeling  that  our  reader  (for  he  too  is  a 
man)  hears  of  victory  being  at  last  gained,  and 
of  Works,  which  the  most  reflective  nation  in 
Europe  regards  as  classical,  being  written 
under  such  accompaniments. 

However,  it  is  at  this  lowest  point  of  the 
Narrative  that  Herr  Otto  for  the  present  stops 
short;  leaving  us  only  the  assurance  that  better 
days  are  coming:  so  that  concerning  the  whole 
ascendant  and  dominant  portion  of  Richter's 
history,  we  are  left  to  our  own  resources;  and 
from  these  we  have  only  gathered  some  scanty 
indications,  which  may  be  summed  up  with  a 
very  disproportionate  brevity.  It  appears  that 
the  Unsichtbare  Loge,  (Invisible  Lodge,)  sent 
forth  from  the  Hof  spinning  establishment  in 
179.3,  was  the  first  of  his  works  that  obtained 
any  decisive  favour.  A  long  trial  of  faith;  for 
the  man  had  now  been  besieging  the  literary 
citadel  upwards  of  ten  years,  and  still  no 
breach  visible !  With  the  appearance  of 
Hesperus,  another  wondrous  Novel,  which  pro- 
ceeded from  the  same  "  single  apartment,"  in 
1796,  the  siege  maybe  said  to  have  terminated 
by  storm ;  and  Jean  Paul,  whom  the  most  knew 
not  what  in  the  world  to  think  of,  whom  here 
and  there  a  man  of  weak  judgment  had  not 
even  scrupled  to  declare  half-mad,  made  it 
universally  indubitable,  that  though  encircled 
with  dusky  vapours,  and  shining  out  only  in 
strange  many-hued  irregular  bursts  of  flame, 
he  was  and  would  be  one  of  the  celestial  Lumi- 
naries of  his  day  and  generation.  The  keen 
intellectual  energy  displayed  in  Hesperus,  still 
more  the  nobleness  of  mind,  the  sympathy  with 
Nature,  the  warm,  impetuous,  yet  pure  and 
lofty  delineations  of  Friendship  and  Love;  in 
a  less  degree  perhaps,  the  wild  boisterous 
Humour  that  everywhere  prevails  in  it,  secured 
s2 


210 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Richter  not  only  admirers,  but  personal  well- 
wishers  in  all  quarters  of  his  country.  Gleira, 
for  example,  though  then  eighty  years  of  age, 
and  among  the  last  survivors  of  a  quite  differ- 
ent school,  could  not  contain  himself  with  rap- 
ture. "What  a  divine  genius  (Got t genius)," 
thus  wrote  he  some  time  afterwards,  "  is  our 
Friedrich  Richter !  I  am  reading  his  Blumen- 
stiicke  for  the  second  time :  here  is  more  than 
Shakspeare,  said  I,  at  fifty  passages  I  have 
marked.  What  a  divine  genius !  I  wonder 
over  the  human  head,  out  of  which  these 
streams,  these  books,  these  Rhinefalls,  these 
Blandusian  fountains  pour  forth  over  human 
nature  to  make  human  nature  humane;  and  if 
to-day  I  object  to  the  plan,  object  to  phrases,  to 
words,  I  am  contented  with  all  to-morrow." 
The  kind,  lively  old  man,  it  appears,  had  sent 
him  a  gay  letter,  signed  "Septimus  Fixlein," 
with  a  present  of  money  in  it;  to  which  Rich- 
ter, with  great  heartiness  and  some  curiosity  to 
penetrate  the  secret,  made  answer  in  this  very 
Blumenstucke ;  and  so  ere  long  a  joyful  acquaint- 
ance and  friendship  was  formed;  Paul  had 
visited  Halberstadt,  with  warmest  welcomes, 
and  sat  for  his  picture  there,  (an  oil  painting 
by  Pfenninger,)  which  is  still  to  be  seen  in 
Gleim's  Ehrentempel,  (Temple  of  Honour.) 
About  this  epoch  too,  the  Reviewing  world, 
after  a  long  conscientious  silence,  again  opened 
its  thick  lips,  and  in  quite  another  dialect, 
screeching  out  a  rusty  Nunc  Domine  dimittas, 
with  considerable  force  of  pipe,  instead  of  its 
last  monosyllabic  and  very  unhandsome  grunt. 
For  the  credit  of  our  own  guild,  we  could  have 
wished  that  the  Reviewing  world  had  struck  up 
its  Dimittas  a  little  sooner. 

In  1797,  the  Widow  Richter  was  taken  away 
from  the  strange  variable  climate  of  this  world, 
we  shall  hope,  into  a  sunnier  one;  her  kettles 
%ung  unscoured  on  the  wall;  and  the  spool, 
so  often  filled  with  her  cotton-thread  and  wetted 
with  her  tears,  revolved  no  more.  Poor  old 
weather-beaten,  heavy-laden  soul !  And  yet  a 
"light-beam  from  on  high"  was  in  her  also; 
and  the  "twelve  shillings  for  Samuel's  new 
boots"  were  more  bounteous  and  more  blessed 
than  many  a  King's  ransom.  Nay,  she  saw, 
before  departing,  that  she,  even  she,  had  "  borne 
a  mighty  man;"  and  her  early  sunshine,  long 
drowned  in  deluges,  again  looked  out  at  even- 
ing with  farewell  sweet. 

The  Hof  household  being  thus  broken  up, 
Richter  for  some  years  led  a  wandering  life. 
In  the  course  of  this  same  1797,  we  find  him 
■once  more  in  Leipzig;  and  truly  under  far 
other  circumstances  than  of  old.  For  instead 
•of  silk-stockinged,  shovel-hatted,  but  too  impe- 
rious Magisters,  that  would  not  let  him  occupy 
his  own  hired  dog-hutch  in  peace,  "  he  here," 
says  Heinrich  Doering,*  "became  acquainted 
with  the  three  Princesses,  adorned  with  every 
charm  of  person  and  of  mind,  the  daughters  of 
the  Dutchess  of  Hildburghausen  !  The  Duke, 
who  also  did  justice  to  his  extraordinary  merits, 
conferred  on  him,  some  years  afterwards,  the 
title  of  Legationsrath,  (Councillor  of  Legation.") 
To  Princes  and  Princess^,  indeed,  Jean  Paul 
-seems,  ever  henceforth,  to  have  had  what  we 

*  Leben  Jean  Paul's.    Gotha,  1826. 


should  reckon  a  surprising  access.  For  ex- 
ample:— "the  social  circles  where  the  Duchess 
Amelia  (of  Weimar)  was  wont  to  assemble 
the  most  talented  men,  first,  in  Ettersburg, 
afterwards  in  Tiefuri;" — then  the  "Duke  of 
Meinungen  at  Coburg,  who  had  with  pressing 
kindness  invited  him;" — the  Prince  Primate 
Dalberg,  who  did  much  more  than  invite  him ; 
— late  in  life,  "  the  gifted  Duchess  Dorothea,  in 
Lobichau,  of  which  visit  he  has  himself  com- 
memorated the  festive  days,"  &c.  &c. ; — all 
which  small  matters,  it  appears  to  us,  should 
be  taken  into  consideration  by  that  class  of 
British  philosophers,  troublesome  in  many 
an  intellectual  tea-circle,  who  deduce  the 
"  German  bad  taste"  from  our  own  old  ever- 
lasting "want  of  intercourse;"  whereby,  if  it 
so  seemed  good  to  them,  their  tea,  till  some 
less  self-evident  proposition  were  started,  might 
be  "  consumed  with  a  certain  stately  silence." 

But  next  year  (1798)  there  came  on  Paul  a 
far  grander  piece  of  good  fortune  than  any  of 
these,  namely,  a  good  wife ;  which,  as  Solomon 
has  long  ago  recorded,  is  a  "  good  thing."  He 
had  gone  from  Leipzig  to  Berlin,  still  busily 
writing;  "and  during  a  longer  residence  in 
this  latter  city,"  says  Doering,  "  Caroline 
Mayer,  daughter  of  the  Royal  Prussian  Privy 
Councillor  and  Professor  of  Medicine,  Dr.  John 
Andrew  Mayer,"  (these  are  all  his  titles,)  "  gave 
him  her  hand ;  nay  even,"  continues  the  micro- 
scopic Doering,  "as  is  said  in  a  public  paper, 
bestowed  on  him  (aufdriickte)  the  bride-kiss  of 
her  own  accord."  What  is  still  more  aston- 
ishing, she  is  recorded  to  have  been  a  "  chosen 
one  of  her  sex,"  one  that  "like  a  gentle,  guar- 
dian, care-dispelling  genius,  went  by  his  side 
through  all  his  pilgrimage." 

Shortly  after  this  great  event,  Paul  removed 
with  his  new  wife  to  Weimar,  where  he  seems 
to  have  resided  some  years,  in  high  favour 
with  whatever  was  most  illustrious  in  that 
city.  His  first  impression  on  Schiller  is  cha- 
racteristic enough.  "  Of  Hesperus,"  thus 
writes  Schiller,  "  I  have  yet  made  no  mention 
to  you.  I  found  him  pretty  much  Avhat  I  ex- 
pected; foreign  like  a  man  fallen  from  the 
Moon;  full  of  good  will,  and  heartily  inclined 
to  see  things  about  him,  but  without  the  organ 
for  seeing  them.  However,  I  have  only  spoken 
to  him  once,  and  so  can  say  little  of  him."* 
In  answer  to  which,  Goethe  also  expresses  his 
love  for  Richter,  but"  doubts  whether  in  literary 
practice  he  will  ever  fall  in  with  them  two, 
much  as  his  theoretical  creed  inclined  that 
way."  Hesperus  proved  to  have  more  "  organ" 
than  Schiller  gave  him  credit  for;  nevertheless 
Goethe's  doubt  had  not  been  unfounded.  It 
was  to  Herder  that  Paul  chiefly  attached  him- 
self here;  esteeming  the  others  as  high-gifted, 
friendly  men,  but  only  Herder  as  a  teacher 
and  spiritual  father ;  of  which  latter  relation, 
and  the  warm  love  and  gratitude  accompany- 
ing it  on  Paul's  side,  his  writings  give  frequent 
proof.  "If  Herder  was  not  a  Poet,  says  he 
once,  "  he  was  something  more, — a  Poem  !" 
With  Wieland  too  he  stood  on  the  friendliest 
footing,   often   walking    out  to  visit  him  at 


*  Briefwechsel  zwischen  Schiller  und   Goethe    (Corre- 
spondence between  Schiller  and  Goethe.)    B.  ii.  77. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


811 


Osmanstadt,  whither  the  old  man  had  now 
retired.  Perhaps  these  years  spent  at  Weimar, 
in  close  intercourse  with  so  many  distinguished 
persons,  were,  in  regard  to  outward  matters, 
among  the  most  instructive  of  Richter's  life  : 
in  regard  to  inward  matters,  he  had  already 
served,  and  with  credit,  a  hard  apprenticeship 
elsewhere.  We  must  not  forget  to  mention 
that  Titan,  one  of  his  chief  romances,  (pub- 
lished at  Berlin  in  1800,)  was  written  during 
his  abode  at  Weimar ;  so  likewise  the  Flegel- 
j'ahre,  (Wild  Oats  ;)  and  the  eulogy  of  Charlotte 
Corday,  which  last,  though  originally  but  a 
Magazine  Essay,  deserves  notice  for  its  bold 
eloquence,  and  the  antique  republican  spirit 
manifested  in  it.  With  respect  to  Titan,  which, 
together  with  its  Comic  Appendix,  forms  six 
very  extraordinary  volumes,  Richter  was  accus- 
tomed, on  all  occasions,  to  declare  it  his  mas- 
ter-piece, and  even  the  best  he  could  ever  hope 
to  do;  though  there  are  not  wanting  readers 
who  continue  to  regard  Hesperus  with  prefer- 
ence. For  ourselves,  we  have  read  Titan  with 
a  certain  disappointment,  after  hearing  so 
much  of  it;  yet  on  the  whole,  must  incline  to 
the  Author's  opinion.  One  day  we  hope  to 
afford  the  British  public  some  sketch  of  both 
these  works,  concerning  which,  it  has  been 
said,  "there  is  solid  metal  enough  in  them  to 
fit  out  whole  circulating  libraries,  were  it  beaten 
into  the  usual  filigree;  and  much  which, 
attenuate  it  as  we  might,  no  Quarterly  Sub- 
scriber could  well  carry  with  him."  Richter's 
other  Novels  published  prior  to  this  period  are 
the  Invisible  Lodge;  the  Siebenkds,  (or  Flower, 
Fruit,  and  Thorn  pieces;)  the  Life  of  Quintus 
Fixlein;  the  Jubelsenior,  (Parson  in  Jubilee;) 
Jean  PauPs  Letters  and  future  History  ;  the  De- 
jeuner in  Kuhschnappel ;  the  Biographical  Recrea- 
tions under  the  Cranium  of  a  Giantess,  scarcely 
belong  to  this  species.  The  Novels  published 
afterwards,  which  we  may  as  well  catalogue 
here,  are  the  Leben  Fibels,  (Life  of  Fibel ;)  Katz- 
enbergers  Badereise,  (Katzenberger's  Journey  to 
the  Bath ;)  Schmehle's  Reise  nach  Flatz,  (Schmel- 
zle's  Journey  to  Fliitz;)  the  Comet,  named  also 
Nicolaus  Margraf. 

It  seems  to  have  been  about  the  year  1802, 
that  Paul  had  a  pension  bestowed  on  him  by 
the  Filrst  Primas  (Prince  Primate)  von  Dal- 
berg,  a  prelate  famed  for  his  munificence, 
whom  we  have  mentioned  above.  What  the 
amount  was  we  do  not  find  specified,  but  only 
that  it "  secured  him  the  means  of  a  comfortable 
life,"  and  was  "subsequently,"  we  suppose  after 
the  Prince  Primate's  decease,  "paid  him  by 
the  King  of  Bavaria."  On  the  strength  of 
which  fixed  revenue,  Paul  now  established  for 
himself  a  fixed  household :  selecting  for  this 
purpose,  after  various  intermediate  wander- 
ings, the  city  of  Baireuth,  "  with  its  kind  pic- 
turesque environment,"  where,  with  only  brief 
occasional  excursions,  he  continued  to  live  and 
write.  We  have  heard  that  he  was  a  man  uni- 
versally loved,  as  well  as  honoured  there :  a 
friendly,  true,  and  high-minded  man  ;  copious 
in  speech,  which  was  full  of  grave  genuine 
humour ;  contented  with  simple  people  and 
simple  pleasures  ;  and  himself  of  the  simplest 
habits  and  wishes.  He  had  three  children; 
and  a  guardian  angel,  doubtless  not  without  her 


flaws,  yet  a  reasonable  angel  notwithstanding. 
For  a  man  with  such  obdured  Stoicism,  like 
triple  steel,  round  his  breast;  and  of  such 
gentle,  deep-lying,  ever-living  springs  of  Love 
within  it, — all  this  may  well  have  made  a 
happy  life.  Besides  Paul  was  of  exemplary, 
unwearied  diligence  in  his  vocation ;  and  so 
had,  at  all  times,  "  perennial,  fire-proof  Joys, 
namely.  Employments."  In  addition  to  the 
latter  part  of  the  novels  named  above,  which, 
with  the  others,  as  all  of  them  are  more  or  less 
genuine  poetical  productions,  we  feel  reluc- 
tant to  designate  even  transiently  by  so  despi- 
cable an  English  word, — his  philosophical  and 
critical  performances,  especially  the  Vorschule 
der  Jlesthetik,  (Introduction  to  Esthetics,)  and 
the  Levana,  (Doctrine  of  Education,)  belong 
wholly  to  Baireuth,  not  to  enumerate  a  multi- 
tude of  miscellaneous  writings,  (on  moral, 
literary,  scientific  subjects,  but  always  in  a  hu- 
mourous, fantastic,  poetic  dress,)  which  of  them- 
selves would  have  made  the  fortune  of  no  mean 
man.  His  heart  and  conscience,  as  well  as  his 
head  and  hand,  were  in  the  work ;  from  which 
no  temptation  could  withdraw  him.  "I  hold 
my  duty,"  says  he  in  these  Biographical  Notes, 
"not  to  lie  in  enjoying  or  acquiring,  but  in 
writing, — whatever  time  it  may  cost,  whatever 
money  may  be  forborne, — nay  whatever  plea- 
sure ;  for  example  that  of  seeing  Switzerland, 
which  nothing  but  the  sacrifice  of  time  for- 
bids."— "  I  deny  myself  my  evening  meal  (Ves- 
peressen)  in  my  eagerness  to  Avork,  but  the 
interruptions  by  my  children  I  cannot  deny 
myself."  And  again:  "A  Poet, who  presumes 
to  give  poetic  delight,  should  contemn  and  will- 
ingly forbear  all  enjoyments,  the  sacrifice  of 
which  affects  not  his  creative  powers ;  that  so 
he  may  perhaps  delight  a  century  and  a  whole 
people."  In  Richter's  advanced  years,  it  was 
happy  for  him  that  he  could  say:  "When  I 
look  at  what  has  been  made  out  of  me,  I  must 
thank  God  that  I  paid  no  heed  to  external  mat- 
ters, neither  to  time  or  toil,  nor  profit,  nor  loss ; 
the  thing  is  there,  and  the  instruments  that  did 
it  I  have  forgotten  and  none  else  knows  them. 
In  this  wise,  has  the  unimportant  series  of  mo- 
ments been  changed  into  something  higher  that 
remains." — "I  have  described  so  much,"  says 
he  elsewhere,  "  and  I  die  without  ever  having 
seen  Switzerland,  and  the  Ocean,  and  so  many 
other  sights.  But  the  ocean  of  eternity  I  shall 
in  no  case  fail  to  see." 

A  heavy  stroke  fell  on  him  in  the  year  1821, 
when  his  only  son,  a  young  man  of  great  pro- 
mise, died  at  the  University.  Paul  lost  not  his 
composure ;  but  was  deeply,  incurably  wounded. 
"  Epistolary  lamentations  on  my  misfortune," 
says  he,  "I  read  unraov^ed,  for  the  bitterest  is  lo 
be  heard  within  myself,  and  I  must  shut  the 
ears  of  my  soul  to  it ;  but  a  single  new  trait 
of  Max's  fair  nature  opens  the  whole  lacerated 
heart  asunder  again,  and  it  can  only  drive  its 
blood  into  the  eyes."  New  personal  sufferings 
awaited  him :  a  decay  of  health,  and  what  to 
so  indefatigable  a  reader  and  writer  was  still 
worse,  a  decay  of  eye-sight,  increasing  at  last 
into  almost  total  blindness.  This  too  he  bore 
with  his  old  steadfastness,  cheerfully  seeking 
what  help  was  to  be  had;  and  when  no  more 
of  help  remained,  still  cheerfully  labouring  at 


212 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


his  vocation,  though  in  sickness  and  in  blind- 
ness.* Dark  without,  he  was  inwardly  full  of 
light ;  busied  on  his  favourite  theme,  the  Im- 
mortality of  the  Soul;  when  (on  the  14th  No- 
vember, 1825)  Death  came,  and  Paul's  work 
was  all  accomplished,  and  that  great  question 
settled  for  him  on  far  higher  and  indisputable 
evidence.  The  unfinished  Volume  (which 
under  the  title  of  Selina  we  now  have)  was 
carried  on  his  bier  to  the  grave  :  for  his  funeral 
was  public,  and  in  Baireuth,  and  elsewhere,  all 
possible  honour  was  done  to  his  memory. 

In  regard  to  Paul's  character  as  a  man,  we 
have  little  to  say  beyond  what  the  facts  of  this 
Narrative  have  already  said  more  plainly  than 
in  words.  We  learn  from  all  quarters,  in  one 
or  the  other  dialect,  that  the  pure  high  morality 
which  adorns  his  writings,  stamped  itself  also 
on  his  life  and  actions.  "He  was  a  tender 
husband  and  father,"  says  Doering,  "and  good- 
ness itself  towards  his  friends  and  all  that  was 
near  him."  The  significance  of  such  a  spirit 
as  Richter's,  practically  manifested  in  such  a 
life,  is  deep  and  manifold,  and  at  this  era  will 
merit  careful  study.  For  the  present,  however, 
we  must  leave  it,  in  this  degree,  to  the  reader's 
own  consideration ;  another  and  still  more  im- 
mediately needful  department  of  our  task  still 
remains  for  us. 

Richter's  intellectual  and  Literary  character 
is,  perhaps,  in  a  singular  degree  the  counter- 
part and  image  of  his  practical  and  moral 
character :  his  Works  seem  to  us  a  more  than 
usually  faithful  transcript  of  his  mind;  written 
with  great  warmth  direct  from  the  heart,  and, 
like  himself,  wild,  strong,  original,  sincere. 
Viewed  under  any  aspect,  whether  as  Thinker, 
Moralist,  Satirist,  Poet,  he  is  a  phenomenon  ; 
a  vast,  many-sided,  tumultuous,  yet  noble  na- 
ture ;  for  faults,  as  for  merits,  "Jean  Paul  the 
Unique."  In  all  departments,  we  find  in  him 
a  subduing  force;  but  a  lawless,  untutored, 
as  it  were,  half  savage  force.  Thus,  for  ex- 
ample, few  understandings  known  to  us  are 
of  a  more  irresistible  character  than  Richter's ; 
but  its  strength  is  a  natural,  unarmed,  Orson- 
like strength :  he  does  not  cunningly  under- 
mine his  subject,  and  lay  it  open,  by  syllogistic 
implements,  or  any  rule  of  art;  but  he  crushes 
it  to  pieces  in  his  arras,  he  treads  it  asunder, 
not  without  gay  triumph,  under  his  feet;  and 
so  in  almost  monstrous  fashion,  yet  with 
piercing  clearness,  lays  bare  the  inmost 
heart  and  core  of  it  to  all  eyes.  In  passion 
again,  there  is  the  same  wild  vehemence  :  it  is 
a  voice  of  softest  pity,  of  endless,  boundless 
wailing,  a  voice  as  of  Rachel  weeping  for  her 
children; — or  the  fierce  bellowing  of  lions 
amid  savage  forests.  Thus,  too,  he  not  only 
loves  Nature,  but  he  revels  in  her;  plunges 
into  her  infinite  bosom,  and  fills  his  whole 
heart  to  intoxication  with  her  charms.  He  tells 
us  that  he  was  wont  to  study,  to  write,  almost 

•  He  begins  a  letter  applying  for  spectacles  (August, 
1834)  in  these  terms  :— "  Since  last  winter,  my  eyes  (the 
left  had,  already  without  cataract,  been  long  half-blind, 
and  like  Reviewers  and  Litterateurs,  read  nothing  but 
title  pases)  have  been  seized  by  a  daily  increasing 
Night-Ultra  and  Enemy-to-Light,  who,  did  I  not  with- 
stand him,  would  shortly  drive  me  into  the  Orcua  of 
AmaurosJa.     Then,  Mdio,  opera  omnia!" — Doering,  32. 


to  live,  in  the  open  air ;  and  no  skyey  aspect 
was  so  dismal  that  it  altogether  wanted  beauty 
for  him.  We  know  of  no  Poet  with  so  deep 
and  passionate  and  universal  a  feeling  towards 
Nature :  "  from  the  solemn  phases  of  the  starry 
heaven  to  the  simple  floweret  of  the  meadow, 
his  eye  and  his  heart  are  open  for  her  charms 
and  her  mystic  meanings."  But  what  most 
of  all  shadows  forth  the  inborn,  essential 
temper  of  Paul's  mind,  is  the  sportfulness,  the 
wild  heartfelt  Humour,  which,  in  his  highest 
as  in  his  lowest  moods,  ever  exhibits  itself  as 
a  quite  inseparable  ingredient.  His  Humour, 
with  all  its  wildness,  is  of  the  gravest  and 
kindliest,  a  genuine  Humour ;  "  consistent  with 
utmost  earnestness,  or  rather,  inconsistent 
with  the  want  of  it."  But  on  the  whole,  it  is 
impossible  for  him  to  write  in  other  than  a 
humorous  manner,  be  his  subject  what  it  may. 
His  Philosophical  Treatises,  nay,  as  we  have 
seen,  his  Autobiography  itself,  every  thing  that 
comes  from  him,  is  encased  in  some  quaint 
fantastic  framing ;  and  roguish  eyes  (yet  with 
a  strange  sympathy  in  the  matter,  for  his 
Humour,  as  we  said,  is  heartfelt  and  true)  look 
out  on  us  through  many  a  grave  delineation. 
In  his  Novels,  above  all,  this  is  ever  an  indis- 
pensable quality,  and,  indeed,  announces  itself 
in  the  very  entrance  of  the  business,  often  even 
on  the  title-page.  Think,  for  instance,  of  that 
Selection  from  the  Papers  of  the  Devil ;  Hesperus, 
on  the  Dog-post-days ;  Siebcnkas's  Wedded-life, 
Death  asv  Nuptials  ! 

"  The  first  aspect  of  these  peculiarities,"  says 
one  of  Richter's  English  critics,  "  cannot  pre- 
possess us  in  his  favour;  we  are  too  forcih^y 
reminded  of  theatrical  clap-traps  and  literary 
quackery:  nor  on  opening  one  of  the  works 
themselves  is  the  case  much  mended.  Piercing 
gleams  of  thought  do  not  escape  us  ;  singular, 
truths,  conveyed  in  a  form  as  singular ;  gro- 
tesque, and  often  truly  ludicrous  delineations  ; 
pathetic,  magnificent,  far-sounding  passages ; 
eflfusions  full  of  wit,  knowledge,  and  imagina- 
tion, but  difficult  to  bring  under  any  rubric 
whatever;  all  the  elements,  in  short,  of  a 
glorious  intellect,  but  dashed  together  in  such 
wild  arrangement,  that  their  order  seems  the 
very  ideal  of  confusion.  The  style  and  struc- 
ture of  the  book  appear  alike  incomprehen- 
sible. The  narrative  is  every  now  and  then 
suspended,  to  make  way  for  some  'Extra- 
leaf,'  some  wild  digression  upon  any  subject 
but  the  one  in  hand;  the  language  groans 
with  indescribable  metaphors,  and  allusions 
to  all  things  human  and  divine ;  flowing  onward, 
not  like  a  river,  but  like  an  inundation ;  cir- 
cling in  complex  eddies,  chafing  and  gurgling, 
now  this  way,  now  that,  till  the  proper  current 
sinks  out  of  view,  amid  the  boundless  uproar. 
We  close  the  work  with  a  mingled  feeling  of 
astonishment,  oppression,  and  perplexity  ;  and 
Richter  stands  before  us  in  brilliant  cloudy 
vagueness,  a  giant  mass  of  intellect,  but  without 
form,  beauty,  or  intelligible  purpose. 

"To  readers  who  believe  that  intrinsic  is  in- 
separable from  superficial  excellence,  and  that 
nothing  can  be  good  or  beautiful  which  is  not 
to  be  seen  through  in  a  moment,  Richter  can 
occasion  little  difficulty.  They  admit  him  to 
be  a  man  of  vast  natural  endowments,  but  he 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


213 


is  utterly  uncultivated,  and  without  command 
of  them ;  full  of  monstrous  affectation,  the 
very  high-priest  of  Bad  Taste  ;  knows  not  the 
art  of  writing,  scarcely  that  there  is  such  an  art ; 
an  insane  visionary,  floating  for  ever  among 
baseless  dreams  that  hide  the  firm  earth  from 
his  view  :  an  intellectual  Polyphemus,  in  short, 
a  monstrum  horrendum,  informe,  ingens,  (carefully 
adding)  cui  lumen  ademptum;  and  they  close 
their  verdict  reflectively  with  his  own  praise- 
worthy maxim :  '  Providence  has  given  to  the 
English  the  empire  of  the  sea,  to  the  French 
that  of  the  land,  to  the  Germans  that  of— the 
air.' 

"  In  this  way  the  matter  is  adjusted  ;  briefly, 
comfortably,  and  wrong.  The  casket  was 
difficult  to  open :  did  we  know,  by  its  very 
shape,  that  there  was  nothing  in  it,  that  so  we 
should  cast  it  into  the  sea?  Affectation  is 
often  singularity,  but,  singularity  is  not  always 
affectation.  If  the  nature  and  condition  of  a 
man  be  really  and  truly,  not  conceitedly  and 
untruly,  singular,  so  also  will  his  manner  be, 
so  also  ought  it  to  be.  Affectation  is  the  pro- 
duct of  Falsehood,  a  heavy  sin,  and  the  parent 
of  numerous  heavy  sins ;  let  it  be  severely 
punished,  but  not  too  lightly  imputed.  Scarcely 
any  mortal  is  absolutely  free  from  it,  neither 
most  probably  is  Richter;  but  it  is  in  minds 
of  another  substance  than  his  that  it  grows  to 
be  the  ruling  product.  Moreover,  he  is  actually 
not  a  visionary ;  but,  with  all  his  visions,  will 
be  found  to  see  the  firm  Earth,  in  its  whole 
figures  and  relations,  much  more  clearly  than 
thousands  of  such  critics,  who  too  probably 
can  see  nothing  else.  Far  from  being  un- 
trained or  uncultivated,  it  will  surprise  these 
persons  to  discover  that  few  men  have  studied 
the  art  of  writing,  and  many  other  arts  besides, 
more  carefully  than  he;  that  his  Vorschule* 
der  Aesthetik  abounds  with  deep  and  sound 
maxims  of  criticism;  in  the  course  of  which, 
many  complex  works,  his  own  among  others, 
are  rigidly  and  justly  tried,  and  even  the 
graces  and  minutest  qualities  of  style  are  by 
no  means  overlooked  or  unwisely  handled. 

"  Withal,  there  is  something  in  Richter  that 
incites  us  to  a  second,  to  a  third  perusal.  His 
works  are  hard  to  understand,  but  they  always 
have  a  meaning,  often  a  true  and  deep  one.  In 
our  closer,  more  comprehensive  glance,  their 
truth  steps  forth  with  new  distinctness,  their 
error  dissipates  and  recedes,  passes  into 
veniality,  often  even  into  beauty ;  and  at  last 
the  thick  haze  which  encircled  the  form  of  the 
writer  melts  away,  and  he  stands  revealed  to  us 
in  his  own  steadfast  features,  a  colossal  spirit, 
a  lofty  and  original  thinker,  a  genuine  poet, 
a  high-minded,  true,  and  most  amiable  man. 

"  I  have  called  him  a  colossal  spirit,  for  this 
impression  continues  with  us :  to  the  last  we 
figure  him  as  something  gigantic :  for  all  the 
elements  of  his  structure  are  vast,  and  com- 
bined together  in  living  and  life-giving,  rather 
than  in  beautiful  or  symmetrical  order.  His 
intellect  is  keen,  impetuous,  far-grasping,  fit  to 
rend  in  peaces  the  stubbornest  materials,  and 
extort  from  them  their  most  hidden  and  refrac- 
tory truth.  In  his  Humour  he  sports  with  the 
highest  and  the  lowest,  he  can  play  at  bowls 
with   the  Sun  and  Moon.    His  Imagination 


opens  for  us  the  Land  of  Dreams ;  we  sail  with 
him  through  the  boundless  Abyss;  and  the 
secrets  of  Space,  and  Time,  and  Life,  and  An- 
nihilation, hover  round  us  in  dim,  cloudy 
forms ;  and  darkness,  and  immensity,  and 
dread  encompass  and  overshadow  us.  Nay, 
in  handling  the  smallest  matter,  he  works  it 
with  the  tools  of  a  giant.  A  common  truth  is 
wrenched  from  its  old  combinations,  and  pre- 
sented us  in  new,  impassable,  abysmal  con- 
trast with  its  opposite  error.  A  trifle,  some 
slender  character,  some  jest,  or  quip,  or 
spiritual  toy,  is  shaped  into  most  quaint,  yet 
often  truly  living  form  ;  but  shaped  somehow 
as  with  the  hammer  of  Vulcan,  with  three 
strokes  that  might  have  helped  to  forge  an 
-'Egis.  The  treasures  of  his  mind  are  of  a 
similar  description  with  the  mind  itself;  his 
knowledge  is  gathered  from  all  the  kingdoms 
of  Art,  and  Science,  and  Nature,  and  lies 
round  him  in  huge  unwieldy  heaps.  His  very 
language  is  Titanian;  deep,  strong,  tumul- 
tuous ;  shining  wiih  a  thousand  hues,  fused 
from  a  thousand  elements,  and  winding  in 
labyrinthic  mazes. 

"  Among  Richter's  gifts,"  continues  this  cri- 
tic, "  the  first  that  strikes  us  as  truly  great  is 
his  Imagination;  for  he  loves  to  dwell  in  the 
loftiest  and  most  solemn  provinces  of  thought; 
his  works  abound  with  mysterious  allegories, 
visions,  and  typical  adumbrations ;  his  Dreams, 
in  particular,  have  a  gloomy  vastness,  broken 
here  and  there  by  wild  far-darting  splendour; 
and  shadowy  forms  of  meaning  rise  dimly 
from  the  bosom  of  the  void  Infinite.  Yet,  if  I 
mistake  not,  Humour  is  his  ruling  quality,  the 
quality  which  lives  most  deeply  in  his  inward 
nature,  and  most  strongly  influences  his  man- 
ner of  being.  In  this  rare  gift,  for  none  is 
rarer  than  true  Humour,  he  stands  unrivalled 
in  his  own  country,  and  among  late  writers,  in 
every  other.  To  describe  Humour  is  difficult 
at  all  times,  and  would  perhaps  be  more  than 
usually  ditficult  in  Richter's  case.  Like  all  his 
other  qualities,  it  is  vast,  rude,  irregular;  often 
perhaps  overstrained  and  extravagant ;  yet, 
fundamentally,  it  is  genuine  Humour,  the  Hu- 
mour of  Cervantes  and  Sterne;  the  product 
not  of  Contempt,  but  of  Love,  not  of  superfi- 
cial distortion  of  natural  forms,  but  of  deep 
though  playful  sympathy  with  all  forms  of 
Nature.  *  *  * 

"So  long  as  Humour  will  avail  him,  his 
management  even  of  higher  and  stronger  cha- 
racters may  still  be  pronounced  successful; 
but  wherever  Humour  ceases  to  be  applicable, 
his  success  is  more  or  less  imperfect.  In  the 
treatment  of  heroes  proper  he  is  seldom  com- 
pletely happy.  They  shoot  into  rugged  exag- 
geration in  his  hands  :  their  sensibility  be- 
comes too  copious  and  tearful,  their  magnani- 
mity too  fierce,  abrupt,  and  thorough-going. 
In  some  few  instances,  they  verge  towards 
absolute  failure  :  compared  with  their  less  am- 
bitious brethren,  they  are  almost  of  a  vulgar 
cast ;  with  all  their  brilliancy  and  vigour,  too 
like  that  positive,  determinate,  volcanic  class 
of  personages  whom  we  meet  with  so  fre- 
quently in  Novels ;  they  call  themselves  Men, 
and  do  their  utmost  to  prove  the  assertion,  but 
they  cannot  make  us  believe  it ;  for  after  all 


814 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


their  vapouring  and  storming,  we  see  well 
enough  that  they  are  but  Engines,  wiih  no 
more  life  than  the  Freethinkers'  model  in 
Martinus  Scriblerus,  the  Nuremberg  Man,  who 
operated  by  a  combination  of  pipes  and  levers, 
and  though  he  could  breath  and  digest  perfect- 
ly, and  even  reason  as  well  as  most  country 
parsons,  was  made  of  wood  and  leather.  In 
the  general  conduct  of  such  histories  and  de- 
lineations, Richter  seldom  appears  to  advan- 
tage :  the  incidents  are  often  startling  and 
extravagant;  the  whole  structure  of  the  story 
has  a  rugged,  broken,  huge,  artificial  aspect, 
and  will  not  assume  the  air  of  truth.  Yet  its 
chasms  are  strangely  filled  up  with  the  costliest 
materials ;  a  world,  a  universe  of  wit,  and 
knowledge,  and  fancy,  and  imagination  has 
sent  its  fairest  products  to  adorn  the  edifice  ; 
the  rude  and  rent  Cyclopean  walls  are  resplen- 
dent with  jewels  and  beaten  gold  ;  rich  stately 
foliage  screens  it,  the  balmiest  odours  encircle 
it;  we  stand  astonished  if  not  captivated,  de- 
lighted if  not  charmed,  by  the  artist  and  his 
art." 

With  these  views,  so  far  as  they  go,  we  see 
little  reason  to  disagree.  There  is  doubtless  a 
deeper  meaning  in  the  matter,  but  perhaps 
this  is  not  the  season  for  evolving  it.  To  de- 
pict, with  true  scientific  accuracy,  the  essential 
purport  and  character  of  Richter's  genius  and 
literary  endeavour;  how  it  originated,  whither 
it  tends,  how  it  stands  related  to  the  general 
tendencies  of  the  world  in  this  age ;  above  all, 
what  is  its  worth  and  want  of  worth  to  our- 
selves,— may  one  day  be  a  necessary  problem  ; 
but,  as  matters  actually  stand,  would  be  a  difii- 
cult,  and  not  very  profitable  one.  The  English 
public  has  not  yet  seen  Richter ;  and  must 
know  him  before  it  can  judge  him.  For  us,  in 
the  present  circumstances,  we  hold  it  a  more 
promising  plan  to  exhibit  some  specimens  of 
his  workmanship  itself,  than  to  attempt  de- 
scribing it  anew  or  better.  The  general  out- 
line of  his  intellectual  aspect,  as  sketched  in 
few  words  by  the  writer  already  quoted,  may 
stand  here  by  way  of  preface  to  these  Extracts  : 
as  was  the  case  above,  whatever  it  may  want, 
it  contains  nothing  that  we  dissent  from. 

"  To  characterize  Jean  Paul's  works,"  says 
he, "  would  be  difficult  after  the  fullest  inspec- 
tion :  to  describe  them  to  English  readers 
would  be  next  to  impossible.  Whether  poeti- 
cal, philosophical,  didactic,  fantastic,  they 
seem  all  to  be  emblems,  more  or  less  complete, 
of  the  singular  mind  where  they  originated. 
As  a  whole,  the  first  perusal  of  them,  more 
particularly  to  a  foreigner,  is  almost  infallibly 
offensive  ;  and  neither  their  meaning  nor  their 
no-meaning  is  to  be  discerned  without  long 
and  sedulous  study.  They  are  a  tropical  wil- 
derness, full  of  endless  tortuosities ;  but  with 
the  fairest  flowers  and  the  coolest  fountains  ; 
now  overarching  us  with  high  umbrageous 
gloom,  now  opening  in  long  gorgeous  vistas. 
We  wander  through  them,  enjoying  their  wild 
grandeur;  and,  by  degrees,  our  half-contemp- 
tuous wonder  at  the  Author  passes  into  reve- 
rence and  love.  His  face  was  long  hid  from 
us  ;  but  we  see  him  at  length,  in  the  firm  shape 
of  spiritual  manhood;  a  vast  and  most  singu- 
lar nature,  but  vindicating  his  singular  nature 


by  the  force,  the  beauty,  and  benignity  which 
pervade  it.  In  fine,  we  joyfully  accept  him 
for  what  he  is  and  was  meant  to  be.  The 
graces,  the  polish,  the  sprightly  elegancies, 
which  belong  to  men  of  lighter  make,  we  can- 
not look  for  or  demand  from  him.  His  move- 
ment is  essentially  slow  and  cumbrous,  for  he 
advances  not  with  one  faculty,  but  with  a 
whole  mind;  with  intellect,  and  pathos,  and 
wit,  and  humour,  and  imagination,  moving 
onward  like  a  mighty  host,  motley,  ponderous, 
irregular,  irresistible.  He  is  not  airy,  spark- 
ling, and  precise ;  but  deep,  billowy,  and  vast. 
The  melody  of  his  nature  is  not  expressed  in 
common  note-marks,  or  written  down  by  the 
critical  gamut :  for  it  is  wild  and  manifold ;  its 
voice  is  like  the  voice  of  cataracts,  and  the 
sounding  of  primeval  forests.  To  feeble  ears 
it  is  discord,  but  to  ears  that  understand  it, 
deep  majestic  music."* 

As  our  first  specimen,  which  also  may  serve 
for  proof  that  Richter,  in  adopting  his  own  ex- 
traordinary style,  did  it  with  clear  knowledge 
of  what  excellence  in  style,  and  the  various 
kinds  and  degrees  of  excellence  therein  pro- 
perly signified,  we  select,  from  his  Vorschule 
der  jiesthetik  (above  mentioned  and  recom- 
mended) the  following  miniature  sketches : 
the  reader,  acquainted  with  the  persons,  will 
find  these  sentences,  as  we  believe,  strikingly 
descriptive  and  exact.  *- 

"  Visit  Herder's  creations,  where  Greek  life- 
freshness,  and  Hindoo  life-weariness  are  won- 
derfully blended:  you  walk,  as  it  were,  amid 
moonshine,  into  which  the  red  dawn  is  already 
falling ;  but  one  hidden  sun  is  the  painter  of 
both." 

"  Similar,  but  more  compacted  into  periods, 
is  Friedrich  Heinrich  Jacobi's  vigorous,  Ger- 
man-hearted prose ;  musical  in  every  sense, 
for  even  his  images  are  often  derived  from 
tones.  The  rare  union  between  cutting  force 
of  intellectual  utterance,  and  infinitude  of  sen- 
timent, gives  us  the  tense  metallic  chord  with 
its  soft  tones." 

"In  Goethe's  prose,  on  the  other  hand,  his 
fixedness  of  form  gives  us  the  Memnon's-tone. 
A  plastic  rounding,  a  pictorial  determinate- 
ness,  which  even  betrays  the  manual  artist, 
make  his  works  a  fixed  still  gallery  of  figures 
and  bronze  statues." 

"  Luther's  prose  is  a  half-battle  ;  few  deeds 
are  equal  to  his  words." 

"  Klopstock's  prose  frequently  evinces  a 
sharpness  of  diction  bordering  on  poverty  of 
matter;  a  quality  peculiar  to  Grammarians, 
who  most  of  all  know  distinctly,  but  least  of  all 
know  much.  From  want  of  matter,  one  is  apt 
to  think  too  much  of  language.  New  views 
of  the  world,  like  these  other  poets,  Klopstock 
scarcely  gave.  Hence  the  naked  winter-boughs, 
in  his  prose;  the  multitude  of  circumscribed 
propositions;  the  brevity;  the  return  of  the 
same  small  sharp-cut  figures,  for  instance, 
of  the  Resurrection,  as  of  a  Harvest-field." 

"  The  perfection  of  pomp-prose  we  find  in 
Schiller :  what  the  utmost  splendour  of  reflec- 
tion in  images,  in  fulness  and  antithesis  can 
give,  he  gives.    Nay,  often  he  plays  on  the  po- 


♦German  Romance,  iii.  6, 18. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


215 


etic  strings  with  so  rich  and  jewel-loaded  a 
hand,  that  the  sparkling  mass  disturbs,  if  not 
the  playing,  yet  our  hearing  of  it." — Vor- 
schule,  s.  545. 

That  Richter's  own  playing  and  painting 
differed  widely  from  all  of  these,  the  reader  has 
already  heard,  and  may  now  convince  himself. 
Take,  for  example,  the  following  of  a  fair- 
weather  scene,  selected  from  a  thousand  such 
that  may  be  found  in  his  writings  ;  nowise  as 
the  best,  but  simply  as  the  briefest.  It  is  in  the 
May  season,  the  last  evening  of  Spring : 

"Such  a  May  as  the  present,  (of  1794,)  Na- 
ture has  not  in  the  memory  of  man — begun  ; 
for  this  is  but  the  fifteenth  of  it.  People  of  re- 
flection have  long  been  vexed  once  every  year, 
that  our  German  singers  should  indite  May- 
songs,  since  several  other  months  deserve 
su<?h  a  poetical  Night-music  better;  and  I 
myself  have  often  gone  so  far  as  to  adopt  the 
idiom  of  our  market-women,  and  instead  of 
May  butter  to  say  June  butter,  as  also  June, 
March,  April  songs.  But  thou,  kind  May  of 
this  year,  thou  deservest  to  thyself  all  the 
songs  which  were  ever  made  on  thy  rude 
namesakes  ! — By  Heaven  !  when  I  now  issue 
from  the  wavering  chequered  acacia-grove  of 
the  Castle,  in  which  I  am  writing  this  Chap- 
ter, and  come  forth  into  the  broad  living  light, 
and  look  up  to  the  warming  Heaven,  and  over 
its  Earth  budding  out  beneath  it, — the  Spring 
rises  before  me  like  a  vast  full  cloud,  with 
a  splendour  of  blue  and  green.  I  see  the  Sun 
standing  amid  roses  in  the  western  sky,  into 
which  he  has  throvm  his  ray-brush  wherewith  he 
has  to-day  been  painting  the  Earth  ; — and  when  I 
look  round  a  little  in  our  picture  exhibition, — 
his  enamelling  is  still  hot  on  the  mountains; 
on  the  moist  chalk  of  the  moist  earth,  the 
flowers,  full  of  sap-colours,  are  laid  out  to  dry, 
and  the  forget-me-not  with  miniature  colours  ; 
under  the  varnish  of  the  streams  the  skyey 
Painter  has  pencilled  his  own  eye ;  and  the 
clouds  like  a  decoration-painter, he  has  touched 
off  with  wild  outlines,  and  single  tints ;  and 
so  he  stands  at  the  border  of  the  Earth,  and 
looks  back  on  his  stately  Spring,  whose  robe- 
folds  are  valleys,  whose  breast-bouquet  is 
gardens,  and  whose  blush  is  a  vernal  evening, 
and  who,  when  she  rises,  will  be — Summer !" — 
Fixlein,  z.  11. 

Or  the  following,  in  which  moreover  are 
two  happy  living  figures,  a  bridegroom  and  a 
a  bride  on  their  marriage-day  : 

"He  led  her  from  the  crowded  dancing- 
room  into  the  cool  evening.  Why  does  the 
evening,  does  the  night,  put  warmer  love  in 
our  hearts  1  Is  it  the  nightly  pressure  of  help- 
lessness ;  or  is  it  the  exalting  separation  from 
the  turmoils  of  life,  that  veiling  of  the  world, 
in  which  for  the  soul  nothing  then  remains 
but  souls  : — is  it,  therefore,  that  the  letters  in 
which  the  loved  name  stands  written  in  our 
spirit,  appear,  like  phosphorus  writing,  by 
night,  on  fire,  while  by  day  in  their  cloudy  traces 
they  but  smoke  1 

"  He  walked  with  his  bride  into  the  Castle- 
garden  :  she  hastened  quickly  through  the 
Castle,  and  past  its  servant's-hall,  where  the 
fair  flowers  of  her  young  life  had  been  crushed 
broad  and  dry,  under  a  long  dreary  pressure  ; 


and  her  soul  expanded,  and  breathed  in  the 
free  open  garden,  on  whose  flowery  soil  Des- 
tiny had  cast  forth  the  first  seeds  of  the  blos- 
soms which  to-day  were  gladdening  her  exist- 
ence. Still  Eden !  Green,  flower-chequered 
chiaroscuro ! — The  moon  is  sleeping  under 
ground,  like  a  dead  one,  but  beyond  the  garden, 
the  sun's  red  evening-clouds  have  fallen  down 
like  roseleaves  ;  and  the  evening-star,  the 
brideman  of  the  sun,  hovers  like  a  glancing 
butterfly  above  the  rosy  red,  and,  modest  as  a 
bride,  deprives  no  single  starlet  of  its  light. 

"  The  wandering  pair  arrived  at  the  old 
gardener's-hut ;  now  standing  locked  and 
dumb,  with  dark  windows  in  the  light  garden, 
like  a  fragment  of  the  Past  surviving  in  the  Pre- 
sent. Bared  twigs  of  trees  were  folding,  with 
clammy  half-formed  leaves,  over  the  thick 
intertwisted  tangles  of  the  bushes.  The  Spring 
was  standing,  like  a  conqueror,  with  Winter 
at  his  feet.  In  the  blue  pond  now  bloodless, 
a  dusky  evening-sky  lay  hollowed  out ;  and 
the  gushing  waters  were  moistening  the  flower- 
beds. The  silver  sparks  of  stars  were  rising 
on  the  altar  of  the  East,  and  falling  down  ex- 
tinguished in  the  red-sea  of  the  West." 

"The  wind  whirred,  like  a  night-bird,  louder 
through  the  trees ;  and  gave  tones  to  the  aca- 
cia-grove, and  the  tones  called  to  the  pair  who 
had  first  become  happy  within  it:  'Enter, new 
mortal  pair,  and  think  of  what  is  past,  and  of 
my  withering  and  your  own ;  and  be  holy  as 
Eternity,  and  weep,  not  for  joy  only,  but  for 
gratitude  also  !'  *  •  * 

"  They  reached  the  blazing,  rustling  marri- 
age-house, but  their  softened  hearts  sought 
stillness  ;  and  a  foreign  touch,  as  in  the  blos- 
soming vine,  would  have  disturbed  the  flower- 
nuptials  of  their  souls.  They  turned  rather, 
and  winded  up  into  the  churchyard,  to  pre- 
serve their  mood.  Majestic  on  the  groves  and 
mountains  stood  the  Night  before  man's  heart, 
and  made  it  also  great.  Over  the  white  stee- 
ple-obelisk the  sky  rested  bluer  and  darker; 
and  behind  it  wavered  the  withered  summit 
of  the  Maypole  with  faded  flag.  The  son  no- 
ticed his  father's  grave,  on  which  the  wind 
was  opening  and  shutting,  with  harsh  noise, 
the  small  lid  on  the  metal  cross,  to  let  the  year 
of  his  death  be  read  on  the  brass  plate  within. 
An  overpowering  grief  seized  his  heart  with 
violent  streams  of  tears,  and  drove  him  to  the 
sunk  hillock;  and  he  led  his  bride  to  the 
grave,  and  said :  *  Here  sleeps  he,  my  good 
father :  in  his  thirty-second  year  he  was  car- 
ried hither  to  his  long  rest.  O  thou  good  dear 
father,  couldst  thou  but  see  the  happiness  of 
thy  son,  like  my  mother !  But  thy  eyes  are 
empty,  and  thy  breast  is  full  of  ashes,  and  thou 
seest  us  not.' — He  was  silent.  The  bride  wept 
aloud ;  she  saw  the  mouldering  coffins  of  her 
parents  open,  and  the  two  dead  arise,  and  look 
round  for  their  daughter,  who  had  stayed  so 
long  behind  them,  forsaken  on  the  earth.  She 
fell  on  his  neck  and  faltered :  '  0  beloved,  I 
have  neither  father  nor  mother,  do  not  forsake 
me!' 

"O  thou  who  hast  still  a  father  and  a  mo- 
ther, thank  God  for  it  on  the  day  when  thy 
soul  is  full  of  glad  tears,  and  needs  a  bosom 
wherein  to  shed  them. . . . 


216 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


"And  with  this  embracing  at  a  father's 
grave,  let  this  day  of  joy  be  holily  concluded." 
— Fixlein,  z.  9. 

In  such  passages,  slight  as  they  are,  we 
fancy  an  experienced  eye  will  trace  some  fea- 
tures of  originality,  as  well  as  of  un common- 
ness: an  open  sense  for  Nature,  a  soft  heart, 
a  warm  rich  fancy,  and  here  and  there  some 
under-current  of  Humour  are  distinctly  enough 
discernible.  Of  this  latter  quality,  which,  as 
has  been  of>en  said,  forms  Richter's  grand 
characteristic,  we  would  fain  give  our  readers 
some  correct  notion  ;  but  see  not  well  how  it 
is  to  be  done.  Being  genuine  poetic  humour, 
not  drollery  or  vulgar  caricature,  it  is  like  a 
fine  essence,  like  a  soul ;  we  discover  it  only 
in  whole  works  and  delineations  ;  as  the  soul 
is  only  to  be  seen  in  the  living  body,  not  in 
detached  limbs  and  fragments.  Richter's  Hu- 
mour takes  a  great  variety  of  forms,  some  of 
them  sufficiently  grotesque  and  piebald ;  rang- 
ing from  the  light  kindly-comic  vein  of  Sterne 
in  his  Trim  and  Uncle  Toby,  over  all  interme- 
diate degrees,  to  the  rugged  grim  farce-tragedy 
often  manifested  in  Hogarth's  pictures ;  nay, 
to  still  darker  and  wilder  moods  than  this. 
Of  the  former  sort  are  his  characters  of  Fix- 
lein, Schmelzle,  Fibel ;  of  the  latter  his  Vult, 
Giannozzo,  Leibgebber,  Schoppe,  which  last 
two  are  indeed  one  and  the  same.  Of  these, 
of  the  spirit  that  reigns  in  them,  we  should 
despair  of  giving  other  than  the  most  inade- 
quate and  even  incorrect  idea,  by  any  extracts 
or  expositions  that  could  possibly  be  furnished 
here.  Not  without  reluctance  we  have  accord- 
ingly renounced  that  enterprise ;  and  must 
content  ourselves  with  some  "  Extra-leaf,"  or 
other  separable  passage,  which,  if  it  afford  no 
emblem  of  Richter's  Humour,  may  be,  in  these 
circumstances,  our  best  approximation  to  such. 
Of  the  "  Extra-leaves,"  in  Hesperus  itself,  a 
considerable  volume  might  be  formed,  and 
truly  one  of  the  strangest.  Most  of  them, 
however,  are  national;  could  not  be  appre- 
hended without  a  commentary;  and  even  then, 
much  to  their  disadvantage,  for  Humour  must 
be  seen,  not  through  a  glass,  but  face  to  face. 
The  following  is  nowise  one  of  the  best;  but 
it  turns  on  what  we  believe  is  a  quite  Euro- 
pean subject,  at  all  events  is  certainly  an  Eng- 
lish one. 

"  Extra-leaf  on  Daughter-full  Houses. 

"The  Minister's  house  was  an  open  book- 
shop, the  books  in  which  (the  daughters)  you 
might  read  there,  but  could  not  take  home  with 
you.  Though  five  other  daughters  were  al- 
ready standing  in  five  private  libraries,  as 
wives,  and  one  under  the  ground  at  Maienthal 
was  sleeping  off  the  child's-play  of  life,  yet 
still  in  this  daughter-warehouse  there  remained 
three  gratis  copies  to  be  disposed  of  to  good 
friends.  The  Minister  was  always  prepared, 
in  drawings  from  the  office-lottery,  to  give  his 
daughters  as  premiums  to  winners,  and  hold- 
ers of  the  lucky  ticket.  Whom  God  gives  an 
office,  he  also  gives,  if  not  sense  for  it,  at  least 
a  wife.  In  a  daughter-full  house,  there  must, 
as  in  the  Church  of  St.  Peter's,  be  confessionals 
for  all  nations,  for  all  characters,  for  all  faults; 
that  the  daughters  may  sit  as  confessoresses 


therein,  and  absolve  from  all,  bachelorship 
only  excepted.  As  a  Natural-Philosopher,  I 
have  many  times  admired  the  wise  methods 
of  Nature  for  distributing  daughters  and 
plants :  is  it  not  a  fine  arrangement,  said  I 
to  the  Natural-Historian  Goeze,  that  Nature 
should  have  bestowed  specially  on  young  wo- 
men, who  for  their  growth  require  a  rich  mi- 
neralogical  soil,  some  sort  of  hooking  appa- 
ratus, whereby  to  stick  themselves  on  miserable 
marriage-cattle,  that  may  carry  them  to  fat 
places  ?  Thus  Linnasus,*  as  you  know,  ob- 
serves that  such  seeds  as  can  flourish  only  in 
fat  earth  are  furnished  with  barbs,  and  so 
fasten  themselves  the  better  on  grazing  quad- 
rupeds, which  transport  them  to  stalls  and 
dunghills.  Strangely  does  Nature,  by  the 
wind, — which  father  and  mother  must  raise, — 
scatter  daughters  and  fir-seeds  into  the  arable 
spots  of  the  forest.  Who  does  not  remark  the 
final  cause  here,  and  how  Nature  has  equip- 
ped many  a  daughter  with  such  and  such 
charms,  simply  that  some  Peer,  some  mitred 
Abbot,  Cardinal-deacon,  appanaged  Prince,  or 
mere  country  Baron,  may  lay  hold  of  said 
charmer,  and  in  the  character  of  Father  or 
Brideman,  hand  over  her  ready-made  to  some 
gawk  of  the  like  sort,  as  a  wife  acquired  by 
purchase?  And  do  we  find  in  bilberries  a 
slighter  attention  on  the  part  of  Nature? 
Does  not  the  same  Linnaeus  notice,  in  the 
same  treatise,  that  they,  too,  are  cased  in  a 
nutritive  juice  to  incite  the  Fox  to  eat  them  ; 
after  which,  the  villain, — digest  them  he  can- 
not,— in  such  sort  as  he  may,  becomes  their 
sower  ? — 

"  O,  my  heart  is  more  in  earnest  than  you 
think;  the  parents  anger  me  who  are  soul- 
brokers  ;  the  daughters  sadden  me,  who  are 
made  slave-Negresses.— -Ah,  is  it  wonderful 
that  these,  who  in  their  West-Indian  market- 
place, must  dance,  laugh,  speak,  sing,  till  some 
lord  of  a  plantation  take  them  home  with  him, 
— that  these,  I  say,  should  be  as  slavishly  treat- 
ed, as  they  are  sold  and  bought  1  Ye  poor 
lambs  ! — And  yet  ye,  too,  are  as  bad  as  your 
sale-mothers  and  sale-fathers :  what  is  one  to 
do  with  his  enthusiasm  for  your  sex,  when  one 
travels  through  German  towns,  where  every 
heaviest  pursed,  every  longest-tilled  individual, 
were  he  second  cousin  to  the  Devil  himself, 
can  point  with  his  finger  to  thirty  houses,  and 
say :  'I  know  not,  shall  it  be  from  the  pearl- 
coloured,  or  the  nut-brown,  or  the  steel-green 
house,  that  I  wed;  open  to  customers  are  they 
all  I' — How,  my  girls,  is  your  heart  so  little 
worth  that  you  cut  it,  like  old  clothes,  after  any 
fashion,  to  fit  any  breast ;  and  does  it  wax  or 
shrink,  then,  like  a  Chinese  ball,  to  fit  itself 
into  the  ball-mould  and  marriage  ring-case  of 
any  male  heart  whatever? — 'Well,  it  must; 
unless  we  would  sit  at  home,  and  grow  Old 
Maids,'  answer  they;  whom  I  will  not  answer, 
but  turn  scornfully  away  from  them  to  address 
that  same  Old  Maid  in  these  words : 

"  '  Forsaken,  but  patient  one  !  misknown  and 
mistreated!  Think  not  of  the  times  when  thou 
hadst  hope  of  a  belter  than  the  present  are,  and 


*  His  AraiBu.  Jicad—TiiQ  Treatise  ou  the  Habitable 
Globe. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


217 


repent  the  noble  pride  of  thy  heart  never!  It  is 
not  always  our  duty  to  marry,  but  it  is  always 
our  duty  to  abide  by  right,  not  to  purchase  hap- 
piness by  loss  of  honour,  not  to  avoid  unwed- 
dedness  by  untruthfulness.  Lonely,  unadraired 
heroine !  in  thy  last  hour,  when  all  Life  and 
the  bygone  possessions  and  scaffoldings  of  Life 
shall  crumble  in  pieces,  ready  to  fall  down  ;  in 
that  hour  thou  wilt  look  back  on  thy  untenant- 
ed life:  no  children,  no  husband,  no  wet  eyes 
will  be  there  ;  but  in  the  empty  dusk,  one  high, 
pure,  angelic,  smiling,  beaming  Figure,  godlike 
and  mounting  to  the  Godlike,  will  hover,  and 
beckon  thee  to  mount  with  her, — mount  thou 
with  her,  the  Figure  is  thy  Virtue.'  " 

We  have  spoken  above,  and  warmly,  of 
Jean  Paul's  Imagination,  of  his  high  devout 
feeling,  which  it  were  now  a  still  more  grate- 
ful part  of  our  task  to  exhibit.  But  in  this 
also  our  readers  must  content  themselves  with 
some  imperfect  glimpses.  What  religious 
opinions  and  aspirations  he  specially  enter- 
tained, how  that  noblest  portion  of  man's  in- 
terests represented  itself  in  such  a  mind,  were 
long  to  describe,  did  we  even  know  it  with 
certainty.  He  hints  somewhere  that  "the  soul, 
which  by  nature  looks  Heavenward,  is  without 
a  Temple  in  this  age ;"  in  which  the  careful 
reader  will  decipher  much. 

"But  there  will  come  another  era,"  says 
Paul, "  when  it  shall  be  light,  and  man  will 
awaken  from  his  lofty  dreams,  and  find — his 
dreams  still  there,  and  that  nothing  is  gone  save 
his  sleep. 

"  The  stones  and  rocks,  which  two  veiled 
Figures,  (Necessity  and  Vice,)  like  Deucalion 
and  Pyrrha,  are  casting  behind  them,  at  Good- 
ness, will  themselves  become  men. 

"And  on  the  Western  Gate  (Jbendthor,  eve- 
ning-gate) of  this  century  stands  written  :  Here 
is  the  way  to  Virtue  and  Wisdom ;  as  on  the 
Western-Gate  at  Cherson  stands  the  pro^d  In- 
scription :  Here  is  the  way  to  Byzance. 

"  Infinite  Providence,  Thou  wilt  cause  the 
day  to  dawn. 

"  But  as  yet,  struggles  the  twelfth-hour  of  the 
Night :  the  nocturnal  birds  of  prey  are  on  the 
wing,  spectres  uproar,  the  dead  walk,  the  living 
dream." — Hesperus.    Preface. 

Connected  with  this,  there  is  one  other  piece, 
which  also  for  its  singular  poetic  qualities,  we 
shall  translate  here.  The  reader  has  heard 
much  of  Richter's  Dreams,  with  what  strange 
prophetic  power  he  rules  over  that  chaos  of 
spiritual  Nature,  bodying  forth  a  whole  world 
of  Darkness,  broken  by  pallid  gleams,  or  wild 
sparkles  of  light,  and  peopled  with  huge, 
shadowy,  bewildered  shapes,  full  of  grandeur 
and  meaning.  No  Poetknown  to  us,  not  Milton 
himself,  shows  such  a  vastness  of  Imagination  ; 
such  a  rapt,  deep,  old  Hebrew  spirit,  as  Richter 
in  these  scenes.  He  mentions  in  his  Biogra- 
phical Notes  the  impression  which  these  lines 
of  the  Tempest  had  on  him,  as  recited  by  one  of 
his  companions : 

"  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  Life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

"  The  passage   of   Shakspeare,"   says   he, 
"  rounded  with  a  sleep,  (mit  Schlaf  timgeben,)  in 
28 


Plattner's  mouth,  created  whole  books  in  me." 
—The  following  dream  is  perhaps  his  grandest, 
as,  undoubtedly,  it  is  among  his  most  celebrated. 
We  shall  give  it  entire,  long  as  it  is,  and  there- 
with finish  our  quotations.  What  value  he 
himself  put  on  it,  may  be  gathered  from  the 
following  Note:  "If  ever  my  heart,"  says  he, 
"  were  to  grow  so  wretched  and  so  dead,  that 
all  feelings  in  it  which  announce  the  being  of 
a  God  were  extinct  there,  I  would  terrify  my- 
self with  this  sketch  of  mine;  it  would  heal 
me,  and  give  me  my  feelings  back."  We 
translate  it  from  Siebcnkas,  where  it  forms  the 
first  chapter,  or  Blumenstuck,  (Flower-piece.) 

"  The  purpose  of  this  fiction  is  the  excuse  of 
its  boldness.  Men  deny  the  Divine  Existence 
with  as  little  feeling  as  the  most  assert  it. 
Even  in  our  true  systems  we  go  on  collecting 
mere  words,  playmarks,  and  medals,  as  the 
misers  do  coins ;  and  not  till  late  do  we  trans- 
form the  words  into  feelings,  the  coins  into 
enjoyments.  A  man  may,  for  twenty  years, 
believe  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul ; — in  the 
one-and-twentieth,  in  some  great  moment,  he 
for  the  first  time  discovers  with  amazement 
the  rich  meaning  of  this  belief,  and  the  warmth 
of  this  Naptha-well. 

"  Of  such  sort,  too,  was  my  terror  at  the  poi- 
sonous stifling  vapour  which  floats  out  round 
the  heart  of  him  who  for  the  first  time  enters 
the  school  of  Atheism.  I  could  with  less  pain 
deny  Immortality,  than  Deity ;  there  I  should 
lose  but  a  world  covered  with  mists,  here  I 
should  lose  the  present  world,  namely,  the  Sun 
thereof:  the  whole  Spiritual  Universe  is  dashed 
asunder  by  the  hand  of  Atheism,  into  number- 
less quicksilver-points  of  JIfe's,  which  glitter, 
run,  waver,  fly  together  or  asunder,  without 
unity  or  continuance.  No  one  in  Creation  is  so 
alone,  as  the  denier  of  God  ;  he  mourns,  with 
an  orphaned  heart  that  has  lost  its  gfeat  Father, 
by  the  corpse  of  Nature,  which  no  World-spirit 
moves  and  holds  together,  and  which  grows  in 
its  grave;  and  he  mourns  by  that  Corpse  till 
he  himself  crumble  off  from  it.  The  whole 
world  lies  before  him,  like  the  Egyptian  Sphinx 
of  stone,  half-buried  in  the  sand ;  and  the  All 
is  the  cold  iron  mask  of  a  formless  Eternity.*  *  * 
"  I  merely  remark  farther,  that  with  the  belief 
of  Atheism,  the  belief  of  Immortality  is  quite 
compatible  ;  for  the  same  Necessity,  which  in 
this  Life  threw  my  light  dew-drop  of  a  Me  into 
a  flower-bell  and  under  a  Sun,  can  repeat 
that  process  in  a  second  life; — nay,  more 
easily  imbody  me — the  second  time  than  the 
first.  

"If  we  hear,  in  childhood,  that  the  dead, 
about  midnight,  when  our  sleep  reaches  near  the 
send,  and  darkens  even  our  dreams,  awake  out 
of  theirs,  and  in  the  church  mimic  the  worship 
of  the  living,  we  shudder  at  Death  by  reason 
of  the  dead,  and  in  the  night-solitude  turn  away 
our  eyes  from  the  long  silent  windows  of  the 
church,  and  fear  to  search  in  their  gleaming, 
whether  it  proceed  from  the  moon. 

"  Childhood,  and  rather  its  terrors  than  its 
raptures,  take  wings  and  radiance  again  in 
dreams,  and  sport  like  fire-flies  in  the  little 
night  of  the  soul.  Crush  not  these  flickering 
sparks! — Leave  us  even  our  dark  painful 
T 


218 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


dreams  as  higher  half-shadows  of  reality ! 
And  wherewith  will  you  replace  to  us  tliose 
dreams,  which  bear  us  away  from  under  the 
tumult  of  the  waterfall  into  the  still  heights  of 
childhood,  where  the  stream  of  life  yet  ran 
silent  in  its  little  plain,  and  flowed  towards  its 
abysses,  a  mirror  of  the  Heaven  1 — 

"  I  was  lying  once,  on  a  summer-evening,  in 
the  sunshine;  and  I  fell  asleep.  Methought  I 
awoke  in  the  churchyard.  The  down-rolling 
wheels  of  the  steeple-clock,  which  was  striking 
eleven,  had  awoke  me.  In  the  emptied  night- 
heaven  I  looked  for  the  Sun ;  for  I  thought  an 
eclipse  was  veiling  him  with  the  Moon.  All 
the  Graves  were  open,  and  the  iron  doors  of 
the  charnel-house  were  swinging  to  and  fro  by 
invisible  hands.  On  the  walls,  flitted  shadows, 
which  proceeded  from  no  one,  and  other  sha- 
dows stretched  upwards  in  the  pale  air.  In  the 
open  coffins  none  now  lay  sleeping,  but  the 
children.  Over  the  whole  heaven  hung,  in 
large  folds,  a  gray  sultry  mist,  which  a  giant 
shadow  like  vapour  was  drawing  down,  nearer, 
closer,  and  hotter.  Above  me  I  heard  the  dis- 
tant fall  of  avalanches ;  under  me  the  first  step 
of  a  boundless  earthquake.  The  Church 
wavered  up  and  down  with  two  interminable 
Dissonances,  which  struggled  with  each  other 
in  it;  endeavouring  in  vain  to  mingle  in 
unison.  At  times,  a  gray  glimmer  hovered 
along  the  windows,  and  under  it  the  lead  and 
iron  fell  down  molten.  The  net  of  the  mist, 
and  the  tottering  Earth  brought  me  into  that 
hideous  Temple ;  at  the  door  of  which,  in  two 
poison-bushes,  two  glittering  Basilisks  lay 
brooding.  I  passed  through  unknown  Shadows, 
on  whom  an/ient  centuries  were  impressed. — 
All  tha  JWCadows  were  standing  round  the 
empty  Altar ;  and  in  all,  not  the  heart,  but  the 
breast  quivered  and  pulsed.  One  dead  man 
only,  who  had  just  been  buried  there,  still  lay 
on  his  coffin  without  quivering  breast;  and  on 
his  smiling  countenance,  stood  a  happy  dream. 
But  at  the  entrance  of  one  Living,  he  awoke, 
and  smiled  no  longer;  he  lifted  his  heavy  eye- 
lids, but  within  was  no  eye  ;  and  in  his  beating 
breast  there  lay,  instead  of  heart,  a  wound. 
He  held  up  his  hands,  and  folded  them  to  pray ; 
but  the  arms  lengthened  out,  and  dissolved ; 
and  the  hands,  still  folded  together,  fell  away. 
Above,  on  the  Church-dome  stood  the  dial-plate 
of  Eternity  whereon  no  number  appeared,  and 
which  was  its  own  index :  but  a  black  finger 
pointed  thereon,  and  the  Dead  sought  to  see 
the  time  by  it. 

"  Now  sank  from  aloft  a  noble,  high  Form, 
with  a  look  of  uneffaceable  sorrow,  down  to 
the  Altar,  and  all  the  Dead  cried  out,  'Christ! 
is  there  no  God?'  He  answered  'There  is 
none  !'  The  whole  Shadow  of  each  then  shud- 
dered, not  the  breast  alone;  and  one  after  the 
other,  all,  in  this  shuddering,  shook  into 
pieces. 

"  Christ  continued :  *  I  went  through  the 
Worlds,  I  mounted  into  the  Suns,  and  flew 
with  the  Galaxies  through  the  wastes  of  Hea- 
ven ;  but  there  is  no  God  !  I  descended  as  far 
as  Being  casts  its  shadow,  and  looked  down 
into  the  Abyss  and  cried.  Father,  where  art 
thou  1  But  I  heard  only  the  everlasting  storm 
which  no  one  guides,  and  the  gleaming  Rainbow 


of  Creation  hung  without  a  Sun  that  made  it, 
over  the  Abyss,  and  trickled  down.  And  when 
I  looked  up  to  the  immeasurable  world  for  the 
Divine  Eye,  it  glared  on  me  with  an  empty, 
black,  bottomless  Eye-socket :  and  Eternity  lay 
upon  Chaos,  eating  it  and  ruminating  it.  Cry 
on,  ye  Dissonances ;  cry  away  the  Shadows, 
for  He  is  not !' 

"  The  pale-grown  Shadows  flitted  away,  as 
white  vapour  which  frost  has  formed  with  the 
warm  breath  disappears ;  and  all  was  void. 
O,  then  came,  fearful  for  the  heart,  the  dead 
Children  who  had  been  awakened  in  the 
Churchyard,  into  the  temple,  and  cast  them- 
selves before  the  high  Form  on  the  Altar,  and 
said,  *  Jesus,  have  we  no  Father]'  And  he 
answered,  with  streaming  tears,  '  We  are  all 
orphans,  I  and  you ;  we  are  without  Father !' 

"Then  shrieked  the  Dissonances  still  louder, 
— the  quivering  walls  of  the  Temple  parted 
asunder;  and  the  Temple  and  the  Children 
sank  down,  and  the  whole  Earth  and  the  Sun 
sank  after  it,  and  the  whole  Universe  sank 
with  its  immensity  before  us;  and  above,  on 
the  summit  of  immeasurable  Nature,  stood 
Christ,  and  gazed  down  into  the  Universe 
chequered  with  its  thousand  Suns,  as  into  the 
Mine  bored  out  of  the  Eternal  Night,  in  which 
the  Suns  run  like  mine-lamps,  and  the  Galaxies 
like  silver  veins. 

"And  as  he  saw  the  grinding  press  of 
Worlds,  the  torch-dance  of  celestial  wildfires, 
and  the  coral-banks  of  beating  hearts;  and 
as  he  saw  how  world  after  world  shook  off"  its 
glimmering  souls  upon  the  Sea  of  Death,  as  a 
water-bubble  scatters  swimming  lights  on  the 
waves,  then  majestic  as  the  Highest  of  the 
Finite,  he  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  Nothing- 
ness, and  towards  the  void  Immensity,  and 
said  :  '  Dead,  dumb  Nothingness  !  Cold,  ever- 
lasting Necessity !  Frantic  Chance !  Know 
ye  what  this  is  that  lies  beneath  you?  When 
will  ye  crush  the  Universe  in  pieces,  and  me  1 
Chance,  knowest  thou  what  thou  doest,  when 
with  thy  hurricanes  thou  walkest  through  that 
snow-powder  of  Stars,  and  extinguishest  Sun 
after  Sun,  and  that  sparkling  dew  of  heavenly 
light  goes  out,  as  thou  passest  over  it  ?  How 
is  each  so  solitary  in  this  wide  grave  of  the 
All !  I  am  alone  with  myself!  O  Father,  O 
Father !  where  is  thy  infinite  bosom  that  I 
might  rest  on  it?  Ah,  if  each  soul  is  its  own 
father  and  creator,  why  can  it  not  be  its  own 
destroyer  too  ? 

"  *  Is  this  beside  me  yet  a  Man  1  Unhappy 
one !  Your  little  life  is  the  sigh  of  Nature,  or 
only  its  echo  ;  a  convex-mirror  throws  its  rays 
into  that  dust-cloud  of  dead  men's  ashes,  down 
on  the  Earth,  and  thus  you,  cloud-formed 
wavering  phantoms,  arise. — Look  down  into 
the  Abyss,  over  which  clouds  of  ashes  are 
moving;  mists  full  of  Worlds  reek  up  from 
the  Sea  of  Death  ;  the  Future  is  a  mounting 
mist,  and  the  Present  is  a  falling  one. — Knowest 
thou  thy  Earth  again  ?' 

"  Here  Christ  looked  down,  and  his  eye  filled 
with  tears,  and  he  said :  'Ah,  I  was  once  there; 
I  was  still  happy  then ;  I  had  still  my  Infinite 
Father,  and  looked  up  cheerfully  from  the 
mountains,  into  the  immeasurable  Heaven, 
and  pressed  my  mangled  breast  on  his  healing 


ON  HISTORY. 


219 


form,  and  said  even  in  the  bitterness  of  death : 
Father,  take  thy  son  from  this  bleeding  hull, 
and  lift  him  to  thy  heart ! — Ah,  ye  too  happy 
inhabitants  of  Earth,  ye  still  believe  in  Him. 
Perhaps  even  now  your  Sun  is  going  down, 
and  ye  kneel  amid  blossoms,  and  brightness, 
and  tears,  and  lift  trustful  hands,  and  cry  with 
joy-streaming  eyes,  to  the  opened  Heaven : 
"  Me  too  thou  knowest,  Omnipotent,  and  all  my 
wounds  ;  and  at  death  thou  receivest  me,  and 
closest  them  all  !"  Unhappy  creatures,  at 
death  they  will  not  be  closed  !  Ah,  when  the 
sorrow-laden  lays  himself,  with  galled  back, 
into  the  Earth,  to  sleep  till  a  fairer  Morning 
full  of  Truth,  full  of  Virtue  and  Joy,  he  awakens 
in  a  stormy  Chaos,  in  the  everlasting  Midnight, 
— and  there  comes  no  Morning,  and  no  soft 
healing  hand,  and  no  Infinite  Father  ! — Mortal, 
beside  me !  if  thou  still  livest,  pray  to  Him; 
else  hast  thou  lost  him  for  ever !' 

"And  as  I  fell  down,  and  looked  into  the 
sparkling  Universe,  I  saw  the  upborne  Rings 
of  the  Giant-Serpent,  the  Serpent  of  Eternity, 
which  had  coiled  itself  round  the  All  of  Worlds, 
— and  the  Rings  sank  down,  and  encircled  the 
All  doubly; — and  then  it  wound  itself,  innu- 
merable ways,  round  Nature,  and  swept  the 
Worlds  from  their  places,  and  crashing, 
squeezed  the  Temple  of  Immensity  together, 
into  the  Church  of  a  Burying-ground, — and  all 
grew  strait,  dark,  fearful, — and  an  immeasur- 
ably extended  Hammer  was  to  strike  the  last 
hour  of  Time,  and  shiver  the  Universe  asunder, 

.    .    .    WHEN  I  AWOKE. 

"  My  soul  wept  for  joy  that  I  could  still  pray 
to  God ;  and  the  joy,  and  the  weeping,  and  the 
faith  on  him  were  my  prayer.  And  as  I  arose, 
the  Sun  was  glowing  deep  behind  the  full  pur- 
pled corn-ears,  and  casting  meekly  the  gleam 
of  its  twilight-red  on  the  little  Moon,  which 
was  rising  in  the  East  without  an  Aurora ; 
and  between  the  sky  and  the  earth,  a  gay 
transient  air-people  was  stretching  out  its 
short  wings  and  living,  as  I  did,  before  the  In- 
finite Father ;  and  from  all  Nature  around  me 
flowed  peaceful  tones  as  from  distant  evening- 
bells." 

Without  commenting  on  this  singular  piece, 


we  must  here  for  the  present  close  our  lucu- 
brations on  Jean  Paul.  To  delineate,  with 
any  correctness,  the  specific  features  of  such 
a  genius,  and  of  its  operations  and  results  in 
the  great  variety  of  provinces  where  it  dwelt 
and  worked,  were  a  long  task;  for  which,  per- 
haps, some  groundwork  may  have  been  laid 
here,  and  which,  as  occasion  serves,  it  will  be 
pleasant  for  us  to  resume. 

Probably  enough,  our  readers,  in  consider- 
ing these  strange  matters,  will  too  often  be- 
think them  of  that  "  Episode  concerning  Paul's 
Costume  ;"  and  conclude  that,  as  in  living,  so 
in  writing,  he  was  a  Mannerist,  and  man  of 
continual  Affectations.  We  will  not  quarrel 
with  them  on  this  point;  we  must  not  venture 
among  the  intricacies  it  would  lead  us  into. 
At  the  same  time,  we  hope,  many  will  agree 
with  us  in  honouring  Richter,  such  as  he  was  ; 
and  "  in  spite  of  his  hundred  real,  and  his  ten 
thousand  seeming  faults,"  discern  under  this 
wondrous  guise  the  spirit  of  a  true  Poet  and 
Philosopher.  A  Poet,  and  among  the  highest 
of  his  time,  we  must  reckon  him,  though  he 
wrote  no  verses ;  a  Philosopher,  though  he 
promulgated  no  systems :  for  on  the  whole^ 
that  "  Divine  Idea  of  the  World  "  stood  in  clear 
ethereal  light  before  his  mind ;  he  recognised 
the  Invisible,  even  under  the  mean  forms  of 
these  days,  and  with  a  high,  strong,  not  unin- 
spired heart,  strove  to  represent  it  in  the  Visi- 
ble, and  published  tidings  of  it  to  his  fellow- 
men.  This  one  virtue,  the  foundation  of  all 
other  virtues,  and  which  a  long  study  more 
and  more  clearly  reveals  to  us  in  Jean  Paul, 
will  cover  far  greater  sins  than  his  were.  It 
raises  him  into  quite  another  sphere  than  that 
of  the  thousand  elegant  sweet-singerj^«nd 
cause-and-efiect  philosophers,  in  his  own  coun- 
try, or  in  this ;  the  million  Novel-manufactu- 
rers, Sketchers,  practical  Discoursers,  and  so 
forth,  not  once  reckoned  in.  Such  a  man  we 
can  safely  recommend  to  universal  study  ;  and 
for  those  who,  in  the  actual  state  of  matters, 
may  the  most  blame  him,  repeat  the  old  max- 
im: "What  is  extraordinary  try  to  look  at 
with  your  own  eyes." 


ON  HISTORY. 

[Fbasek's  Magazine,  1830.] 


Clio  was  figured  by  the  ancients  as  the  eld- 
est daughter  of  Memory,  and  chief  of  the 
Muses  ;  which  dignity,  whether  we  regard  the 
essential  qualities  of  her  art,  or  its  practice 
and  acceptance  among  men,  we  shall  still  find 
to  have  been  fitly  bestowed.  History,  as  it  lies 
at  the  root  of  all  science,  is  also  the  first  dis- 
tinct product  of  man's  spiritual  nature ;  his 
earliest  expression  of  what  can  be  called 
Thought.  It  is  a  looking  both  before  and  after; 
as,  indeed,  the  coming  Time  already  waits, 
unseen,  yet  definitely  shaped,  predetermined, 


and  inevitable,  in  the  Time  come :  and  only 
by  the  combination  of  both  is  the  meaning  of 
either  completed.  The  Sibylline  Books,  though 
old,  are  not  the  oldest.  Some  nations  have 
prophecy,  some  have  not:  but,  of  all  man- 
kind, there  is  no  tribe  so  rude  that  it  has  not 
attempted  History,  though  several  have  not 
arithmetic  enough  to  count  Five.  History  has 
been  written  with  quipo-threads,  with  feather- 
pictures,  with  wampum-belts;  still  oftener 
with  earth-mounds  and  monumental  stone- 
heaps,  whether  as  pyramid  or  cairn ;  for  the 


220 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Celt  and  the  Copt,  the  Red  man  as  well  as  the 
White,  lives  between  two  eternities,  and,  war- 
ring against  Oblivion,  he  would  fain  unite 
himself  in  clear,  conscious  relation,  as  in  dim 
unconscious  relation  he  is  already  united,' with 
the  whole  Future  and  the  whole  Past. 

A  talent  for  History  may  be  said  to  be  born 
with  us,  as  our  chief  inheritance.  In  a  certain 
sense  all  men  are  historians.  Is  not  every  me- 
mory written  quite  full  with  Annals,  wherein 
joy  and  mourning,  conquest  and  loss,  mani- 
foldly alternate  ;  and,  with  or  without  philoso- 
phy, the  whole  fortunes  of  one  little  inward 
kingdom,  and  all  its  politics,  foreign  and  do- 
mestic, stand  ineffaceably  recorded  1  Our 
very  speech  is  curiously  historical.  Most  men, 
you  may  observe,  speak  only  to  narrate ;  not 
in  imparting  what  they  have  thought,  which 
indeed  were  often  a  very  small  matter,  but  in 
exhibiting  what  they  have  undergone  or  seen, 
which  is  a  quite  unlimited  one,  do  talkers 
dilate.  Cut  us  off  from  Narrative,  how  would 
the  stream  of  conversation,  even  among  the 
wisest,  languish  into  detached  handfuls,  and 
among  the  foolish  utterly  evaporate!  Thus, 
as  we  do  nothing  but  enact  History,  we  say 
little  but  recite  it ;  nay,  rather,  in  that  widest 
sense,  our  whole  spiritual  life  is  built  thereon. 
For,  strictly  considered,  what  is  all  Knowledge 
too  but  recorded  Experience,  and  a  product  of 
History;  of  which,  therefore.  Reasoning  and 
Belief,  no  less  than  Action  and  Passion,  are 
essential  materials  1 

Under  a  limited,  and  the  only  practicable 
shape,  History  proper,  that  part  of  History 
which  treats  of  remarkable  action,  has,  in  all 
modern  as  well  as  ancient  times,  ranked  among 
the  highest  arts,  and  perhaps  never  stood 
higher  than  in  these  times  of  ours.  For  where- 
as, of  old,  the  charm  of  History  lay  chiefly  in 
gratifying  our  common  appetite  for  the  won- 
derful, for  the  unknown  ;  and  her  office  was 
but  as  that  of  a  Minstrel  and  Story-teller,  she 
has  now  farther  become  a  Schoolmistress,  and 
professes  to  instruct  in  gratifying.  Whether, 
with  the  stateliness  of  that  venerable  cha- 
racter, she  may  not  have  taken  up  something 
of  its  austerity  and  frigidity;  whether,  in  the 
logical  terseness  of  a  Hume  or  Robertson,  the 
graceful  ease  and  gay  pictorial  heartiness  of  a 
Herodotus  or  Froissart  may  not  be  wanting,  is 
not  the  question  for  us  here.  Enough  that  all 
learners,  all  inquiring  minds  of  every  order, 
are  gathered  round  her  footstool,  and  reve- 
rently pondering  her  lessons,  as  the  true  basis 
of  Wisdom.  Poetry,  Divinity,  Politics,  Physics, 
have  each  their  adherents  and  adversaries ; 
each  little  guild  supporting  a  defensive  and 
offensive  war  for  its  own  special  domain  ; 
while  the  domain  of  History  is  as  a  Free  Em- 
porium, where  all  these  belligerents  peaceably 
meet  and  furnish  themselves ;  and  Sentiment- 
alist and  Utilitarian,  Skeptic  and  Theologian, 
with  one  voice  advise  us :  Examine  History, 
for  it  is  "  Philosophy  teaching  by  Experience." 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  disparage  such  teaching, 
the  very  attempt  at  which  must  be  precious. 
Neither  shall  we  too  rigidly  inquire,  how  much 
it  has  hitherto  profited!  Whether  most  of 
what  little  practical  wisdom  men  have,  has 
come  from  study  of  professed  History,  or  from  | 


other  less  boasted  sources,  whereby,  as  mat- 
ters now  stand,  a  Marlborough  may  become 
great  in  the  world's  business,  with  no  History 
save  what  he  derives  from  Shakspeare's 
Plays  1  Nay,  whether  in  that  same  teaching 
by  Experience,  historical  Philosophy  has  yet 
properly  deciphered  the  first  element  of  all 
science  in  this  kind?  What  is  the  aim  and 
significance  of  that  wondrous  changeful  life 
it  investigates  and  paints  ?  Whence  the  course 
of  man's  destinies  in  this  Earth  originated, 
and  whither  they  are  tending!  Or,  indeed,  if 
they  have  any  course  and  tendency,  are  really 
guided  forward  by  an  unseen  mysterious  Wis- 
dom, or  only  circle  in  blind  mazes  without 
recognisable  guidance?  Which  questions, 
altogether  fundamental,  one  might  think,  in 
any  Philosophy  of  History,  have,  since  the  era 
when  Monkish  Annalists  were  wont  to  answer 
them  by  the  long-ago  extinguished  light  of  their 
Missal  and  Breviary,  been  by  most  philosophi- 
cal Historians  only  glanced  at  dubiously,  and 
from  afar;  by  many,  not  so  much  as  glanced 
at.  The  truth  is,  two  difficulties,  never  wholly 
surmountable,  lie  in  the  way.  Before  philoso- 
phy can  teach  by  Experience,  the  Philosophy 
has  to  be  in  readiness,  the  Experience  must  be 
gathered  and  intelligibly  recorded.  Now,  over- 
looking the  former  consideration,  and  with  re- 
gard only  to  the  latter,  let  any  one  who  has 
examined  the  current  of  human  affairs — and 
how  intricate,  perplexed,  unfathomable,  even 
when  seen  into  with  our  own  eyes,  are  their 
thousand-fold,  blending  movements — say  whe- 
ther the  true  representing  of  it  is  easy  or  im- 
possible. Social  Life  is  the  aggregate  of  all 
the  individual  men's  Lives  who  constitute  so- 
ciety; History  is  the  essence  of  innumerable 
Biographies.  But  if  one  Biography,  nay,  our 
own  Biography,  study  and  recapitulate  it  as 
we  may,  remains  in  so  many  points  unintelli- 
gible to  us,  how  much  more  must  these  million, 
the  very  facts  of  which,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
purport  of  them,  we  know  not,  and  cannot 
know! 

Neither  will  it  adequately  avail  us  to  assert 
that  the  general  inward  condition  of  Life  is 
the  same  in  all  ages  ;  and  that  only  the  re- 
markable deviations  from  the  common  endow- 
ment, and  common  lot,  and  the  more  import- 
ant variations  which  the  outward  figure  of 
Life  has  from  time  to  time  undergone,  deserve 
memory  and  record.  The  inward  condition 
of  life,  it  may  rather  be  affirmed,  the  conscious 
or  half-conscious  aim  of  mankind,  so  far  as 
men  are  not  mere  digesting  machines,  is  the 
same  in  no  two  ages ;  neither  are  the  more 
important  outward  variations  easy  to  fix  on, 
or  always  well  capable  of  representation. 
Which  was  the  greater  innovator,  which  was 
the  more  important  personage  in  man's  his- 
tory, he  who  first  led  armies  over  the  Alps, 
and  gained  the  victories  of  Cannae  and  Thra- 
symene  ;  or  the  nameless  boor  who  first  ham- 
mered out  for  himself  an  iron  spade?  When  the 
oak  tree  is  felled,  the  whole  forest  echoes  with 
it ;  but  a  hundred  acorns  are  planted  silently 
by  some  unnoticed  breeze.  Battles  and  war- 
tumults,  which  for  the  time  din  every  ear,  and 
with  joy  or  terror  intoxicate  every  heart,  pass 
away  like  tavern-brawls;   and,  except  some 


ON  HISTORY. 


321 


few  Marathons  and  Morgartens,  are  remem- 
bered by  accident,  not  by  desert.  Laws  them- 
selves, political  Constitutions,  are  not  our  Life, 
but  only  the  house  wherein  our  life  is  led : 
nay,  they  are  but  the  bare  walls  of  the  house; 
all  whose  essential  furniture,  the  inventions 
and  traditions,  and  daily  habits  that  regulate 
and  support  our  existence,  are  the  work  not 
of  Dracos  and  Hampdens,  but  of  Phoenician 
mariners,  of  Italian  masons  and  Saxon  metal- 
lurgists, of  philosophers,  alchemists,  prophets, 
and  all  the  long  forgotten  train  of  artists  and 
artisans  ;  who  from  the  first  have  been  jointly 
teaching  us  how  to  think  and  how  to  act,  how 
to  rule  over  spiritual  and  over  physical  Na- 
ture. Well  may  we  say  that  of  our  History 
the  more  important  part  is  lost  without  reco- 
very, and, — as  thanksgivings  were  once  wont 
to  be  offered  for  unrecognised  mercies, — look 
with  reverence  into  the  dark  untenanted 
places  of  the  past,  where,  in  formless  obli- 
vion, our  chief  benefactors,  with  all  their  se- 
dulous endeavours,  but  not  with  the  fruit  of 
these,  lie  entombed. 

So  imperfect  is  that  same  Experience,  by 
which  Philosophy  is  to  teach.  Nay,  even 
with  regard  to  those  occurrences  that  do  stand 
recorded,  that,  at  their  origin,  have  seemed 
worthy  of  record,  and  the  summary  of  which 
constitutes  what  we  now  call  History,  is  not 
'our  understanding  of  them  altogether  incom- 
plete ;  it  is  even  possible  to  represent  them  as 
they  were  ]  The  old  story  of  Sir  Walter  Ra- 
leigh's looking  from  his  prison  window,  on 
some  street  tumult,  which  afterwards  three 
witnesses  reported  in  three  different  ways, 
himself  differing  from  them  all,  is  still  a  true 
lesson  for  us.  Consider  how  it  is  that  histo- 
rical documents  and  records  originate ;  even 
honest  records,  where  the  reporters  were  un- 
biassed by  personal  regard;  a  case  which, 
where  nothing  more  were  wanted,  must  ever 
be  among  the  rarest.  The  real  leading  fea- 
tures of  an  historical  transaction,  those  move- 
ments that  essentially  characterize  it,  and 
alone  deserve  to  be  recorded,  are  nowise  the 
foremost  to  be  noted.  At  first,  among  the 
various  witnesses,  who  are  also  parties  inte- 
rested, there  is  only  vague  wonder,  and  fear  or 
hope,  and  the  noise  of  Rumour's  thousand 
tongues ;  till,  after  a  season,  the  conflict  of 
testimonies  has  subsided  into  some  general 
issue ;  and  then  it  is  settled,  by  a  majority  of 
votes,  that  such  and  such  a  "  Crossing  of  the 
Rubicon,"  an  "Impeachment  of  Stafl'ord,"  a 
"Convocation  of  the  Notables,"  are  epochs 
in  the  world's  history,  cardinal  points  on 
which  grand  world-revolutions  have  hinged. 
Suppose,  however,  that  the  majority  of  votes 
was  all  wrong ;  that  the  real  cardinal  points 
lay  far  deeper,  and  had  been  passed  over  un- 
noticed, because  no  Seer,  but  only  mere  On- 
lookers, chanced  to  be  there!  Our  clock 
strikes  when  there  is  a  change  from  hour  to 
hour;  but  no  hammer  in  the  Horologe  of 
Time  peals  through  the  universe,  when  there 
is  a  change  from  Era  to  Era.  Men  under- 
stand not  what  is  among  their  hands :  as 
calmness  is  the  characteristic  of  strength,  so 
the  weightiest  causes  may  be  the  most  silent. 
It  is,  in  no  case,  the  real  historical  Transac- 


tion, but  only  some  more  or  less  plausible 
scheme  and  theory  of  the  Transaction,  or  the 
harmonized  result  of  many  such  schemes, 
each  varying  from  the  other,  and  all  varying 
from  Truth,  that  we  can  ever  hope  to  behold. 

Nay,  were  our  faculty  of  insight  into  passing 
things  never  so  complete,  there  is  still  a  fatal 
discrepancy  between  our  manner  of  observing 
these,  and  their  manner  of  occurring.  The 
most  gifted  man  can  observe,  still  more  can 
record,  only  the  series  of  his  own  impressions  : 
his  observation,  therefore,  to  say  nothing  of 
its  other  imperfections,  must  be  successwef 
while  the  things  done  were  often  simultaneous  ; 
the  things  done  were  not  a  series,  but  a  group. 
It  is  not  in  acted,  as  it  is  in  written  History  :  ac- 
tual events  are  nowise  so  simply  related  to 
each  other  as  parent  and  offspring  are;  every 
single  event  is  the  offspring  not  of  one,  but  of 
all  other  events  prior  or  contemporaneous, 
and  will  in  its  turn  combine  with  all  others  to 
give  birth  to  new :  it  is  an  ever-living,  ever- 
working  Chaos  of  Being,  wherein  shape  after 
shape  bodies  itself  forth  from  innumerable 
elements.  And  this  Chaos,  boundless  as  the 
habitation  and  duration  of  man,  unfathomable 
as  the  soul  and  destiny  of  man,  is  what  the 
historian  will  depict,  and  scientifically  gauge, 
we  may  say,  by  threading  it  with  single  lines 
of  a  few  ells  in  length !  For  as  all  Action  is, 
by  its  nature,  to  be  figured  as  extended  in 
breadth,  and  in  depth,  as  well  as  in  length; 
that  is  to  say,  is  based  on  Passion  and  Mys- 
tery, if  we  investigate  its  origin  ;  and  spreads 
abroad  on  all  hands,  modifying  and  modified  ; 
as  well  as  advances  towards  completion,  so, — 
all  Narrative  is,  by  its  nature,  of  only  one  dimen- 
sion ;  only  travels  forward  towards  one,  or  to- 
wards successive  points  :  Narrative  is  linear, 
Action  is  solid.  Alas,  for  our  "chains,"  or 
chainlets,  of  "  causes  and  effects,"  which  we 
so  assiduously  track  through  certain  hand- 
breadths  of  years  and  square  miles,  when  the 
whole  is  a  broad,  deep,  Immensity,  and  each 
atom  is  "chained"  and  complected  with  allf 
Truly,  if  History  is  Philosophy  teaching  by 
Experience,  the  writer  fitted  to  compose  his- 
tory is  hitherto  an  unknown  man.  The  Expe- 
rience itself  would  require  All-knowledge  to 
record  it,  were  the  All-wisdom  needful  for 
such  Philosophy  as  would  interpret  it,  to  be 
had  for  asking.  Better  were  it  that  mere 
earthly  Historians  should  lower  such  preten- 
sions, more  suitable  for  Omniscience  than  for 
human  science;  and  aiming  only  at  some  pic- 
ture of  the  things  acted,  which  picture  itself 
will  at  best  be  a  poor  approximation,  leave 
the  inscrutable  purport  of  them  an  acknow- 
ledged secret;  or,  at  most,  in  reverent  Faith, 
far  different  from  that  teaching  of  Philosophy, 
pause  over  the  mysterious  vestiges  of  Him, 
whose  path  is  in  the  great  deep  of  Time,  whom 
History  indeed  reveals,  but  only  all  History, 
and  in  Eternity  will  clearly  reveal. 

Such  considerations  truly  were  of  small  pro- 
fit, did  they,  instead  of  teaching  us  vigilance 
and  reverent  humility  in  our  inquiries  inio 
History,  abate  our  esteem  for  them,  or  dis- 
courage us  from  unweariedly  prosecuting  them. 
Let  us  search  more  and  more  into  the  Past;  let 
£ill  men  explore  it  as  the  true  fountain  of 
t2 


223 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


knowledge;  by  whose  light  alone,  consciously 
or  unconsciously  employed,  can  the  Present 
and  the  Future  be  interpreted  or  guessed  at. 
For  though  the  whole  meaning  lies  far  beyond 
our  ken  ;  yet  in  that  complex  Manuscript, 
covered  over  with  formless,  inextricably  en- 
tangled, unknown  characters, — nay,  which  is 
a  Palympsest,  and  had  once  prophetic  writing, 
still  dimly  legible  there, — some  letters,  some 
words,  may  be  deciphered ;  and  if  no  com- 
plete Philosophy,  here  and  there  an  intelligible 
precept,  available  in  practice,  be  gathered; 
well  understanding,  in  the  mean  while,  that  it 
is  only  a  little  portion  we  have  deciphered, 
that  much  still  remains  to  be  interpreted ;  that 
history  is  a  real  prophetic  Manuscript,  and  can 
be  fully  interpreted  by  no  man. 

But  the  Artist  in  History  may  be  distin- 
guished from  the  Artisan  in  History ;  for  here, 
as  in  all  other  provinces,  there  are  Artists  and 
Artisans;  men  who  labour  mechanically  in  a 
department,  without  eye  for  the  Whole,  not 
feeling  that  there  is  a  Whole ;  and  men  who 
inform  and  ennoble  the  humblest  department 
with  an  Idea  of  the  Whole,  and  habitually 
know  that  only  in  the  Whole  is  the  Partial  to 
be  truly  discerned.  The  proceedings,  and  the 
duties  of  these  two,  in  regard  to  History,  must 
be  altogether  different.  Not,  indeed,  that  each 
has  not  a  real  worth,  in  his  several  degree. 
The  simple  Husbandman  can  till  his  field,  and 
by  knowledge  he  has  gained  of  its  soil,  sow  it 
with  the  fit  grain,  though  the  deep  rocks  and 
central  fires  are  unknown  to  him :  his  little 
crop  hangs  under  and  over  the  firmament  of 
stars,  and  sails  through  whole  untracked  celes- 
tial spaces,  between  Aries  and  Libra ;  never- 
theless, it  ripens  for  him  in  due  season,  and 
he  gathers  it  safe  into  his  barn.  Asa  husband- 
man he  is  blameless  in  disregarding  those 
higher  wonders  ;  but  as  a  Thinker,  and  faithful 
inquirer  into  nature,  he  were  wrong.  So,  like- 
wise, is  it  with  the  Historian,  who  examines 
some  special  aspect  of  history,  and  from  this 
or  that  combination  of  circumstances,  political, 
moral,  economical,  and  the  issues  it  has  led  to, 
infers  that  such  and  such  properties  belong  to 
human  society,  and  that  the  like  circumstance 
will  produce  the  like  issues;  which  inference, 
if  other  trials  confirm  it,  must  be  held  true  and 
practically  valuable.  He  is  wrong  only,  and 
an  artisan,  when  he  fancies  that  these  proper- 
ties, discovered  or  discoverable,  exhaust  the 
matter,  and  sees  not  at  every  step  that  it  is  in- 
exhaustible. 

However,  that  class  of  cause-and-effect 
speculators,  with  whom  no  wonder  would  re- 
main wonderful,  but  all  things  in  Heaven  and 
Earth  must  be  "  computed  and  accounted  for;" 
and  even  the  Unknown,  the  Infinite,  in  man's 
life,  had,  under  the  words  Enthusiasm,  Super- 
stition, Spirit  of  the  Age,  and  so  forth,  obtained, 
as  it  were,  an  algebraical  symbol,  and  given 
value, — have  now  well-nigh  played  their  part 
m  European  culture;  and  may  be  considered, 
as  in  most  countries,  even  in  England  itself, 
where  they  linger  the  latest,  verging  towards 
extinction.  He  who  reads  the  inscrutable  Book 
of  Nature,  as  if  it  were  a  Merchant's  Ledger,  is 
justly  suspected  of  having  never  seen  that 
iiook,  but  only  some  school  Synopsis  thereof; 


from  which,  if  taken  for  the  real  Book,  more 
error  than  insight  is  to  be  derived. 

Doubtless,  also,  it  is  with  a  growing  feeling 
of  the  infinite  nature  of  history,  that  in  these 
times,  the  old  principle.  Division  of  Labour, 
has  been  so  widely  applied  to  it.  The  political 
Historian,  once  almost  the  sole  cultivator  of 
History,  has  now  found  various  associates, 
who  strive  to  elucidate  other  phases  of  human 
Life  ;  of  which,  as  hinted  above,  the  political 
conditions  it  is  passed  under,  are  but  one  ;  and 
though  the  primary,  perhaps  not  the  most  im- 
portant, of  the  many  outward  arrangements. 
Of  this  historian  himself,  moreover,  in  his  own 
special  department,  new  and  higher  things  are 
now  beginning  to  be  expected.  From  of  old, 
it  Was  too  often  to  be  reproachfully  observed 
of  him,  that  he  dwelt  with  disproportionate 
fondness  in  Senate-houses,  in  Battle-fields,  nay, 
even  in  King's  Antechambers ;  forgetting,  that 
far  away  from  such  scenes,  the  mighty  tide  of 
Thought,  and  Action,  was  still  rolling  on  its 
wondrous  course,  in  gloom  and  brightness : 
and  in  its  thousand  remote  valleys,  a  whole 
world  of  Existence,  with  or  without  an  earthly 
sun  of  Happiness  to  warm  it,  with  or  without 
a  heavenly  sun  of  Holiness  to  purify  and  sanc- 
tify it,  was  blossoming  and  fading,  whether 
the  "famous  victory"  were  won  or  lost.  The 
time  seems  coming  when  much  of  this  must 
be  amended ;  and  he  who  sees  no  world  but 
that  of  courts  and  camps;  and  writes  only  how 
soldiers  were  drilled  and  shot,  and  how  this 
ministerial  conjurer  out-conjured  that  other, 
and  then  guided,  or  at  least  held,  something 
which  he  called  the  rudder  of  government, 
but  which  was  rather  the  spigot  of  Taxa- 
tion, wherewith,  in  place  of  steering,  he  could 
tap,  and  the  more  cunningly  the  nearer  the 
lees, — will  pass  for  a  more  or  less  instructive 
Gazetteer,  but  will  no  longer  be  called  an  His- 
torian. 

However,  the  Political  Historian,  were  his 
work  performed  with  all  conceivable  perfec- 
tion, can  accomplish  but  a  part,  and  still  leaves 
room  for  numerous  fellow-labourers.  Fore- 
most among  these  comes  the  Ecclesiastical 
Historian;  endeavouring  with  catholic  or  sec- 
tarian view,  to  trace  the  progress  of  the  Church, 
of  that  portion  of  the  social  establishment, 
which  respects  our  religious  condition,  as  the 
other  portion  does  our  civil,  or  rather,  in  the 
long  run,  our  economical  condition.  Rightly 
conducted,  this  department  were  undoubtedly 
the  more  important  of  the  two;  inasmuch  as 
it  concerns  us  more  to  understand  how  man's 
moral  well-being  had  been  and  might  be  pro- 
moted, than  to  understand  in  the  like  sort  his 
physical  well-being;  which  latter  is  ultimately 
the  aim  of  all  political  arrangements.  For  the 
physically  happiest  is  simply  the  safest,  the 
strongest;  and  in  all  conditions  of  Government, 
Power  (whether  of  wealth  as  in  these  days,  or 
of  arms  and  adherents  as  in  old  days)  is  the 
only  outward  emblem  and  purchase-money  of 
Good.  True  Good,  however,  unless  we  reckon 
Pleasure  synonymous  with  it,  is  said  to  be 
rarely,  or  rather  never,  offered  for  sale  in  the 
market  where  that  even  passes  current.  So 
that,  for  man's  true  advantage,  not  the  outward 
condition  of   his   life,   but    the   inward    and 


ON  HISTORY. 


spiritual,  is  of  prime  influence ;  not  the  form  of 
government  he  lives  under,  and  the  power  he 
can  accumulate  there,  but  the  Church  he  is 
a  member  of,  and  the  degree  of  moral  Eleva- 
tion he  can  acquire  by  means  of  its  instruc- 
tion. Church  History,  then,  did  it  speak 
wisely,  would  have  momentous  secrets  to 
teach  us :  nay,  in  its  highest  degree,  it  were  a 
sort  of  continued  Holy  Writ;  our  sacred 
books  being,  indeed,  only  a  History  of  the 
primeval  Church,  as  it  first  arose  in  man's 
soul,  and  symbolically  imbodied  itself  in  his 
external  life.  How  far  our  actual  Church  His- 
torians fall  below  such  unattainable  standards, 
nay,  below  quite  attainable  approximations 
thereto,  we  need  not  point  out.  Of  the  Eccle- 
siastical Historian  we  have  to  complain,  as  we 
did  of  his  Political  fellow-craftsman,  Ihat  his  in- 
quiries turn  rather  on  the  outward  mechanism, 
the  mere  hulls  and  superficial  accidents  of  the 
object,  than  on  the  object  itself;  as  if  the 
church  lay  in  Bishop's  Chapter-houses,  and 
Ecumenic  Council  Halls,  and  Cardinals'  Con- 
claves, and  not  far  more  in  the  hearts  of  Be- 
lieving Men,  in  whose  walk  and  conversation, 
as  influenced  thereby,  its  chief  manifestations 
were  to  be  looked  for,  and  its  progress  or  de- 
cline ascertained.  The  history  of  the  Church 
is  a  History  of  the  Invisible  as  well  as  of  the 
Visible  Church ;  which  latter,  if  disjoined  from 
the  former,  is  but  a  vacant  edifice ;  gilded,  it 
may  be,  and  overhung  with  old  votive  gifts, 
yet  useless,  nay,  pestilentially  unclean ;  to 
write  whose  history  is  less  important  than  to 
forward  its  downfall. 

Of  a  less  ambitious  character  are  the  His- 
tories that  relate  to  special  separate  provinces 
of  human  Action;  to  Sciences,  Practical  Arts, 
Institutions,  and  the  like ;  matters  which  do  not 
imply  an  epitome  of  man's  whole  interest  and 
form  of  life;  but  wherein,  though  each  is  still 
connected  with  all,  the  spirit  of  each,  at  least 
its  material  results,  may  be  in  some  degree 
evolved  without  so  strict  reference  to  that  of  the 
others.  Highest  in  dignity  and  difficulty,  under 
this  head,  would  be  our  histories  of  Philosophy, 
of  man's  opinions  and  theories  respecting  the 
nature  of  his  Being,  and  relations  to  the  Uni- 
verse, Visible  and  Invisible ;  which  History,  in- 
deed, were  it  fitly  treated,  or  fit  for  right  treat- 
ment, would  be  a  province  of  Church  History ; 
the  logical  or  dogmatical  province  of  it ;  for 
Philosophy,  in  its  true  sense,  is  or  should  be 
the  soul,  of  which  Religion,  Worship,  is  the 
body;  in  the  healthy  state  of  things  the  Philo- 
sopher and  Priest  were  one  and  the  same.  But 
Philosophy  itself  is  far  enough  from  wearing 
this  character;  neither  have  its  Historians  been 
men,  generally  speaking,  that  could  in  the 
smallest  degree  approximate  it  thereto.  Scarce- 
ly since  the  rude  era  of  the  Magi  and  Druids 
has  that  same  healthy  identification  of  Priest 
and  Philosopher  had  place  in  any  country :  but 
rather  the  worship  of  divine  things,  and  the 
scientific  investigation  of  divine  things,  have 
been  in  quite  different  hands,  their  relations 
not  friendly  but  hostile.  Neither  have  the 
Briickers  and  Biihles,  to  say  nothing  of  the 


many  unhappy  Enfields  who  have  treated  of 
that  latter  department,  been  more  than  barren 
reporters,  often  unintelligent  and  unintelligible 
reporters,  of  the  doctrine  uttered,  without  force 
to  discover  how  the  doctrine  originated,  or  what 
reference  it  bore  to  its  time  and  country,  to  the 
spiritual  position  of  mankind  there  and  then. 
Nay,  such  a  task  did  not  perhaps  lie  before 
them,  as  a  thing  to  be  attempted. 

Art,  also,  and  Literature  are  intimately  blend- 
ed with  Religion ;  as  it  were,  outworks  and 
abutments,  by  which  that  highest  pinnacle  in 
our  inward  wurld  gradually  connects  itself 
with  the  general  level,  and  becomes  accessible 
therefrom.  He  who  should^  write  a  proper 
History  of  Poetry,  would  depict  for  us  the  suc- 
cessive Revelations  which  man  had  obtained 
of  the  Spirit  of  Nature  ;  under  what  aspects  he 
had  caught  and  endeavoured  to  body  forth  some 
glimpse  of  that  unspeakable  Beauty,  which  in 
its  highest  clearness  is  Religion,  is  the  inspira- 
tion of  a  Prophet,  yet  in  one  or  the  other  de- 
gree must  inspire  every  true  Singer,  were  his 
theme  never  so  humble.  We  should  see  by 
what  steps  men  had  ascended  to  the  Temple ; 
how  near  they  had  approached ;  by  what  ill 
hap  they  had,  for  long  periods,  turned  away 
from  it,  and  grovelled  on  the  plain  with  no 
music  in  the  air,  or  blindly  struggled  to- 
wards other  heights.  That  among  all  our 
Eichhorns  and  Wartons  there  is  no  such  His- 
torian, must  be  too  clear  to  every  one.  Never- 
theless let  us  not  despair  of  far  nearer  ap- 
proaches to  that  excellence.  Above  all,  let  us 
keep  the  Ideal  of  it  ever  in  our  eye ;  for  there- 
by alone  have  we  even  a  chance  to  reach  it. 

Our  histories  of  Laws  and  Constitutions, 
wherein  many  a  Montesquieu  and  Hallam  has 
laboured  with  acceptance,  are  of  a  much  sim- 
pler nature,  yet  deep  enough,  if  thoroughly  in- 
vestigated; and  useful,  when  authentic,  even 
with  little  depth.  Then  we  have  Histories  of 
Medicine,  of  Mathematics,  of  Astronomy,  Com- 
merce, Chivalry,  Monkery;  and  Goguets  and 
Beckmanns  have  come  forward  with  what 
might  be  the  most  bountiful  contribution  of  all, 
a  History  of  Inventions.  Of  all  which  sorts, 
and  many  more  not  here  enumerated,  not  yei 
devised  and  put  in  practice,  the  merit  and  the 
proper  scheme  may  require  no  exposition. 

In  this  manner,  though,  as  above  remarked, 
all  Action  is  extended  three  ways,  and  the  ge- 
neral sum  of  human  Action  is  a  whole  Universe, 
with  all  limits  of  it  unknown,  does  History  strive 
by  running  path  after  path,  through  the  Impas- 
sable, in  manifold  directions  and  intersections, 
to  secure  for  us  some  oversight  of  the  Whole ; 
in  which  endeavour,  if  each  Historian  look  well 
around  him  from  his  path,  tracking  it  out  with 
the  eye,  not,  as  is  more  common,  with  the  nose, 
he  may  at  last  prove  not  altogether  unsuccess- 
ful. Praying  only  that  increased  division  of 
labour  do  not  here,  as  elsewhere,  aggravate  our 
already  strong  Mechanical  tendencies,  so  that 
in  the  manual  dexterity  for  parts  we  lose  all 
command  over  the  whole ;  and  the  hope  of  any 
Philosophy  of  History  be  farther  off  than  ever; 
let  us  all  wish  her  great,  and  greater  success. 


24 


224 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


LUTHER'S  PSALM. 


[Fraser's  Maoazine,  1831.] 


Among  Luther's  Spiritual  Songs,  of  which 
various  collections  have  appeared  of  late 
years,*  the  one  entitled  Eine  feste  Burg  ist  unser 
'GoU  is  universally  regarded  as  the  best;  and 
indeed  still  retains  its  place  and  devotional  use 
in  the  Psalmodies  of  Protestant  Germany.  Of 
the  Tune,  which  also  is  by  Luther,  we  have  no 
copy,  and  only  a  second-hand  knowledge:  to 
the  original  Words,  probably  never  before 
printed  in  England,  we  subjoin  the  following 
translation ;  which,  if  it  possesses  the  only 
merit  it  can  pretend  to,  that  of  literal  adherence 
to  the  sense,  will  not  prove  unacceptable  to 
our  readers.  Luther's  music  is  heard  daily  in 
our  churches,  several  of  our  finest  Psalm-tunes 
being  of  his  composition.  Luther's  sentiments, 
also,  are,  or  should  be,  present  in  many  an 
English  heart;  the  more  interesting  to  us  is 
any  the  smallest  articulate  expression  of  these. 

The  great  Reformer's  love  of  music,  of  poetry, 
it  has  often  been  remarked,  is  one  of  the  most 
significant  features  in  his  character.  But,  in- 
deed, if  every  great  man,  Napoleon  himself,  is 
intrinsically  a  poet,  an  idealist,  with  more  or 
less  completeness  of  utterance,  which  of  all  our 
great  men,  in  these  modern  ages,  had  such  'an 
endowment  in  that  kind  as  Luther  1  He  it  was, 
emphatically,  who  stood  based  on  the  Spiritual 
World  of  man,  and  only* by  the  footing  and  mi- 
raculous power  he  had  obtained  there,  could 
work  such  changes  in  the  Material  World.  As 
a  participant  and  dispenser  of  divine  influences, 
he  shows  himself  among  human  aflfairs  a  true 
connecting  medium  and  visible  Messenger  be- 
tween Heaven  and  Earth ;  a  man,  therefore,  not 
only  permitted  to  enter  the  sphere  of  Poetry, 
but  to  dwell  in  the  purest  centre  thereof:  per- 
haps the  most  inspired  of  all  Teachers  since 
the  first  apostles  of  his  faith ;  and  thus  not 
a  poet  only  but  a  Prophet  and  God-ordained 
Priest,  which  is  the  highest  form  of  that 
dignity,  and  of  all  dignity. 

Unhappily,  or  happily,  Luther's  poetic  feeling 
did  not  so  much  learn  to  express  itself  in  fit 
Words  that  take  captive  every  ear,  as  in  fit 
Actions,  wherein  truly,  under  still  more  impres- 
sive manifestation,  the  spirit  of  spheral  Melody 
resides,  and  still  audibly  addresses  us.  In  his 
written  Poems  we  find  little,  save  that  Strength 
of  one  "whose  words,"  it  has  been  said,  "  were 
half-battles ;"  little  of  that  still  Harmony  and 
blending  softness  of  union  which  is  the  last 
perfection  of  Strength;  less  of  it  than  even  his 
conduct  often  manifested.  With  words  he  had 
not  learned  to  make  pure  music ;  it  was  by 
deeds  of  Love,  or  heroic  Valour,  that  he  spoke 
freely  ;  in  tones,  only  through  his  Flute,  amid 
tears,  could  the  sigh  of  that  strong  soul  find 
utterance. 


*  For  example  :  Luther's  ^eistliche  Lieder  nebst  dessen 
Oedanken  iiber  die  viusica,  (Berlin,  1817)  :  Die  Lieder  Lu- 
ther's gesamvielt  von  Kosegarten  und  Ravibach,  ^c. 


Nevertheless,  though  in  imperfect  articula- 
tion, the  same  voice,  if  we  will  listen  well,  is  to 
be  heard  also  in  his  writings,  in  his  Poems. 
The  following,  for  example,  jars  upon  our  ears ; 
yet  is  there  something  in  it  like  the  sound  of 
Alpine  avalanches,  or  the  first  murmur  of 
Earthquakes ;  in  the  very  vastness  of  which 
dissonance  a  higher  unison  is  revealed  to  us. 
Luther  wrote  this  Song  in  a  time  of  blackest 
threatenings,  which,  however,  could  in  no  wise 
become  a  time  of  Despair.  In  those  tones, 
rugged,  broken  as  they  are,  do  we  not  recognise 
the  accent  of  that  summoned  man,  (summoned 
not  by  Charles  the  Fifth,  but  by  God  Almighty 
also,)  who  answered  his  friend's  warning  not  to 
enter  Worms  in  this  wise:  "Were  there  as 
many  devils  in  Worms  as  there  are  roof-tiles, 
I  would  on ;"— of  him  who,  alone  in  that  as- 
semblage, before  all  emperors,  and  principali- 
ties, and  powers,  spoke  forth  these  final  and 
for  ever  memorable  words :  "  It  is  neither  safe 
nor  prudent  to  do  aught  against  conscience. 
Here  stand  I,  I  cannot  otherwise.  God  assist 
me.  Amen  !"*  It  is  evident  enough  that  to 
this  man  all  Popes'  conclaves,  and  imperial 
Diets,  and  hosts  and  nations  were  but  weak ; 
weak  as  the  forest,  with  all  its  strong  Trees, 
may  be  to  the  smallest  spark  of  electric  Fire. 

EIKE    FESTE    BURG    IST    17NSER    QOTT. 

Ein'  feste  Burg-  ist  unser  Gott, 
Ein'  gjile  Wehr  und  Waffen  ; 
Er  hilft  uns  frey  aus  aller  JVoth^ 
Die  uns  jetzt  hat  betroffen. 
Der  alte  bSse  Fiend, 
Mit  Ernst  ers  jetzt  meint ,' 
Gross  Macht  und  viel  List 
Sein  grausam'  Riistzeuch  ist, 
^vf  Erd'n  ist  nicht  seins  Gleichen. 

Mit  unsrer  Macht  ist  nichts  gethan, 

Wir  sind  gar  bald  verloren : 

Es  streit't  fur  uns  der  rechte  Mann, 

Den  Gott  selbst  hat  erkoren. 

Fragst  du  wer  er  ist  7 

Er  heisst  Jesus  Christ, 

Der  Herre  Zebaoth, 

Und  ist  kein  ander  Gott, 

Das  Feld  muss  er  behalten. 

Und  wenn  die  Welt  voU  Teufel  w&r, 
Und  wollt'n  uns  gar  verschlingen. 
So  fiirchten  wir  uns  nicht  so  sehr, 
Es  soil  uns  dock  gelingen. 
Der  Filrste  dieser  welt, 
Wie  sauer  er  sich  stellt, 
Thut  er  uns  doch  nichts  ,* 
Das  macht  er  ist  gerichtt, 
Ein  WSrtlein  kann  ihnfdllen. 


* "  Till  such  time,  as  either  by  proofs  from  Holy 
Scripture,  or  by  fair  reason  and  argument,  I  have  been 
confuted  and  convicted,  I  cannot  and  will  not  recant, 
weil  weder  sicher  noch  gerathen  ist,  elwas  wider  Oewiasen 
zu  thun.  Hier  stehe  ich,  ich  kann  nicht  andcra,  Gott 
helfe  mir.    ^mcnl" 


SCHILLER. 


225 


Das  Wort  sie  solleti  lassen  stahn 

Und  Keimcn  Dank  daiu  haben 

Er  ist  bey  uns  wohl  auf  dem  Plan 

Mit  seinen  Oeist  und  Oaben. 

JVehmen  sie  uns  den  Leib, 

Chut',  Ehr\  Kind  und  IVeib^ 

Lass  fahren  dahin. 

Sie  haben' s  kein  Gewinn, 

Das  Reich  Gottes  muss  uns  bleiben. 

A  safe  stronghold  our  God  is  still, 
A  trusty  shield  and  weapon  ; 
He'll  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 
That  hath  us  now  o'ertaken. 
The  ancient  Prince  of  Hell, 
Hath  risen  with  purpose  fell ; 
Strong  mail  of  Craft  and  Power 
He  weareth  in  this  hour, 
On  Earth  is  not  his  fellow. 

With  force  of  arms  we  nothing  can, 
Full  soon  were  we  down-ridden  ; 
But  for  us  fights  the  proper  Man, 
Whom  God  himself  hath  bidden. 


Ask  ye.  Who  is  this  samel 
Christ  .lesus  is  his  name, 
The  Lord  Zebaoth's  Son, 
He  and  no  other  one 
Shall  conquer  in  the  battle. 

And  were  this  world  all  Devils  o'er 
And  watching  to  devour  us, 
We  lay  it  not  to  heart  so  sore, 
Not  they  can  overpower  us. 
And  let  the  Prince  of  111 
Look  grim  as  e'er  he  will, 
He  harms  us  not  a  whit, 
For  why  1    His  doom  is  writ, 
A  word  shall  quickly  slay  him. 

God's  Word,  for  all  their  craft  and  force. 
One  moment  will  not  linger, 
But  spite  of  Hell,  shall  have  its  course, 
'  T  is  written  by  his  finger. 
And  though  they  take  our  life. 
Goods,  honour,  children,  wife, 
Yet  is  their  profit  small ; 
These  things  shall  vanish  all, 
The  City  of  God  remaineth. 


SCHILLER.* 


[Fraser's  Magazine,  1831.] 


To  the   student  of  German  Literature,  or 
of  Literature  in  general,  these  volumes,  pur- 
porting to  lay  open  the  private  intercourse  of 
Iwo  men  eminent  beyond  all  others  of  their 
time  in  that  department,  will  doubtless  be  a 
welcome   appearance.     Neither  Schiller  nor 
Goethe  has  ever,  that  we  have  hitherto  seen, 
written  worthlessly  on  any  subject,  and  the 
writings  here  offered  us  are  confidential  Let- 
ters, relating  moreover  to  a  highly  important 
period  in  the  spiritual  history,  not  of  the  par- 
lies themselves,  but  of  their  country  likewise; 
full  of  topics,  high  and  low,  on  which  far  meaner 
talents  than   theirs   might  prove   interesting. 
We  have  heard  and  known  so  much  of  both 
these  venerated  persons ;  of  their  friendship, 
and  true  co-operation  in  so  many  noble  endea- 
vours, the  fruit  of  which  has  long  been  plain 
to  every  one :  and  now  are  we  to  look  into 
the  secret  constitution  and  conditions  of  all 
this ;  to  trace  the  public  result,  which  is  Ideal, 
down  to  its  roots  in  the  Common  ;  how  Poets 
may  live  and  work  poetically  among  the  Prose 
things  of  this  world,  and   Fausts  and  Tells  be 
written  on  rag-paper,  and  with  goose-quills, 
like  mere  Minerva  Novels,  and  songs  by  a 
Person   of  Quality  !     Virtuosos  have    glass 
bee-hives,  which  they  curiously  peep   into ; 
but   here   truly  were  a  far   stranger  sort  of 
honey-making.    Nay,  apart  from  virtuosoship, 
or  any  technical  object,  what  a  hold  have  such 
things  on  our  universal  curiosity  as  men  !     If 
the  sympathy  we  feel  with  one  another  is  infi- 
nite, or  nearly  so, — in  proof  of  which,  do  but 

*  Briefwechsel  zwisrhen  Schiller  und  Goethe,  in  den  jah- 
ren  1791  his  1805.     (Correspondence   between   Schiller 
and  Goettie  in  the  years  1794—1805.)     1st— 3d  Volumes 
(1794-1797.)     Stuttgart  and  Tiibingen,  1828, 1829. 
29 


consider  the  boundless  ocean  of  Gossip  (im- 
perfect, undistilled  Biography)  which  is  emit- 
ted and  imbibed  by  the  human  species  daily  ;— 
if  every  secret-history,  every  closed-door's 
conversation,  how  trivial  soever,  has  an  inte- 
rest for  us,  then  might  the  conversation  of  a 
Schiller  with  a  Goethe,  so  rarely  do  Schillers 
meet  with  Goethes  among  us,  tempt  Honesty 
itself  into  eaves-dropping. 

Unhappily  the  conversation  flits  away  for 
ever  with  the  hour  that  witnessed  it ;  and  the 
Letter  and  Answer,  frank,  lively,  genial  as  they 
may  be,  are  only  a  poor  emblem  and  epitome 
of  it.  The  living  dramatic  movement  is  gone  ; 
nothing  but  the  cold  historical  net-product  re- 
mains for  us.  It  is  true,  in  every  confidential 
Letter,  the  writer  will,  in  some  measure,  more 
or  less  directly  depict  himself:  but  nowhere 
is  Painting,  by  pen  or  pencil,  so  inadequate 
as  in  delineating  spiritual  Nature.  The  Py- 
ramid can  be  measured  in  geometric  feet,  and 
the  draughtsman  represents  it,  with  all  its  en- 
vironment, on  canvas,  accurately  to  the  eye; 
nay  Mont-Blanc  is  embossed  in  coloured 
stucco ;  and  we  have  his  very  type,  and  minia- 
ture fac-simile,  in  our  museums.  But  for 
great  Men,  let  him  who  would  know  such, 
pray  that  he  may  see  them  daily  face  to  face: 
for,  in  the  dim  distance,  and  by  the  eye  of  the 
imagination,  our  vision,  do  what  we  ma)',  will 
be  too  imperfect.  How  pale,  thin,  inefl'ectual 
do  the  great  figures  we  would  fain  summon 
from  History  rise  before  us  !  Scarcely  as  pal- 
pable men  does  our  utmost  effort  body  them 
forth;  oftenest  only  like  Ossian's  ghosts,  in 
hazy  twilight,  with  "  stars  dim  twinkling 
through  their  forms."  Our  Socrates,  our  Lu- 
ther, after  all  that  we  have  talked  and  argued 


336 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  them,  are  to  most  of  us  quite  invisible;  the 
Sage  of  Athens,  the  Monk  of  Eisleben :  not 
Persons  but  Titles.  Yet  such  men,  far  more 
than  any  Alps  or  Coliseums,  are  the  true 
world-wonders,  which  it  concerns  us  to  behold 
clearly,  and  imprint  for  ever  on  our  remem- 
brance. Great  men  are  the  Fire-pillars  in  this 
dark  pilgrimage  of  mankind;  they  stand  as 
heavenly  Signs,  ever-living  witnesses  of  what 
has  been,  prophetic  tokens  of  what  may  still 
be,  the  revealed,  imbodied  Possibilities  of  hu- 
man nature ;  which  greatness  he  who  has 
never  seen,  or  rationally  conceived  of,  and 
with  his  whole  heart  passionately  loved  and 
reverenced,  js  himself  for  ever  doomed  to  be 
little.  How  many  weighty  reasons,  how  many 
innocent  allurements  attract  our  curiosity  to 
such  men !  We  would  know  them,  see  them 
visibly,  even  as  we  know  and  see  our  like  : 
no  hint,  no  notice  that  concerns  them  is  super- 
fluous or  too  small  for  us.  Were  Gulliver's 
conjurer  but  here,  to  recall  and  sensibly  bring 
back  the  brave  Past,  that  we  might  look  into 
it,  and  scrutinize  it  at  will !  But,  alas,  in  Na- 
ture there  is  no  such  conjuring:  the  great 
spirits  that  have  gone  before  us  can  survive 
only  as  disembodied  Voices  ;  their  form  and 
distinctive  aspect,  outward  and  even  in  many 
respects  inward,  all  whereby  they  were  known 
as  living,  breathing  men,  has  passed  into  an- 
other sphere;  from  which  only  History,  in 
.scanty  memorials,  can  evoke  some  faint  resem- 
blance of  it.  The  more  precious,  in  spite  of 
all  imperfections,  is  such  History,  are  such 
memorials,  that  still  in  some  degree  preserve 
what  had  otherwise  been  lost  without  reco- 
very. 

For  the  rest,  as  to  the  maxim,  often  enough  in- 
culcated on  us,  that  close  inspection  will  abate 
our  admiration,  that  only  the  obscure  can  be  sub- 
lime, let  us  put  small  faith  in  it.  Here,  as  in  other 
provinces,  it  is  not  knowledge,  but  a  little  know- 
ledge, that  pufielh  up,  and  for  wonder  at  the 
thing  known  substitutes  mere^wonder  at  the 
knower  thereof:  to  a  sciolist,  the  starry  hea- 
vens revolving  in  dead  mechanism,  may  be 
less  than  a  Jacob's  vision ;  but  to  the  Newton 
they  are  more  ;  for  the  same  God  still  dwells 
enthroned  there,  and  holy  Influences,  like  An- 
gels, still  ascend  and  descend;  and  this  clearer 
vision  of  a  little  but  renders  the  remaining 
mystery  the  deeper  and  more  divine.  So  like- 
wise is  it  with  true  spiritual  greatness.  On 
the  whole,  that  theory  of  "no  man  being  a 
hero  to  his  valet,"  carries  us  but  a  little  way 
into  the  real  nature  of  the  case.  With  a  su- 
perficial meaning  which  is  plain  enough,  it 
essentially  holds  good  only  of  such  heroes  as 
are  false,  or  else  of  such  valets  as  are  too  ge- 
nuine, as  are  shoulder-knotted  and  brass-lack- 
ered in  soul  as  well  as  in  body:  of  other  sorts 
it  does  not  hold.  Milton  was  still  a  hero  to 
the  good  Elwood.  But  we  dwell  not  on  that 
mean  doctrine,  which,  true  or  false,  may  be 
left  to  itself  the  more  safely,  as  in  practice  it 
is  of  little  or  no  immediate  import.  For  were 
it  never  so  true,  yet,  unless  we  preferred  huge 
bug-bears  to  small  realities,  our  practical 
course  were  still  the  same :  to  inquire,  to  in- 
vestigate by  all  methods,  till  we  saw  clearly. 

What  worth  in  this  biographical  point  of 


view,  the  "  Correspondence  of  Schiller  and 
Goethe"  may  have,  we  shall  not  attempt  de- 
termining here  ;  the  rather  as  only  a  portion 
of  the  work,'and  to  judge  by  the  space  of  time 
included  in  it,  only  a  small  portion,  is  yet  be- 
fore us.  Nay,  perhaps  its  full  worth  will  not 
become  apparent  till  a  future  age,  when  the 
persons  and  concerns  it  treats  of  shall  have 
assumed  their  proper  relative  magnitude  and 
stand  disencumbered,  and  for  ever  separated 
from  contemporary  trivialities,  which,  for  the 
present,  with  their  hollow,  transient  bulk,  so 
mar  our  estimate.  Two  centuries  ago,  Lei- 
cester and  Essex  might  be  the  wonders  of 
England  ;  their  Kenilworlh  festivities  and  Ca- 
diz Expeditions  seemed  the  great  occurrences 
of  that  day;  but  what  should  we  now  give, 
were  these  all  forgotten  and  some  "  Corre- 
spondence between  Shakspeare  and  Ben  Jon- 
son"  suddenly  brought  to  light ! 

One  valuable  quality  these  letters  of  Schil- 
ler and  Goethe  everywhere  exhibit,  that  of 
truth  :  whatever  we  do  learn  from  them,  whe- 
ther in  the  shape  of  fact  or  of  opinion,  may 
be  relied  on  as  genuine.  There  is  a  tone  of 
entire  sincerity  in  that  style  :  a  constant  natu- 
ral courtesy  nowhere  obstructs  the  right  free- 
dom of  word  or  thought;  indeed,  no  ends  but 
honourable  ones,  and  generally  of  a  mutual 
interest,  are  before  either  party;  thus  neither 
needs  to  veil,  still  less  to  mask  himself  from 
the  other;  the  two  self-portraits,  so  far  as  they 
are  filled  up,  may  be  looked  upon  as  real  like- 
nesses. Perhaps,  to  most  readers,  some  larger 
intermixture  of  what  we  should  call  domestic 
interest,  of  ordinary  human  concerns,  and  the 
hopes,  fears,  and  other  feelings  these  excite, 
would  have  improved  the  work;  which  as  it  is, 
not  indeed  without  pleasant  exceptions,  turns 
mostly  on  compositions,  and  publications,  and 
philosophies,  and  other  such  high  matters. 
This,  we  believe,  is  a  rare  fault  in  modern 
Correspondences ;  where  generally  the  oppo- 
site fault  is  complained  of,  and  except  mere 
temporalities,  good  and  evil  hap  of  the  corre- 
sponding parties,  their  state  of  purse,  heart, 
and  nervous  system,  and  the  moods  and  hu- 
mours these  give  rise  to, — little  stands  record- 
ed for  us.  It  may  be  too  that  native  readers 
will  feel  Such  a  want  less  than  foreigners  do, 
whose  curiosity  in  this  instance  is  equally  mi- 
nute, and  to  whom  so  many  details,  familiar 
enough  in  the  country  itself,  must  be  unknown. 
At  all  events,  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  Schil- 
ler and  Goethe  are,  in  strict  speech.  Literary 
Men  ;  for  whom  their  social  life  is  only  as  the 
dwelling-place  and  outward  tabernacle  of  their 
spiritual  life;  which  latter  is  the  one  thing 
needful ;  the  other,  except  in  subserviency  to 
this,  meriting  no  attention,  or  the  least  possi- 
ble. Besides,  as  cultivated  men,  perhaps  even 
by  natural  temper,  they  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
yielding  to  violent  emotions  of  any  kind,  still 
less  of  unfolding  and  depicting  such,  by  letter, 
even  to  closest  intimates;  a  turn  of  mind 
which,  if  it  diminished  the  warmth  of  their 
epistolary  intercourse,  must  have  increased 
their  private  happiness,  and  so,  by  their  friends, 
can  hardly  be  regretted.  He  who  wears  his 
heart  on  his  sleeve,  will  often  have  to  lament 
aloud   that  daws  peck    at  it:  he    who   does 


SCHILLER. 


227 


not,  will  spare  himself  such  lamenting.  Of 
Rousseau's  Confessions,  whatever  value  we 
assign  that  sort  of  ware,  there  is  no  vestige  in 
this  Correspondence. 

Meanwhile,  many  cheerful,  honest  little  do- 
mestic touches  are  given  here  and  there ; 
which  we  can  accept  gladly,  with  no  worse 
censure  than  wishing  that  there  had  been  more. 
But  this  Correspondence  has  another  and  more 
proper  aspect,  under  which,  if  rightly  consi- 
dered, it  possesses-  a  far  higher  interest  than 
most  domestic  delineations  could  have  impart- 
ed. It  shows  us  two  high,  creative,  truly  poetic 
minds,-unweariedly  cultivating  themselves,  un- 
weariedly  advancing  from  one  measure  of 
strength  and  clearness  to  another;  whereby  to 
such  as  travel,  we  say  not  on  the  same  road, 
for  this  few  can  do,  but  in  the  same  direction, 
as  all  should  do,  the  richest  psychological  and 
practical  lesson  is  laid  out ;  from  which  men 
of  every  intellectual  degree  may  learn  some- 
thing, and  he  that  is  of  the  highest  degree  will 
probably  learn  the  most.  What  value  lies  in 
this  lesson,  moreover,  may  be  expected  to  in- 
crease in  an  increasing  ratio  as  the  Correspond- 
ence proceeds,  and  a  larger  space,  with  broad- 
er differences  of  advancement,  comes  into 
view;  especially  as  respects  Schiller,  the 
younger  and  more  susceptive  of  the  two ;  for 
whom,  in  particular,  these  eleven  years  may 
be  said  to  comprise  the  most  important  era  of 
his  culture ;  indeed,  the  whole  history  of  his 
progress  therein,  from  the  time  when  he  first 
found  the  right  path,  and  properly  became 
progressive. 

But  to  enter  farther  on  the  merits  and  special 
qualities  of  these  Letters,  which,  on  all  hands, 
will  be  regarded  as  a  publication  of  real  value, 
both  intrinsic  and  extrinsic,  is  not  our  task 
now.  Of  the  frank,  kind,  mutually-respectful 
relation  that  manifests  itself  between  the  two 
Correspondents;  of  their  several  epistolary 
styles,  and  the  worth  of  each,  and  whatever 
else  characterizes  this  work  as  a  series  of  bio- 
graphical documents,  or  of  philosophical  views, 
we  may  at  some  future  period  have  occasion 
to  speak;  certain  detached  speculations  and 
indications  will  of  themselves  come  before  us 
in  the  course  of  our  present  undertaking. 
Meanwhile  to  British  readers,  the  chief  object 
is  not  the  Letters,  but  the  writers  of  them.  Of 
Goethe  the  public  already  know  something  : 
of  Schiller,  less  is  known,  and  our  wish  is  to 
bring  him  into  closer  approximation  with  our 
readers. 

Indeed,  had  we  considered  only  his  impor- 
tance in  German,  or  we  may  now  say,  in  Eu- 
ropean Literature,  Schiller  might  well  have  de- 
manded an  earlier  notice  in  our  Journal.  As 
a  man  of  true  poetical  and  philosophical  ge- 
nius, who  proved  this  high  endowment  both  in 
his  conduct,  and  by  a  long  series  of  Writings 
which  manifest  it  to  all;  nay,  even  as  a  man 
so  eminently  admired  by  his  nation,  while 
he  lived,  and  whose  fame,  there  and  abroad, 
during  the  twenty-five  years  since  his  decease, 
has  been  constantly  expanding  and  confirm- 
ing itself,  he  appears  with  such  claims  as  can 
belong  only  to  a  small  number  of  men.  If  we 
have  seemed  negligent  of  Schiller,  want  of 
affection  was  Dowise  the  cause.    Our  admira- 


tion for  him  is  of  old  standing,  and  has  not 
abated,  as  it  ripened  into  calm,  loving  estima- 
tion. But  to  English  expositors  of  Foreign 
Literature,  at  this  epoch,  there  will  be  many 
more  pressing  duties  than  that  of  expounding 
Schiller.  To  a  considerable  extent,  Schiller 
may  be  said  to  expound  himself.  His  great- 
ness is  of  a  simple  kind ;  his  manner  of  dis- 
playing it  is,  for  most  part,  apprehensible  to 
every  one. — Besides,  of  all  German  Writers, 
ranking  in  any  such  class  as  his,  Klopstock 
scarcely  excepted,  he  has  the  least  nationality : 
his  character  indeed  is  German,  if  German 
mean  true,  earnest,  nobly-humane;  but  his 
mode  of  thought,  and  mode  of  utterance,  all 
but  the  mere  vocables  of  it,  are  European. 
Accordingly,  it  is  to  be  observed,  no  German 
Writer  has  had  such  acceptance  with  foreign- 
ers ;  has  been  so  instantaneously  admitted 
into  favour,  at  least  any  favour  which  proved 
permanent.  Among  the  French,  for  example, 
Schiller  is  almost  naturalized  ;  translated,  com- 
mented upon,  by  men  of  whom  Constant  is 
one ;  even  brought  upon  the  stage,  and  by  a 
large  class  of  critics  vehemently  extolled  there. 
Indeed,  to  the  Romanticist  class,  in  all  coun- 
tries, Schiller  is  naturally  the  pattern  man  and 
great  master;  as  it  were  a  sort  of  ambassador 
and  mediator,  were  mediation  possible,  be- 
tween the  Old  School  and  the  New ;  pointing  to 
his  own  Works,  as  to  a  glittering  bridge,  that 
will  lead  pleasantly  from  the  Versailles  gar- 
dening and  artificial  hydraulics  of  the  one, 
into  the  true  Ginnistan  and  wonderland  of  the 
other.  With  ourselves  too,  who  are  troubled 
with  no  controversies  on  Romanticism  and 
Classicism, — the  Bowles  controversy  on  Pope 
having  long  since  evaporated  without  result, 
and  all  critical  guild-brethren  now  working 
diligently  with  one  accord,  in  the  calmer  sphere 
of  Vapidism,  or  even  Nullism, — Schiller  is  no 
less  universally  esteemed  by  persons  of  any  feel- 
ing for  poetry.  To  readers  of  German,  and  these 
are  increasing  everywhere  a  hundred  fold,  he  is 
one  of  the  earliest  studies ;  and  the  dullest 
cannot  study  him  without  some  perception  of 
his  beauties.  For  the  un-German,  again,  we 
have  Translations  in  abundance  and  supera- 
bundance ;  through  which,  under  whatever 
distortion,  however  shorn  of  his  beams,  some 
image  of  this  poetical  sun  must  force  itself; 
and  in  susceptive  hearts,  awaken  love,  and  a 
desire  for  more  immediate  insight.  So  that 
now,  we  suppose,  anywhere  in  England,  a  man 
who  denied  that  Schiller  was  a  Poet  would 
himself  be,  from  every  side,  declared  a  Prosa- 
ist, and  thereby  summarily  enough  put  to 
silence. 

All  which  being  so,  the  weightiest  part  of  our 
duty,  that  of  preliminary  pleading  for  Schiller, 
of  asserting  rank  and  excellence  for  him  while 
a  stranger,  and  to  judges  suspicious  of  coun- 
terfeits, is  taken  off  our  hands.  The  knowledge 
of  his  works  is  silently  and  rapidly  proceeding; 
in  the  only  way  by  which  true  knowledge  can 
be  attained,  by  loving  study  of  them,  in  many 
an  inquiring,  candid  mind.  Moreover,  as 
remarked  above,  Schiller's  works,  generally 
speaking,  require  little  commentary:  for  a 
man  of  such  excellence,  for  a  true  Poet  we 
should  say  that  his  worth  lies  singularly  open  ; 


228 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


nay,  in  great  part  of  his  writings,  beyond  such 
open  universally  recognisable  worth,  there  is  no 
other  to  be  sought. 

Yet  doubtless  if  he  is  a  Poet,  a  genuine  in- 
terpreter of  the  Invisible,  Criticism  will  have  a 
deeper  duty  to  discharge  for  him.  Every  Poet, 
be  his  outward  lot  what  it  may,  finds  himself 
born  in  the  midst  of  Prose ;  he  has  to  struggle 
from  the  littleness  and  obstruction  of  an  Actual 
world,  into  the  freedom  and  infinitude  of  an 
Ideal ;  and  the  history  of  such  struggle,  which 
is  the  history  of  his  life,  cannot  be  other  than 
instructive.  His  is  a  high,  laborious,  unre- 
quited, or  only  self-requited  endeavour,  which, 
however,  by  the  law  of  his  being,  he  is  com- 
pelled to  undertake,  and  must  prevail  in,  or  be 
permanently  wretched;  nay  the  more  wretched, 
the  nobler  his  gifts  are.  For  it  is  the  deep,  in- 
born claim  of  his  whole  spiritual  nature,  and 
will  not  and  must  not  go  unanswered.  His 
youthful  unrest,  that  "unrest  of  genius,"  often 
so  wayward  in  its  character,  is  the  dim  antici- 
pation of  this ;  the  mysterious,  all-powerful 
mandate,  as  from  Heaven,  to  prepare  himself, 
to  purify  himself,  for  the  vocation  wherewith 
he  is  called.  And  yet  how  few  can  fulfil  this 
mandate,  how  few  ever  earnestly  give  heed  to 
it !  Of  the  thousand  jingling  dilettanti,  whose 
jingle  dies  with  the  hour  which  it  harmlessly 
or  hurtfully  amused,  we  say  nothing  here :  to 
these,  as  to  the  mass  of  men,  such  calls  for 
spiritual  perfection  speak  only  in  whispers, 
drowned  without  difficulty  in  the  din  and  dis- 
sipation of  the  world.  But  even  for  the  Byron, 
for  the  Burns,  whose  ear  is  quick  for  celestial 
messages,  in  whom  "  speaks  the  prophesying 
spirit,"  in  awful  prophetic  voice,  how  hard  is 
it  to  "take  no  counsel  with  flesh  and  blood," 
and  instead  of  living  and  writing  for  the  Day 
that  passes  over  them,  live  and  write  for  the 
Eternity  that  rests  and  abides  over  them ;  in- 
stead of  living  commodiously  in  the  Half,  the 
Reputable,  the  Plausible,  "to  live  resolutely  in 
the  Whole,  the  Good,  the  True  !"*  Such  Half- 
ness,  such  halting  between  two  opinions,  such 
painful,  altogether  fruitless  negotiating  between 
Truth  and  Falsehood,  has  been  the  besetting 
sin,  and  chief  misery,  of  mankind  in  all  ages. 
Nay,  in  our  age,  it  has  christened  itself  Moder- 
ation, a  prudent  taking  of  the  middle  course  ; 
and  passes  current  among  us  as  a  virtue.  How 
virtuous  it  is,  the  withered  condition  of  many 
a  once  ingenious  nature  that  has  lived  by  this 
method — the  broken  or  breaking  heart  of  many 
a  noble  nature  that  could  not  live  by  it — speak 
aloud,  did  we  but  listen. 

And  now,  when  from  among  so  many  ship- 
wrecks and  misventures  one  goodly  vessel 
comes  to  land,  we  joyfully  survey  its  rich 
cargo,  and  hasten  to  question  the  crew  on  the 
fortunes  of  their  voyage.  Among  the  crowd 
of  uncultivated  and  miscultivated  writers,  the 
high,  pure  Schiller  stands  before  us  with  alike 
distinction.  We  ask,  how  was  this  man  suc- 
cessful ? — From  what  peculiar  point  of  view 
did  he  attempt  penetrating  the  secret  of  spiritual 
Nature? — From  what  region  of  Prose  rise  into 
Poetry? — Under  what  outward  accidents — 
with  whit  inward  faculties — by  what  methods 
• — with  what  result? 

*  La  Cf€nzev,  Guten^  Wuhren  resclut  zu  lebeti. — Goethe. 


For  any  thorough  or  final  answer  to  such 
questions,  it  is  evident  enough,  neither  our  own 
means,  nor  the  present  situation  of  our  readers, 
in  regard  to  this  matter,  are  in  any  measure 
adequate.  Nevertheless,  the  imperfect  begin- 
ning must  be  made,  "before  the  perfect  result 
can  appear.  Some  slight  far-off"  glance  over 
the  character  of  the  man,  as  he  looked  and 
lived,  in  Action  and  in  Poetry,  will  not,  perhaps, 
be  unacceptable  from  us :  for  such  as  know 
little  of  Schiller,  it  may  be  an  opening  of  the 
way  to  better  knowledge;  for  such  as  are 
already  familiar  with  him,  it  may  be  a  stating 
in  words  of  what  they  themselves  have  often 
thought ;  and  welcome,  therefore,  as  the  con- 
firming testimony  of  a  second  witness. 

Of  Schiller's  personal  history  there  are 
accounts  in  various  accessible  publications ; 
so  that,  we  suppose,  no  formal  Narrative  of 
his  Life,  which  may  now  be  considered  gene- 
rally known,  is  necessary  here.  Such  as  are 
curious  on  the  subject,  and  still  uninformed, 
may  find  some  satisfaction  in  the  Life  of  Schil- 
ler, (London,  1824;)  in  the  Vie  de  SchUkr,  (pre- 
fixed to  the  French  Translation  of  his  Dramatic 
Works ;)  in  the  Account  of  Schiller,  (prefixed  to 
the  English  Translation  of  his  Thirty-Years' 
War,  Edinburgh,  1828;)  and,  doubtless,  in 
many  other  Essays,  known  to  us  only  by  title. 
Nay,  in  the  survey  we  propose  to  make  of  his 
character,  practical  as  well  as  speculative,  the 
main  facts  of  his  outward  history  will  of  them- 
selves come  to  light. 

Schiller's  Life  is  emphatically  a  literary  one; 
that  of  a  man  existing  only  for  Contemplation; 
guided  forward  by  the  pursuit  of  ideal  things, 
and  seeking  and  finding  his  true  welfare  there- 
in. A  singular  simplicity  characterizes  it, — a 
remoteness  from  whatever  is  called  business  ; 
an  aversion  to  the  tumults  of  business,  an  in- 
difl"erence  to  its  prizes,  grows  with  him  from 
year  to  year.  He  holds  no  office ;  scarcely  for 
a  little  while  a  University  Professorship;  he 
covets  no  promotion ;  has  no  stock  of  money  ; 
and  shows  no  discontent  with  these  arrange- 
ments. Nay,  when  permanent  sickness,  con- 
tinual pain  of  body,  is  added  to  them,  he  still 
seems  happy:  these  last  fifteen  years  of  his 
life  are,  spiritually  considered,  the  clearest  and 
most  productive  of  all.  We  might  say,  there 
is  something  priest-like  in  that  Life  of  his: 
under  quite  another  colour  and  environment, 
yet  with  aims  differing  in  form  rather  than  in 
essence,  it  has  a  priest-like  stillness,  a  priest- 
like purity;  nay,  if  for  the  Catholic  Faith,  we 
substitute  the  Ideal  of  Art,  and  for  Convent 
Rules,  Moral,  Esthetic  Laws,  it  has  even 
something  of  a  monastic  character.  By  the 
three  monastic  vows  he  was  not  bound;  yet 
vows  of  as  high  and  difficult  a  kind,  both  to  do 
and  to  forbear,  he  had  taken  on  him;  and  his 
happiness  and  whole  business  lay  in  observing 
them.  Thus  immured,  not  in  cloisters  of 
stone  and  mortar,  yet  in  cloisters  of  the  mind, 
which  separate  him  as  impassably  from  the 
vulgar,  he  works  and  meditates  only  on  what 
we  may  call  Divine  things;  his  familiar  talk, 
his  very  recreations,  the  whole  actings  and 
fancyings  of  his  daily  existence,  tend  thither. 

A?  in  the  life  of  a  Holy  Man,  too,  so  in  that 
of  Schiller,^ there  is  but  one  great  epoch;  that 


SCHILLER. 


22a 


of  taking  on  him  these  Literary  Vows ;  of  finally- 
extricating  himself  from  the  distractions  of  the 
world,  and  consecrating  his  whole  future  days 
to  Wisdom.  What  lies  before  this  epoch,  and 
what  lies  after  it,  have  two  altogether  different 
characters.  The  former  is  worldly,  and  occu- 
pied with  worldly  vicissitudes;  the  latter  is 
spiritual,  of  calm  tenor,  marked  to  himself 
only  by  his  growth  in  inward  clearness,  to  the 
world  only  by  the  peaceable  fruits  of  this.  It 
is  to  the  first  of  these  periods  that  we  shall 
here  chiefly  direct  ourselves. 

In  his  parentage,  and  the  circumstances  of 
his  earlier  years,  we  may  reckon  him  fortu- 
nate. His  parents,  indeed,  are  not  rich,  nor 
even  otherwise  independent:  yet  neither  are 
they  meanly  poor;  and  warm  affection,  a  true 
honest  character,  ripened  in  both  into  religion, 
not  without  an  openness  for  knowledge,  and 
even  considerable  intellectual  culture,  makes 
amends  for  every  defect.  The  Boy,  too,  is 
himself  of  a  character  in  which,  to  the  ob- 
servant, lies  the  richest  promise.  A  modest, 
still  nature,  apt  for  all  instruction  in  heart  or 
head  ;  flashes  of  liveliness,  of  impetuosity, 
from  time  to  time  breaking  through.  That 
little  anecdote  of  the  Thunder-storm  is  so 
graceful  in  its  littleness,  that  one  cannot  but 
hope  it  may  be  authentic. 

"  Once,  it  is  said,  during  a  tremendous  thun- 
der-storm, his  father  missed  him  in  the  young 
group  within  doors  ;  none  of  the  sisters  could 
tell  what  was  become  of  Fritz,  and  the  old  man 
grew  at  length  so  anxious  that  he  was  forced  to 
go  out  in  quest  of  him.  Fritz  was  scarcely 
passed  the  age  of  infancy,  and  knew  not  the 
dangers  of  a  scene  so  awful.  His  father  found 
him  at  last,  in  a  solitary  place  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, perched  on  the  branch  of  a  tree, 
gazing  at  the  tempestuous  face  of  the  sky,  and 
watching  the  flashes  as  in  succession  they 
spread  their  lurid  gloom  over  it.  To  the  re- 
primands of  his  parent,  the  whimpering  truant 
pleaded  in  extenuation, '  that  the  Lightning  was 
so  beautiful,  and  he  wished  to  see  where  it 
was  coming  from!'" 

In  his  village-school  he  reads  the  Classics 
with  diligence,  without  relish ;  at  home,  with 
far  deeper  feelings,  the  Bible ;  and  already  his 
young  heart  is  caught  with  that  mystic  grandeur 
of  the  Hebrew  Prophets.  His  devout  nature, 
moulded  by  the  pious  habits  of  his  parents,  in- 
clines him  to  be  a  clergyman  :  a  clergyman, 
indeed,  he  proved ;  only  the  Church  he  minis- 
tered in  was  the  Catholic,  a  far  more  Catholic 
,,than  that  false  Romish  one.  But  already  in 
"'his  ninth  year,  not  without  rapturous  amaze- 
ment, and  a  lasting  remembrance,  he  had  seen 
the  "  splendours  of  the  Ludwigsburg  Theatre ;" 
and  so,  unconsciously,  cast  a  glimpse  into  that 
world,  where,  by  accident  or  natural  preference, 
his  own  genius  was  one  day  to  work  out  its 
noblest  triumphs. 

Before  the  end  of  his  boyhood,  however, 
begins  a  far  harsher  era  for  Schiller  ;  wherein, 
under  quite  other  nurture,  other  faculties  were 
to  be  developed  in  him.  He  must  enter  on  a 
scene  of  oppression,  distortion,  isolation ;  under 
which,  for  the  present,  the  fairest  years  of  his 
existence  are  painfully  crushed  down.  But 
this  too  has  its  wholesome  influences  on  hira ; 


for  there  is  in  genius  that  alchymy  which  con- 
verts all  metals  into  gold  ;  which  froin  suffer- 
ing educes  strength,  from  error  clearer  wisdom, 
from  all  things  good. 

"  The  Duke  of  Wurtemberg  had  lately 
founded  a  free  seminary  for  certain  branches 
of  professional  education:  it  was  first  set  up 
at  Solitude,  one  of  his  country  residences ; 
and  had  now  been  transferred  to  Stutlgard, 
where,  under  an  improved  form,  and  with  the 
name  of  Karls-schule,  we  believe  it  still  exists. 
The  Duke  proposed  to  give  the  sons  of  his 
military  officers  a  preferable  claim  to  the 
benefits  of  this  institution  ;  and  having  formed 
a  good  opinion  both  of  Schiller  and  his  father, 
he  invited  the  former  to  profit  by  this  oppor- 
tunity. The  offer  occasioned  great  embarrass- 
ment: the  young  man  and  his  parents  were 
alike  determined  in  favour  of  the  Church,  a 
project  with  which  this  new  one  was  incon- 
sistent. Their  embarrassment  was  but  in- 
creased, when  the  Duke,  on  learning  the 
nature  of  their  scruples,  desired  them  to  think 
well  before  they  decided.  It  was  out  of  fear,  and 
with  reluctance  that  his  proposal  was  accepted. 
Schiller  enrolled  himself  in  1773;  and  turned, 
with  a  heavy  heart,  from  freedom  and  cherished 
hopes,  to  Greek,  and  seclusion,  and  Law. 

"  His  anticipations  proved  to  be  but  too 
just:  the  six  years  which  he  spent  in  this  Es- 
tablishment were  the  most  harassing  and 
comfortless  of  his  life.  The  Stuttgard  system 
of  education  seems  to  have  been  formed  on  the 
principle,  not  of  cherishing  and  correcting 
nature,  but  of  rooting  it  out,  and  supplying  its 
place  by  something  better.  The  process  of 
teaching  and  living  was  conducted  with  the 
stiff"  formality  of  military  drilling;  every  thing 
went  on  by  statute  and  ordinance;  there  was 
no  scope  for  the  exercise  of  free-will,  no  allow- 
ance for  the  varieties  of  original  structure.  A 
scholar  might  possess  what  instincts  or  capa- 
cities he  pleased ;  the  •  regulations  of  the 
school'  took  no  account  of  this ;  he  must  fit 
himself  into  the  common  mould,  which,  like 
the  old  Giant's  bed,  stood  there,  appointed  by 
superior  authority,  to  be  filled  alike  by  the 
great  and  the  little.  The  same  strict  and  nar- 
row course  of  reading  and  composition  was 
marked  out  for  each  beforehand,  and  it  was  by 
stealth  if  he  read  or  wrote  any  thing  beside. 
Their  domestic  economy  was  regulated  in  the 
same  spirit  as  their  preceptorial :  it  consisted 
of  the  same  sedulous  exclusion  of  all  that 
could  border  on  pleasure,  or  give  any  exercise 
to  choice.  The  pupils  were  kept  apart  from 
the  conversation  or  sight  of  any  person  but 
their  teachers ;  none  ever  got  beyond  the  pre- 
cincts of  despotism  to  snatch  even  a  fearful 
joy  ;  their  very  amusements  proceeded  by  the 
word  of  command. 

"How  grievous  all  this  must  have  been  it  is 
easy  to  conceive.  To  Schiller  it  was  more 
grievous  than  to  any  other.  Of  an  ardent  and 
impetuous,  yet  delicate  nature,  whilst  his  dis- 
contentment devoured  him  internally,  he  was 
too  modest  to  give  it  the  relief  of  utterance  by 
deeds  or  words.  Locked  up  within  himself, 
he  suffered  deeply,  but  without  complaining 
Some  of  his  Letters  written  during  this  period 
have  been  preserved :  they  exhibit  the  inef- 
U 


830 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


fectual  struggles  of  a  fervid  and  busy  mind, 

veiling   its   ntiany  chagrins   under   a  certain 

dreamy  patience,  which  only  shows  them  more 

painfully.    He   pored  over  his  lexicons,  and 

grammars,  and  insipid  tasks,  with  an  artificial 

composure ;   but  his  spirit  pined  within  him 

like  a  captive's,  when  he  looked  forth  into  the 

cheerful  world,  or  recollected  the  afl!ection  of 

parents,  the  hopes  and  frolicsome  enjoyments 

of  past  years." 

Youth  is  to  all  the  glad  season  of  life;  but 

often  only  by  what  it  hopes,  not  by  what  it 

attains,  or  what  it  escapes.    In  these  sufferings 

of  Schiller's,  many  a  one  may  say,  there  is 

Bothing  unexampled:  could  not  the  history  of 

every  Eton  Scholar,  of  every  poor  Midship- 
man, with  his  rudely-broken  domestic  ties,  his 

privations,  persecutions,  and  cheerless  solitude 

of  heart,  equal  or  outdo  them  1     In  respect  of 

these,  its  palpable  hardships,  perhaps  it  might ; 

and  be  still  very  miserable.     But  the  hardship 

which  presses  heaviest  on  Schiller  lies  deeper 

than  all  these;  out  of  which  the  natural  fire  of 

almost  any  young  heart  will  sooner  or  later 

rise  victorious.     His  worst  oppression  is  an 

oppression  of  the  moral  sense ;  a  fettering  not 

of  ihe  Desires  only,  but  of  the  pure  reasonable 

Will :  for  besides  all  outward  suflTerings,  his 

mind  is  driven  from  its  true  aim,  dimly  yet 

invincibly  felt  to  be  the  true  one ;  and  turned, 

by  sheer  violence,  into  one  which  it  feels  to  be 

false.    Not  in'Traw,  with  its  profits  and  digni- 
ties ;  not  in  Medicine,  which  he  willingly,  yet 

still  hopelessly  exchanged  for  Law ;  not  in  the 

routine  of  any  marketable   occupation,  how 

gainful  or  honoured  soever,  can  his  soul  find 

content  and  a  home:  only  in  some  far  purer 
and  higher  region  of  Activity;  for  which  he 

has  yet  no  name ;  which  he  once  fancied  to  be 

the  Church,  which  at  length  he  discovers  to  be 

Poetry.     Nor    is   this  any   transient,  boyish 

wilfulness,  but  a  deep-seated,  earnest,  ineradi- 
cable longing,  the  dim  purpose  of  his  whole 
inner  man.  Nevertheless  as  a  transient,  boyish 
wilfulness  his  teachers  must  regard  it,  and  deal 
with  it;  and  not  till  after  the  fiercest  contest, 
and  a  clear  victory,  will  its  true  nature  be 
recognised.  Herein  lay  the  sharpest  sting  of 
Schiller's  ill  fortune ;  his  whole  mind  is 
wrenched  asunder;  he  has  no  rallying  point 
in  his  misery;  he  is  suffering  and  toiling  for  a 
wrong  object.  "  A  singular  miscalculation  of 
Nature,"  he  says  long  afterwards,  "  had  com- 
bined my  poetical  tendencies  with  the  place 
of  my  birth.  Any  disposition  to  Poetry  did 
violence  to  the  laws  of  the  Institution  where  I 
was  educated,  and  contradicted  the  plan  of  its 
founder.  For  eight  years,  my  enthusiasm 
struggled  with  military  discipline  ;  but  the 
passion  for  Poetry  is  vehement  and  fiery  as  a 
first  love.  What  discipline  was  meant  to  ex- 
tinguish, it  blew  into  a  flame.  To  escape  from 
arrangements  that  tortured  me,  my  heart 
sought  refuge  in  the  world  of  ideas,  when  as 
yet  I  was  unacquainted  with  the  world  of 
realities,  from  which  iron  bars  excluded  me." 
Doubtless  Schiller's  own  prudence  had 
already  taught  him  that  in  order  to  live  poeti- 
cally, it  was  first  requisite  to  live;  that  he 
should  and  must,  as  himself  expresses  it,  "for-       *  Our  English  translation,  one  of  the  washiest,  was 

,„    ,i„    u«iw,,     „i:.v,„»«      r    -o-    J         ^        tu      executed  (we  have  been  told)  in  Erlinbiirph  by  a  "Lord 

sake  the    balmy   climate   of   Pindus   for   the  |  of  SeBslon,"  otherwise  not  unknown  in  Literature  :wha 


Greenland  of  a  barren  and  dreary  science  of 
terms."  But  the  dull  work  of  this  Greenland 
once  accomplished,  he  might  rationally  hope 
that  his  task  was  done;  that  the  "leisure 
gained  by  superior  diligence"  would  be  his 
own,  for  Poetry,  or  whatever  else  he  pleased. 
Truly,  it  was  "  intolerable  and  degrading  to  be 
hemmed  in  still  farther  by  the  caprices  of 
severe  and  formal  pedagogues."  No  wonder 
that  Schiller  "brooded  gloomily"  over  his 
situation.  But  what  was  to  be  done  1  "  Many 
plans  he  formed  for  deliverance;  sometimes 
he  would  escape  in  secret  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  free  and  busy  world,  to  him  forbidden: 
sometimes  he  laid  schemes  for  utterly  aban- 
doning a  place  which  he  abhorred,  and  trusting 
to  fortune  for  the  rest."  But  he  is  young,  in- 
experienced, unprovided;  without  help,  or 
counsel :  there  is  nothing  to  be  done,  but  endure. 
"Under  such  corroding  and  continual  vexa- 
tions,", says  his  Biographer,  "an  ordinary 
spirit  would  have  sunk  at  length ;  would  have 
gradually  given  up  its  loftier  aspirations,  and 
sought  refuge  in  vicious  indulgence,  or  at  best 
have  sullenly  harnessed  itself  into  the  yoke, 
and  plodded  through  existence ;  weary,  dis- 
contented, and  broken,  ever  casting  back  a 
hankering  look  on  the  dreams  of  his  youth, 
and  ever  without  power  to  realize  them.  But 
Schiller  was  no  ordinary  character,  and  did 
not  act  like  one.  Beneath  a  cold  and  simple 
exterior,  dignified  with  no  artificial  attractions, 
and  marred  in  its  native  amiableness  by  the 
incessant  obstruction,  the  isolation  and  pain- 
ful destitutions  under  which  he  lived,  there 
was  concealed  a  burning  energy  of  soul,  which 
no  obstruction  could  extinguish.  The  hard 
circumstances  of  his  fortune  had  prevented 
the  natural  development  of  his  mind ;  his 
faculties  had  been  cramped  and  misdirected ; 
but  they  had  gathered  strength  by  opposition 
and  the  habit  of  self-dependence  which  it  en- 
couraged. His  thoughts,  unguided  by  a  teacher, 
had  sounded  into  the  depths  of  his  own  nature 
and  the  mysteries  of  his  own  fate;  his  feelings 
and  passions,  unshared,  by  any  other  heart,  had 
been  driven  back  upon  his  own  ;  where,  like 
the  volcanic  fire  that  smoulders  and  fuses  in 
secret,  they  accumulated  till  their  force  grew 
irresistible. 

"Hitherto  Schiller  had  passed  for  an  unpro- 
fitable, discontented,  and  a  disobedient  Boy: 
but  the  time  was  now  come  when  the  gyves 
of  school-discipline  could  no  longer  cripple 
and  distort  the  giant  might  of  his  nature:  he 
stood  forth  as  a  Man,  and  wrenched  asunder 
his  fetters  with  a  force  that  was  felt  at  the  ex- 
tremities of  Europe.  The  publication  of  the 
Robbers  forms  an  era  not  only  in  Schiller's  his- 
tory, but  in  the  literature  of  the  World ;  and 
there  seems  no  doubt  that,  but  for  so  mean  a 
cause  as  the  perverted  discipline  of  the  Stutt- 
gard  school,  we  had  never  seen  this  tragedy. 
Schiller  commenced  it  in  his  nineteenth  year; 
and  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
composed  are  to  be  traced  in  all  its  parts. 

"Translations  of  the  work  soon  appeared 
in  almost  all  the  languages  of  Europe,*  and 


SCHILLER. 


231 


were  read  in  almost  all  of  them  with  a  deep 
interest,  compounded  of  admiration  and  aver- 
sion, according  to  the  relative  proportions  of 
sensibility  and  judgment  in  the  various  minds 
which  contemplated  the  subject.  In  Germany, 
the  enthusiasm  which  the  Robbers  excited  was 
extreme.  The  young  author  had  burst  upon 
the  world  like  a  meteor;  and  surprise,  for  a 
time,  suspended  the  power  of  cool  and  rational 
criticism.  In  the  ferment  produc'ed  by  the 
universal  discussion  of  this  single  topic,  the 
poet  was  magnified  above  his  natural  dimen- 
sions, great  as  they  were  :  and  though  the 
general  sentence  was  loudly  in  his  favour,  yet 
he  found  detractors  as  well  as  praisers,  and 
both  equally  beyond  the  limits  of  moderation. 

"But  the  tragedy  of  the  Robbers  produced 
for  its  Author  some  consequences  of  a  kind 
much  more  sensible  than  these.  We  have 
called  it  the  signal  of  Schiller's  deliverance 
from  school  tyranny  and  military  constraint; 
but  its  operation  in  this  respect  was  not  imme- 
diate. At  first  it  seemed  to  involve  him  more 
deeply  than  before.  He  had  finished  the 
original  sketch  of  it  in  1778;  but  for  fear  of 
offence,  he  kept  it  secret  till  his  medical  studies 
were  completed.  These,  in  the  mean  time,  he 
had  pursued  with  sufficient  assiduity  to  merit 
the  usual  honours.  In  1780,  he  had,  in  con- 
sequence, obtained  the  post  of  Surgeon  to  the 
regiment  Jnge,  in  the  Wurtemberg  army.  This 
advancement  enabled  him  to  complete  his  pro- 
ject,— to  print  the  Robbers  at  his  own  expense; 
not  being  able  to  find  any  bookseller  that 
would  undertake  it.  The  nature  of  the  work, 
and  the  universal  interest  it  awakened,  drew 
attention  to  the  private  circumstances  of  the 
Author,  whom  the  Robbers,  as  well  as  other 
pieces  of  his  writing  that  had  found  their  way 
into  the  periodical  publications  of  the  time, 
sufficiently  showed  to  be  no  common  man. 
Many  grave  persons  were  offended  at  the  vehe- 
ment sentiments  expressed  in  the  Robbers;  and 
the  unquestioned  ability  with  which  these  ex- 
travagances were  expressed  but  made  the  mat- 
ter worse.  To  Schiller's  superiors,  above  all, 
such  things  were  inconceivable ;  he  might  per- 
haps be  a  very  great  genius,  but  was  certainly 
a  dangerous  servant  for  His  Highness,  the 
Grand  Duke  of  Wurtemberg.  Officious  people 
mingled  themselves  in  the  affair:  nay,  the 
graziers  of  the  Alps  were  brought  to  bear  upon 
it.  The  Grisons'  magistrates,  it  appeared,  had 
seen  the  book,  and  were  mortally  huffed  at  their 
people's  being  there  spoken  of,  according  to  a 
Swabian  adage,  as  common  highwaymen.*  They 
complained  in  the  Hamburg  Correspondent ;  and 


went  to  work  under  deepest  concealment,  lest  evil  might 
befal  him.  The  confidential  Devil,  now  an  Angel,  who 
mysteriously  carried  him  the  proof-sheets,  is  our  in- 
formant. 

*Tlie  obnoxious  passage  has  been  carefully  expunged 
from  subsequent  editions.  It  was  in  the  third  Scene  of 
the  second  Act.  Spiegelborg,  discoursing  with  Raz- 
mann,  observes,  "  An  honest  man  you  may  form  of 
windle-straws ;  but  to  make  a  rascal  you  must  have 
grist:  besides  there  is  a  national  genius  in  it — a  certain 
rascal-climate,  so  to  speak."  In  the  first  Edition  there 
was  added,  "  Go  to  the  Grisons,  fur  instance ;  that  is 
what  I  call  the  Thief's  Jithens."  The  patriot  who  stood 
forth,  on  this  occasion,  for  the  honour  of  the  tJrisons,  to 
deny  this  weighty  charge,  and  denounce  the  crime  of 
malting  it,  was  (not  Dogberry  or  Verges,  but)  "one  of 
the  noble  family  of  Salis." 


a  sort  of  jackall,  at  Ludwigsburg,  one  Walter, 
whose  name  deserves  to  be  thus  kept  in  mind, 
volunteered  to  plead  their  cause  before  the 
Grand  Duke. 

"Informed  of  all  these  circumstances,  the 
Grand  Duke  expressed  disapprobation  of 
Schiller's  poetical  labours  in  the  most  une- 
quivocal terms.  Schiller  was  at  length  sum- 
moned before  him ;  and  it  then  turned  out,  that 
his  Highness  was  not  only  dissatisfied  with  the 
moral  or  political  errors  of  the  work,  but 
scandalized  moreover  at  its  want  of  literary 
merit.  In  this  latter  respect,  he  was  kind 
enough  to  proflferhis  own  services.  But  Schil- 
ler seems  to  have  received  the  proposal  with 
no  sufficient  gratitude;  and  the  interview- 
passed  without  advantage  to  either  party.  It 
terminated  in  the  Duke's  commanding  Schiller 
to  abide  by  medical  subjects :  or  at  least,  to 
beware  of  writing  any  more  poetry,  without 
submitting  it  to  his  inspection. 

*  *  *  »  »  * 

"Various  new  mortifications  awaited  Schil- 
ler. It  was  in  vain  that  he  discharged  the 
humble  duties  of  his  station  with  the  most 
strict  fidelity,  and  even,  it  is  said,  with  superior 
skill :  he  was  a  suspected  person,  and  his 
most  innocent  actions  M^ere  misconstrued,  his 
slightest  faults  were  visited  with  the  full  mea- 
sure of  official  severity.  ♦  *  *  His  free  spirit 
shrunk  at  the  prospect  of  wasting  its  strength 
in  strife  against  the  pitiful  constraints,  the 
minute  and  endless  persecutions  of  men,  who 
knew  him  not,  yet  had  his  fortune  in  their 
hands :  the  idea  of  dungeons  and  jailers 
haunted  and  tortured  his  mind;  and  the  means 
of  escaping  them,  the  renunciation  of  poetry, 
the  source  of  all  his  joy,  if  likewise  of  many 
woes,  the  radiant  guiding-star  of  his  turbid 
and  obscure  existence,  seemed  a  sentence  of 
death  to  all  that  was  dignified,  and  delightful, 
and  worth  retaining,  in  his  character.  *  *  * 
With  the  natural  feeling  of  a  young  author,  he 
had  ventured  to  go  in  secret,  and  witness  the 
first  representation  of  his  Tragedy,  at  Man- 
heim.  His  incognito  did  not  conceal  him; 
he  was  put  under  arrest,  during  a  week,  for 
this  offence ;  and  as  the  punishment  did  not 
deter  him  from  again  transgressing  in  a  similar 
manner,  he  learned  that  it  was  in  contempla- 
tion to  try  more  rigorous  measures  with  him. 
Dark  hints  were  given  to  him  of  some  exem- 
plary as  well  as  imminent  severity:  and  Dal- 
berg's  aid,  the  sole  hope  of  averting  it  by  quiet 
means,  was  distant  and  dubious.  Schiller  saw 
himself  reduced  to  extremities.  Beleaguered 
with  present  distresses,  and  the  most  horrible 
forebodings,  on  every  side;  roused  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  indignation,  yet  forced  to  keep 
silence,  and  wear  the  face  of  patience,  he  could 
endure  this  maddening  constraint  no  longer. 
He  resolved  to  be  free,  at  whatever  risk ;  to 
abandon  advantages  which  he  could  not  buy  at 
such  a  price  ;  to  quit  his  step-dame  home,  and 
go  forth,  though  friendless  and  alone,  to  seek 
his  fortiine  in  the  great  market  of  life.  Some 
foreign  Duke  or  Prince  was  arriving  at  Stutt- 
gard  ;  and  all  the  people  were  in  movement, 
witnessing  thespectable  of  his  entrance :  Schil- 
ler seized  this  opportunity  of  retiring  from  the 
city,  careless  whither  he  went,  so  he  got  be. 


CARLYLE'S   MISCELLANEOUS   WRITINGS. 


yond  the  reach  of  turnkeys,  and  Grand  Dukes, 
and  commanding  officers.  It  was  in  the  month 
of  October,  1782,  his  twenty-third  year." — Life 
of  Schiller,  Part  I. 

Such  were  the  circumstances  under  which 
Schiller  rose  to  manhood.  We  see  them  per- 
manently influence  his  character;  but  there  is 
also  a  strength  in  himself  which  on  the  whole 
triumphs  over  them.  The  kindly  and  the  un- 
kindly alike  lead  him  towards  the  goal.  In 
childhood,  the  most  unheeded,  but  by  far  the 
most  important  era  of  existence, — as  it  were, 
the  still  Creation-days  of  the  whole  future  man, 
— he  had  breathed  the  only  wholesome  atmo- 
sphere, a  s6ft  atmosphere  of  affection  and  joy: 
the  invisible  seeds  which  are  one  day  to  ripen 
into  clear  Devoutness,  and  all  humane  Virtue, 
are  happily  sown  in  him.  Not  till  he  has 
gathered  foi'ce  for  resistance,  does  the  time  of 
contradiction,  of  being  "purified  by  suffering," 
arrive.  For  this  contradiction,  too,  we  have 
to  thank  those  Stuttgard  Schoolmasters  and 
their  purblind  Duke.  Had  the  system  they  fol- 
lowed been  a  milder,  more  reasonable  one,  we 
should  not  indeed  have  altogether  lost  our 
Poet,  for  the  Poetry  lay  in  his  inmost  soul,  and 
could  not  remain  unuttered ;  but  we  might 
well  have  found  him  under  a  far  inferior  cha- 
racter;  not  dependent  on  himself  and  truth,  but 
dependent  on  the  world  and  its  gifts ;  not 
standing  on  a  native,  everlasting  basis,  but  on 
an  accidental,  transient  one. 

In  Schiller  himself,  as  manifested  in  these 
emergencies,  we  already  trace  the  chief  fea- 
tures which  distinguish  him  through  life.  A 
tenderness,  a  sensitive  delicacy,  aggravated 
under  that  harsh  treatment,  issues  in  a  certain 
shyness  and  reserve:  which,  as  conjoined 
moreover  with  habits  of  internal  and  not  of  ex- 
ternal activity,  might  in  time  have  worked 
itself,  had  his  natural  temper  been  less  warm 
and  affectionate,  into  timorous  self-seclusion, 
dissocialily,  and  even  positive  misanthropy. 
Nay,  generally  viewed,  there  is  much  in  Schil- 
ler at  this  epoch  that  to  a  careless  observer 
might  have  passed  for  weakness ;  as  indeed, 
for  such  observers,  weakness,  and  fineness  of 
nature  are  easily  confounded.  One  element 
of  strength,  however,  and  the  root  of  all 
strength,  he  throughout  evinces :  he  wills  one 
thing,  and  knows  what  he  wills.  His  mind 
,.  has  a  purpose,  and  still  better,  a  right  purpose. 

iHe  already  loves  true  spiritual  Beauty,  with 
his  whole  heart  and  his  whole  soul;  and  for 
the  attainment,  for  the  pursuit  of  this,  is  pre- 
\  pared  to  make  all  sacrifices.  As  a  dim  instinct, 
'sunder  vague  forms,  this  aim  first  appears; 
gains  f  rce  with  his  force,  clearness  in  the  op- 
position it  must  conquer;  and  at  length  declares 
itself,  with  a  peremptory  emphasis  which  will 
admit  of  no  contradiction. 

As  a  mere  piece  of  literary  history,  these 
passages  of  Schiller's  life  are  not  without 
interest;  this  is  a  "persecution  for  conscience- 
sake,"  such  as  has  oftener  befallen  heresy  in 
Religion,  than  heresy  in  Literature;  a  blind 
struggle  to  extinguish,  by  physical  violence, 
the  inward,  celestial  light  of  a  human  soul; 
and  here  in  regard  to  Literature,  as  in  regard 
to  Religion,  it  always  is  an  ineffectual  struggle. 
Doubtless,  as  religious  Inquisitors  have  often 


/•arieties  of  j  j 
ivard  unity.  1 1 
iaahiliaibto  f  I 


done,  these  secular  Inquisitors  meant  honestly 
in   persecuting;  and   since   the    matter  went 
well  in  spite  of  them,  their  interference  with 
it  may  be  forgiven  and  forgotten.     We  have 
dwelt  the  longer  on  these  proceedings  of  theirs, 
because  they  bring  us  to  the  grand  crisis  of^ 
Schiller's  history,  and  for  the  first  time  show' 
us    his  will   decisively   a^sgiimg-itsaiff-^^e*^ 
Shv^ly  pronoiiiicing  the  law  whereby  his  whole^ 
future  life  is  to  be  governed.     He  himself  says, 
he  "went  empty  away;  empty  in  purse  and 
hope."     Yet  the  mind  that  dwelt  in  him  was 
still  there  with  its  gifts ;  and  the  task  of  his 
existence  now  lay  undivided  before  him.    He 
is  henceforth  a  Literary  Man  ;  and  need  appear 
in  no  other  character.    "All  my  connections," 
he  could   ere   long  say,  "are  now  dissolved. 
The  public  is  now  all  to  me ;  my  study,  my 
^tnfefetgnrmyxotrfrdanr.    To  "the  public  alone. 
I  from   this   time   bdong ;    before    IhTs    and 
no   othef "tribunal  will   I   place   myself;   this 
alone  do  I  reverence   and  fear.    "So'm'ething 
majestic  hot^ers  before  me,  as  I  determine  now 
to  wear  no  other  fetters  but  the  sentence  of  the 
world,  to  appeal  to  no  other  throne  but  the  soul 
of  man."* 

In  his  subsequent  life,  with  all  varieties 
outward  fortune,  we  find  a  noble  inward 
That  love  of  Literature,  and  thajLcaaoh 
abide  by  it  at  all  hazards,  do' noi-forsSke  him. 
He  wanders   through  the  world,  looks   at  it 
under  many  phases;  mingles  in  the  joys  of 
social  life;  is  a  husband,  father;  experiences 
all  the  common  destinies  of  man  ;  but  the  same 
"  radiant  guiding-star"  which,  often  obscured, 
had  led  him  safe  through  the  perplexities  of 
his  youth,  now  shines  on  him  with  unwavering 
light.     In  all  relations  and  conditions,  Schiller 
is  blameless, amiable;  he  is  even  little  tempted 
to  err.    That  high  purpose  after  spiritual  per-  ^': 
fection,  whJ sh,3U.tl^4M«^-waglrlrrEC jof  .PggJ!^):^— 
and  ah' unwearied,  active  love^Js  ,ii§elf,  when 
pTire  and  supreme,  the   necessary  parent  of 
good  conduct,  as  of  noble  feeling.     With  alU^ 
men  it  should  be  puFe  and  supreme;  for  in  one 
or  the  other  shape  it  is  the  true  end  of  man's 
life.    Neither  in   any  man   is  it  ever  wholly 
obliterated ;  with  the  most,  however,  it  remains 
a  passive  sentiment,  an  idle  wish.    And  even 
with   the   small   residue  of  men  in  whom  it 
attains  some  measure  of  activity,  who  would, 
be  Poets  in  act  or  word,  how  seldom  is  it  the  ^ 
sincere  and  highest  purpose,  how  seldom  un-) 
mixed  with  vulgar  ambition,  and  low,  mere^ 
earthly  aims,  which  distort  or  utterly  pervert 
its  manifestations!     With  Schiller,  ai,'ain,  it, 
was  the  one  thing  needful;  the  first  duly,  for 
which  all  other  duties  worked  together,  under^ 
which    all  other  duties  quietly  prospered,  "as'  ^ 
under  their  rightful  sovereign.  _  Worldly  pre- 
ferment, faffle""TTseTI7TTie~iJi3~hot  covet:  yet  of  ■ 
fame  he  reaps  the  most  plenteous  harvest;  and 
of  worldly  goods  what  little  he  wanted  is  in 
the  end  made  sure  to  him.    His  mild,  honest 
character  everywhere  gains  him  friends  :  that 
upright,  peaceful,  simple  life  is  honourable  in 
the  eyes  of  all ;  and  they  who  know  him  the 
best  love  him  the  most. 
Perhaps,  among  all  the  circumstances   of 

•  Preface  to  the  Thalia. 


SCHILLER. 


233 


Schiller's  literary  life  there  was  none  so  im- 
portant for  him  as  his  connection  with  Goethe. 
To  use  our  old  figure,  we  might  say,  that  if 


Schiller  was  a   Priest,  then  was   Goethe  the'-^iwrt-mie-man'can'dtrstj'nmclTfbr  another,  can 


Bishop  from  whom  he  first  acquired  clear  spi- 
ritual light,  by  whose  hands  he  was  ordained  to 
the  priesthood.  Their  friendship  has  been 
much  celebrated,  and  deserved  to  be  so  ;  it  is  a 
pure  relation  ;  unhappily  too  rare  in  Literature ; 
where  if  a  Swift  and  Pope  can  even  found  an 
imperious  Duumvirate,  on  little  more  than 
mutually-tolerated  pride,  and  part  the  spoils, 
for  some  time,  without  quarrelling,  it  is  thought 
a  credit.  Seldom  do  men  combine  so  steadily 
and  warmly  for  such  purposes, — which  when 
weighed  in  the  economical  balance  are  but 
gossamer.  It  appears  also  that  preliminary 
difficulties  stood  in  the  way;  prepossessions 
of  some  strength  had  to  be  conquered  on  both 
sides.  For  a  number  of  years,  the  two,  by 
accident  or  choice,  never  met,  and  their  first 
interview  scarcely  promised  any  permanent 
approximation.  "  On  the  whole,"  says  Schiller, 
"  this  personal  meeting  has  not  at  all  dimin- 
ished the  idea,  great  as  it  was,  which  I  had 
previously  formed  of  Goethe ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  we  shall  ever  come  into  close  com- 
munication with  each  other.  Much  that  still 
interests  me  has  already  had  its  epoch  with 
him.  His  whole  nature  is,  from  its  very  origin, 
otherwise  constructed  than  mine :  his  world  is 
not  my  world;  our  modes  of  conceiving  things 
appear  to  be  essentially  different.  From  suc^ 
a  combination  no  secure  substantial  intimacy 
can  result." 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  far  graver  preju- 
dices on  the  part  of  Goethe, — to  say  nothing  of 
the  poor  jealousies  which  in  another  man  so 
circumstanced  would  openly  or  secretly  have 
been  at  work, — a  secure  substantial  intimacy 
did  result — manifesting  itself  by  continual  good 
offices,  and  interrupted  only  by  death.  If  we 
regard  the  relative  situation  of  the  parties,  and 
their  conduct  in  this  matter,  we  must  recognise 
in  both  of  them  no  little  social  virtue;  at  all 
events,  a  deep  disinterested  love  of  worth.  In 
the  case  of  Goethe,  more  especially,  who,  as 
the  elder  and  every  way  greater  of  the  two,  has 
little  to  expect  in  comparison  with  what  he 
gives,  this  friendly  union,  had  we  space  to  ex- 
plain its  nature  and  progress,  would  give  new 
proof  that,  as  poor  Jung  Stilling  also  experi- 
enced, "  the  man's  heart,  which  few  know,  is 
as  true  and  noble  as  his  genius,  which  all 
know."  By  Goethe,  and  this  even  before  the 
date  of  their  friendship,  Schiller's  outward  in- 
terests had  been  essentially  promoted:  he  was 
introduced  under  that  sanction,  into  the  ser- 
vice of  Weimar,  to  an  academic  office,  to  a 
pension  :  his  whole  way  was  made  smooth  for 
him.  In  spiritual  matters,  this  help,  or  rather 
let  us  say  co-operation,  for  it  came  not  in  the 
shape  of  help,  but  of  reciprocal  service,  was 

)f  still  more  lasting  consequence.     By  the  side 

)f  his  friend,  Schiller  rises  into  the   highest 
regions   of  Art  he  ever  reached;  and  in  all 

worthy  things  is  sure  of  sympathy,  of  one  wise 
judgment  amid  a  crowd  of  unwise  ones,  of  one 

lelpful  hand  amid  many  hostile.    Thus  out- 
Iwardly  and  inwardly  assisted  and  confirmed, 


fastness,  turning  neither  to  the  right  hand,  nor 
to  the  left ;  and  while  days  are  given  him,  de- 
votes them  >;vhoHy to  his  best  duty.    It  is  fare 


30 


permanently  benefit  another;  so  mournfully, 
in  giving  and  receiving,  as  in  most  charitable 
affections  and  finer  movements  of  our  nature, 
are  we  all  held  in  by  that  paltry  vanity,  which, 
under  reputable  names,  usurps,  on  both  sides, 
a  sovereignty  it  has  no  claim  to.  Nay,  many 
times,  when  our  friend  would  honestly  help  us, 
and  strives  to  do  it,  yet  will  he  never  bring  him- 
self to  understand  what  we  really  need,  and  so 
to  forward  us  on  our  own  path ;  but  insists 
more  simply  on  us  taking  his  path,  and  leaves 
us  as  incorrigible  because  we  will  not  and  can- 
not. Thus  "men  are  solitary  among  each 
other;"  no  one  will  help  his  neighbour;  each 
has  even  to  assume  a  defensive  attitude  lest  his 
neighbour  hinder  him ! 

Of  Schiller's  zealous,  entire  devotedness  to 
Literature  we  have  already  spoken  as  of  his 
crowning  virtue,  and  the  great  source  of  his 
welfare.  With  what  ardour  he  pursued  this 
object  his  whole  life,  from  the  earliest  stage  of 
it,  had  given  proof:  but  the  clearest  proof, 
clearer  even  than  that  youthful  self-exile,  was 
reserved  for  his  later  years,  when  a  lingering, 
incurable  disease  had  laid  on  him  its  new  and 
ever-galling  burden.  At  no  period  of  Schiller's 
history  does  the  native  nobleness  of  his  cha- 
racter appear  so  decidedly,  as  now  in  this  sea- 
son of  silent,  unwitnessed  heroism,  when  the 
dark  enemy  dwelt  within  himself,  unconquer- 
able, yet  ever,  in  all  other  struggles,  to  be  kept 
at  bay.  We  have  medical  evidence  that  during 
the  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life,  not  a  moment 
could  have  been  free  of  pain.  Yet  he  utters 
no  complaint.  In  this  "  Correspondence  with 
Goethe"  we  see  him  cheerful,  laborious  ;  ^^^ 
scarcely  speaking  of  his  maladies,  and  then  / 
only  historically,  in  the  style  of  a  third  party, 
as  it  were,  calculating  what  force  and  length 
of  days  might  still  remain  at  his  disposal.  Nay, 
his  highest  poetical  performances,  we  may  say 
all  that  are  truly  poetical,  belong  to  this  era. 
If  we  recollect  how  many  poor  valetudinarians, 
Rousseaus,  Cowpers,  and  the  like,  men  other- 
wise of  fine  endowment,  dwindle  under  the  in-  i 
fluence  of  nervous  disease,  into  pining  wretch- 
edness, some  into  madness  itself;  and  then  that 
Schiller,  under  the  like  influence,  wrote  some 
of  his  deepest  speculations,  and  all  his  genuine,  j 
dramas,  from  Wallenstein  to  Wilhehn  Tell,  we 
shall  the  better  estimate  his  merit. 

It  has  been  said  that  only  in  Religion,  or 
something  equivalent  to  Religion,  can  human 
nature  support  itself  under  such  trials.  But 
Schiller  too  had  his  Religion  !  was  a  Worship- 
per, nay,  as  we  have  often  said,  a  Priest ;  and 
so  in  his  earthly  sufferings  wanted  not  a  hea- 
venly stay.  Without  some  such  stay  his  life 
might  well  have  been  intolerable;  striptof  the 
Ideal,  what  remained  for  him  in  the  Real  was 
but  a  poor  matter.  Do  we  talk  of  his  "  happi- 
ness 1"  Alas,  what  is  the  loftiest  flight  of  genius, 
the  finest  frenzy  that  ever  for  moments  united 
Heaven  with  Earth,  to  the  perennial  never-fail- 
ing joys  of  a  digestive-apparatus  thoroughly 
eupeptic  1     Has  not  the  turtle-eatin-g  man  an 


'he  henceforth  goes  on  his  way  with  new  stead-gneternal  sunshine  of  the  breasti     Does  not  his 


V  2 


234 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Soul, — which,  as  in  some  Sclavonic  dialects, 
means  his  Stomach, — sit  for  ever  at  his  ease, 
enwrapped  in  warm  condiments,  amid  spicy 
odours  ;  enjoying  the  past,  the  present  and  the 
future ;  and  only  awakening  from  its  soft  trance 
to  the  sober  certainty  of  a  still  higher  bliss  each 
meal-time — three  or  even  four  visions  of 
Heaven  in  the  space  of  one  solar  day  !  While 
for  the  sick  man  of  genius,  "  whose  world  is 
of  the  mind,  ideal,  internal ;  when  the  mildew 
of  lingering  disease  has  struck  that  world,  and 
begun  to  blacken  and  consume  its  beauty,  what 
remains  but  despondency,  and  bitterness,  and 
desolate  sorrow  felt  and  anticipated  to  the  end  1" 

"Wo  to  him,"  continues  this  Jeremiah,  "if 
his  will  likewise  falter,  if  his  resolution  fail, 
and  his  spirit  bend  its  neck  to  the  yoke  of  this 
new  enemy !  Idleness  and  a  disturbed  imagi- 
nation will  gain  the  mastery  of  him,  and  let 
loose  their  thousand  fiends  to  harass  him,  to 
torment  him  into  madness.  Alas  !  the  bondage 
of  Algiers  is  freedom  compared  with  this  of 
the  sick  man  of  genius,  whose  heart  has  faint- 
ed, and  sunk  beneath  its  load.  His  clay  dwell- 
ing is  changed  into  a  gloomy  prison;  every 
nerve  has  become  an  avenue  of  disgust  or  an- 
guish, and  the  soul  sits  within  in  her  melan- 
choly loneliness,  a  prey  to  the  spectres  of  des- 
pair, or  stupified  with  excess  of  suffering; 
doomed,  as  it  were,  to  a  life-in-death,  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  agonized  existence,  without  the 
consciousness  of  power  which  should  accom- 
pany it.  Happily  death,  or  entire  fatuity,  at 
length  puts  an  end  to  such  scenes  of  ignoble 
misery,  which,  however,  ignoble  as  they  are, 
we  ought  to  view  with  pity  rather  than  con- 
tempt."—X(/c  of  Schiller,  p.  167. 

Yet  on  the  whole,  we  say,  it  is  a  shame  for 
the  man  of  genius  to  complain.  Has  he  not 
a  "  light  from  Heaven"  within  him,  to  which 
the  splendour  of  all  earthly  thrones  and  prin- 
cipalities is  but  darkness  1  And  the  head  that 
wears  such  a  crown  grudges  to  lie  uneasy  1 
If  that  same  "light  from  Heaven,"  shining 
through  the  falsest  media,  supported  Syrian 
Simon  through  all  weather  on  his  sixty-feet  pil- 
lar, or  the  still  more  wonderful  Eremite,  who 
walled  himself,  for  life,  up  to  the  chin,  in  stone 
and  mortar;  how  much  more  should  it  do, 
when  shining  direct  and  pure  from  all  inter- 
mixture ]  Let  the  modern  Priest  of  wisdom 
either  suffer  his  small  persecutions  and  inflic- 
tions, though  sickness  be  of  the  number,  in 
patience, or  admit  that  ancient  fanatics  and  bed- 
lamites were  truer  worshippers  than  he. 

A  foolish  controversy  on  this  subject  of  hap- 
piness now  and  then  occupies  some  intellectual 
dinner-party ;  speculative  gentlemen  we  have 
seen,  more  than  once,  almost  forget  their  wine 
in  arguing  whether  Happiness  was  the  chief 
end  of  man.  The  most  cry  out,  with  Pope : 
"Happiness,  our  being's  end  and  aim;"  and 
ask  whether  it  is  even  conceivable  that  we 
should  follow  any  other.  How  comes  it,  then, 
cry  the  Opposition,  that  the  gros;?  are  happier 
than  the  refined ;  that  even  thoiigh  we  know 
them  to  be  happier,  we  would  not  change 
places  with  them  1  Is  it  not  written,  "  increase 
<of  knowledge  is  increase  of  sorrow?"  And 
yet  also  written,  in  characters  still  more  inef- 
faceable, "  Pursue  knowledge,  attain  clear  vi- 


sion, as  the  beginning  of  all  good  1"  Were  your 
doctrine  right,  for  w^hat  should  we  struggle  with 
our  whole  might,  for  what  pray  to  Heaven,  if 
not  that  the  "malady  of  thought"  might  be 
utterly  stifled  within  us,  and  a  power  of  diges- 
tion and  secretion,  to  which  that  of  the  tiger 
were  trifling,  be  imparted  instead  thereof? 
Whereupon  the  others  deny  that  thought  is  a 
malady ;  that  increase  of  knowledge  is  increase 
of  sorrow ;  that  Aldermen  have  a  sunnier  life 
than  Aristotle's,  though  the  Stagyrite  himself 
died  exclaiming,  Fcede  mundum  intravi,  anxius 
vixi,  perturbatus  morior,  ^c. :  and  thus  the  argu- 
ment circulates,  and  the  bottles  stand  still. 

So  far  as  that  Happiness  question  concerns 
the  symposia  of  speculative  gentlemen, — the 
rather  as  it  really  is  a  good  enduring  backlog 
whereon  to  chop  logic,  for  those  so  minded, — 
we  with  great  willingness  leave  it  resting  on 
its  own  bottom.  But  there  are  earnest  natures 
for  whom  Truth  is  no  plaything,  but  the  staff 
of  life ;  men  whom  the  "  solid  reality  of  things" 
will  not  carry  forward ;  who  when  the  "  inward 
voice"  is  silent  in  them,  are  powerless,  nor  will 
the  loud  huzzaing  of  millions  supply  the  want 
of  it.  To  these  men,  seeking  anxiously  for 
guidance ;  feeling  that  did  they  once  clearly  see 
the  right,  they  would  follow  it  cheerfully  to 
weal  or  to  wo,  comparatively  careless  which; 
to  these  men  the  question,  what  is  the  proper 
aim  of  man,  has  a  deep  and  awful  interest. 

For  the  sake  of  such,  it  may  be  remarked 
that  the  origin  of  this  argument,  like  that  of 
every  other  argument  under  the  sun,  lies  in  the 
confusion  of  language.  If  Happiness  mean 
Welfare,  there  is  no  doubt  but  all  men  should 
and  must  pursue  their  Welfare,  that  is  to  say, 
pursue  what  is.  worthy  of  their  pursuit.  But 
if,  on  the  other  hand.  Happiness  mean,  as  for 
most  men  it  does,  "  agreeable  sensations," 
Enjoyment  refined  or  not,  then  must  we  observe 
that  there  is  a  doubt ;  or  rather  that  there  is  a 
certainty  the  other  way.  Strictly  considered, 
this  truth,  that  man  has  in  him  something 
higher  than  a  Love  of  Pleasure,  take  Pleasure 
in  what  sense  you  will,  has  been  the  text  of  all 
true  Teachers  and  Preachers,  since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  world  ;  and  in  one  or  another  dia- 
lect, we  may  hope,  will  continue  to  be  preached 
and  taught  till  the  world  end.  Neither  is  our 
own  day  without  its  asserters  thereof:  what, 
for  example,  does  the  astonished  reader  make 
of  this  little  sentence  from  Schiller's  JSsthetic 
Letters?  It  is  on  that  old  question  the  "im- 
provement of  the  species ;"  which,  however,  is 
handled  here  in  a  very  new  manner. 

"The  first  acquisitions,  then,  which  men 
gathered  in  the  Kingdom  of  Spirit  were  Jnxiely 
and  Fear;  both,  it  is  true,  products  of  Reason, 
not  of  Sense ;  but  of  a  Reason  that  mistook  its 
object,  and  mistook  its  mode  of  application. 
Fruits  of  this  same  tree  are  all  your  Happiness- 
Systems,  (Gliirkseligkeitssysteme,)  whether  they 
have  for  object  the  passing  Day,  or  the  whole 
of  life,  or  what  renders  them  no  whit  more 
venerable,  the  whole  of  Eternity.  A  boundless 
duration  of  Being  and  Well-being  {Daseyns  und 
Wohlseyns)  simply  for  Being  and  Well-being's 
sake,  is  an  Ideal  belonging  to  Appetite  alone, 
and  which  only  the  struggle  of  mere  Animal- 
ism, (^Thierheit,)  longing  to  be  infinite,  gives 


SCHILLER. 


235 


rise  to.  Thus  without  gaining  any  thing  for 
his  Manhood,  he,  by  this  first  effort  of  Reason, 
loses  the  happy  limitation  of  the  Animal;  and 
has  now  only  the  unenviable  superiority  of 
missing  the  Present  in  an  effort  directed  to  the 
Distance,  and  whereby  still,  in  the  whole 
boundless  Distance,  nothing  but  the  Present  is 
sought  for." — Brief e  uher  die  Aeslhclische  Erzie- 
hung  des  Menschen,  B.  24. 

The  JEsthetic  Letters,  in  which  this  and  many 
far  deeper  matters  come  into  view,  will  one  day 
deserve  a  long  chapter  to  themselves.  Mean- 
while we  cannot  but  remark,  as  a  curious 
symptom  of  this  time,  that  the  pursuit  of 
merely  sensuous  good,  of  personal  Pleasure  in 
one  shape  or  other,  should  be  the  universally 
admitted  formula  of  man's  whole  duty.  Once, 
E'picurus  had  his  Zeno ;  and  if  the  herd  of 
mankind  have  at  all  times  been  the  slaves  of 
Desire,  Drudging  anxiously  for  their  mess  of 
pottage,  or  filling  themselves  with  swine's 
husks, — earnest  natures  were  not  wanting,  who, 
at  least  in  theory,  asserted  for  their  kind  a 
higher  vocation  than  this ;  declaring,  as  they 
could,  that  man's  soul  was  no  dead  Balance 
for  "motives"  to  sway  hither  and  thither,  but 
a  living,  divine  Soul,  indefeasibly  Free,  whose 
birthright  it  was  to  be  the  servant  of  Virtue, 
Goodness,  God,  and  in  such  service  to  be 
blessed  without  fee  or  reward.  Now-a-days, 
however,  matters  are,  on  all  hands,  managed 
far  more  prudently.  The  choice  of  Hercules 
could  not  occasion  much  difficulty  in  these 
times  to  any  young  man  of  talent.  On  the  one 
hand — by  a  path  which  is  steep,  indeed,  yet 
smoothed  by  much  travelling,  and  kept  in  con- 
stant repair  by  many  a  moral  Macadam — 
smokes  (in  patent  calefactors)  a  Dinner  of  in- 
numerable courses;  on  the  other,  by  a  down- 
ward path,  through  avenues  of  very  mixed 
character,  frowns  in  the  distance  a  grim  Gal- 
lows, probably  "improved  drop."  Thus  is 
Utility  the  only  God  of  these  days ;  and  our 
honest  Benthamites  are  but  a  small  Provincial 
Synod  of  that  boundless  Communion.  With- 
out gift  of  prophecy  we  may  predict,  that  the 
straggling  bush-fire  which" is  kept  up  here  and 
there  against  that  body  of  well-intentioned 
men,  must  one  day  become  a  universal  battle  ; 
and  the  grand  question.  Mind  versus  Matter,  be 
again  under  new  forms  judged  of  and  decided. 
— But  we  wander  too  far  from  our  task;  to 
which,  therefore,  nothing  doubtful  of  a  pros- 
perous issue  in  due  time  to  that  Utilitarian 
struggle,  we  hasten  to  return. 

In  forming  for  ourselves  some  picture  of 
Schiller  as  a  man,  of  what  may  be  called  his 
moral  character,  perhaps  the  very  perfection 
of  his  manner  of  existence  tends  to  diminish 
our  estimate  of  its  merits.  What  he  aimed  at 
he  has  attained  in  a  singular  degree.  His  life, 
at  least  from  the  period  of  manhood,  is  still 
unruffled,— dLciear  even  course.  The  com- 
pletewjss- TjfThe  victory  hides^  from  us  the 
magnitude  of  the.  struggle.  On  the  whole, 
however,  we  may  admit,  that  his  character 
was  not  so  much  a  great  character  as  a  holy 
one.  We  have  often  named  him  a  Priest;  and 
this  title,  with  the  quiet  loftiness, — the  pure, 
secluded,  only  internal,  yet  still  heavenly  worth 
that  should  belong  to  it,  perhaps  best  describes 


him.  One  high  enthusiasm  takes  possession 
of  his  whole  nature.  Herein  lies  his  strength, 
as  well  as  the  task  he  has  to  do ;  for  this  he 
lived,  and  we  may  say  also  he  died  for  it.  In 
his  life  we  see  not  that  the  social  aflTections 
played  any  deep  part.  As  a  son,  husband, 
father,  friend,  he  is  ever  kindly,  honest,  amia- 
ble ;  but  rarely,  if  at  all,  do  outward  things 
stimulate  him  into  what  can  be  called  passion. 
Of  the  wild  loves  and  lamentations,  and  all  the 
fierce  ardour  that  distinguish,  for  instance,  his 
Scottish  contemporary.  Burns,  there  is  scarcely 
any  trace  here.  In  fact,  it  was  towards  the 
Ideal,  not  towards  the  Actual,  that  Schiller's 
faith  and  hope  was  directed.  His  highest  hap- 
piness lay  not  in  outward  honour,  pleasure,  so- 
cial recreation,  perhaps  not  even  in  friendly 
afifection,  such  as  the  world  could  show  it ;  but 
in  the  realm  of  Poetry,  a  city  of  the  mind", 
where,  for  him,  all  that  was  true  and  noble  had 
foundation.  His  habits,  accordingly,  though  far 
from  dissocial,  were  solitary ;  his  chief  business 
and  chief  pleasure  lay  in  silent  meditation. 

"  His  intolerance  of  interruptions,"  we  are 
told  at  an  early  period  of  his  life,  "  first  put 
him  on  the  plan  of  studying  by  night;  an  al- 
luring, but  pernicious  practice,  which  began 
at  Dresden,  and  was  never  afterwards  given  up. 
His  recreations  breathed  a  similar  spirit :  he 
loved  to  be  much  alone,  and  strongly  moved. 
The  banks  of  the  Elbe  were  the  favourite  re- 
sort of  his  mornings:  here,  wandering  in  soli- 
tude, amid  groves  and  lawns,  and  green  and 
beautiful  places,  he  abandoned  his  mind  to  de- 
licious musings ;  or  meditated  on  the  cares 
and  studies  which  had  lately  been  employing, 
and  were  again  soon  to  employ  him.  At  times 
he  might  be  seen  floating  on  the  river,  in  a 
gondola,  feasting  himself  with  the  loveliness 
of  earth  and  sky.  He  delighted  most  to  be 
there  when  tempests  were  abroad  ;  his  unquiet 
spirit  found  a  solace  in  the  expression  of  its 
own  unrest  on  the  face  of  Nature;  danger  lent 
a  charm  to  his  situation ;  he  felt  in  harmony 
with  the  scene,  when  the  rack  was  sweeping 
stormfully  across  the  heavens,  and  the  forests 
were  sounding  in  the  breeze,  and  the  river  was 
rolling  its  chafed  waters  into  wild  eddying 
heaps." 

"  During  summer,"  it  is  mentioned  at  a  sub- 
sequent date,  "  his  place  of  study  was  in  a 
garden  which  he  at  length  purchased,  in  the 
suburbs  of  Jena,  not  far  from  the  Weselhoft's 
house,  where,  at  that  time,  was  the  office  of  the 
Mlgemeine  Litteraturzeitung.  Reckoning  from 
the  market-place  of  .Jena,  it  lies  on  the  south- 
west border  of  the  town,  between  the  Engel- 
galter  and  the  Neuthor,  in  a  hollow  defile, 
through  which  a  part  of  the  Leutrabach  flows 
round  the  city.  On  the  top  of  the  acclivity, 
from  which  there  is  a  beautiful  prospect  into 
the  valley  of  the  Saal,  and  the  fir-mountains 
of  the  neighbouring  forest,  Schiller  built  him- 
self a  small  house  with  a  single  chamber.  It 
was  his  favourite  abode  during  hours  of  com- 
position; a  great  part  of  the  works  he  then 
wrote  were  written  here.  In  winter  he  likewise 
dwelt  apart  from  the  tumult  of  men, — in  Gries- 
bach's  house,  on  the  outside  of  the  city  trench. 
On  sitting  down  to  his  desk  at  night,  he  was 
wont  to  keep  some  strong  coffee,  or  wine-cho- 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


colate,  but  more  frequently  a  flask  of  old  Rhe- 
nish, or  Champagne,  standing  by  him,  that  he 
might  from  time  to  time  repair  the  exhaustion 
of  nature.  Often  the  neighbours  used  to  hear 
him  earnestly  declaiming  in  the  silence  of  the 
night;  and  whoever  had  an  opportunity  of 
watching  him  on  such  occasions — a  thing  very 
easy  to  be  done,  from  the  heights  lying  oppo- 
site his  little  garden-house,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  dale — might  see  him  now  speaking 
aloud,  and  walking  swiftly  to  and  fro  in  his 
chamber,  then  suddenly  throwing  himself 
down  into  his  chair,  and  writing;  and  drink- 
ing the  while,  sometimes  more  than  once,  from 
the  glass  standing  near  him.  In  winter  he 
was  to  be  found  at  his  desk  till  four,  or  even 
five  o'clock,  in  the  morning;  in  summer  till 
towards  three.  He  then  went  to  bed,  from 
which  he  seldom  rose  till  nine  or  ten." 

And  again : 

"  At  Weimar  his  present  way  of  life  was 
like  his  former  one  at  Jena:  his  business  was 
to  study  and  compose ;  his  recreations  were 
in  the  circle  of  his  family,  where  he  could 
abandon  himself  to  affections  grave  or  trifling, 
and  in  frank  cheerful  intercourse  with  a  few 
friends.  Of  the  latter  he  had  lately  formed  a 
social  club,  the  meetings  of  which  afforded  him 
a  regular  and  innocent  amusement.  He  still 
loved  solitary  walks :  in  the  Park  at  Weimar 
he  might  frequently  be  seen,  wandering  among 
the  groves  and  remote  avenues,  with  a  note- 
book in  his  hand ;  now  loitering  slowly  along, 
now  standing  still,  now  moving  rapidly  on ;  if 
any  one  appeared  in  sight,  he  would  dart  into 
another  alley,  that  his  dream  might  not  be 
broken.  One  of  his  favourite  resorts,  we  are 
told,  was  thethicklyovershadowed,  rocky  path, 
which  leads  to  the  Romische  Haus,  a  pleasure- 
house  of  the  Duke's,  built  under  the  direction 
of  Goethe.  There  he  would  often  sit  in  the 
gloom  of  the  crags  overgrown  with  cypresses 
and  boxwood ;  shady  thickets  before  him ;  not 
far  from  the  murmur  of  a  little  brook,  which 
there  gushes  in  a  smooth  slaty  channel,  and 
where  some  verses  of  Goethe  are  cut  upon  a 
brown  plate  of  stone,  and  fixed  in  the  rock." — 
Life  of  Schiller. 

Such  retirement,  alike  from  the  tumults  and 
the  pleasures  of  busy  men,  though  it  seems  to 
diminish  the  merit  of  virtuous  conduct  in 
Schiller,  is  itself,  as  hinted  above,  the  best 
proof  of  his  virtue.  No  man  is  born  without 
ambitious  worldly  desires ;  and  for  no  man, 
especially  for  no  man  like  Schiller,  can  the 
victory  over  them  be  too  complete.    His  duty 


1^  in  that  mode  of  life  ;  and  be  Jiad'T)otTr3is=~  "whole,  Schiller  has  no  trace  of  vanity ;  scarce 


coVBTgiHiis-  duty; " an'd "aTdd re ss e d  h im selT  wi th 
Iri^  whole  might  to  perform  it.  Nor  was  it' In 
restrangement  from  men's  interests  that  this  se- 
clusion originated :  but  rather  in  deeper  con- 
cern for  those.  From  many  indications,  we 
can  perceive  that  to  Schiller  the  task  of  the 
Poet  appeared  of  far  weightier  import  to  man- 
kind, in  these  times,  than  that  of  any  other 
man  whatever.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
"casting  his  bread  upon  the  waters, and  would 
find  it  after  many  days  ;"  that  when  the  noise 


of  heavenly  wisdom  that  had  dwelt  even  in 
him  might  still  linger  among  men,  and  be  ac- 
knowledged as  heavenly  and  priceless,  whether 
as  his  or  not;  whereby,  though  dead,  he  would 
yet  speak,  and  his  spirit  would  live  throughout 
all  generations,  when  the  syllables  that  once 
formed  his  name  had  passed  into  forgetfulness 
for  ever.  We  are  told,  "  he  was  in  the  highest 
degree  philanthropic  and  humane:  and  often 
said  that  he  had  no  deeper  wish  than  to  know  all 
men  happy."  What  was  still  more,  he  strove, 
in  his  public  and  private  capacity,  to  do  his 
utmost  for  that  end.  Honest,  merciful,  disin- 
terested, he  is  at  all  times  found:  and  for  the 
great  duty  laid  on  him  no  man  was"ever  more 
uffweuTiedly  ardent.  "Tf  was  "his evening,soiig 
and  Ri's  morning^^grayer."  He  lived  for  it ;  and 
7ie"die'd ft>t"il7  " sacTifTcing,"  in  the  words  of 
Goethe,  "  his  Life  itself  to  this  delineating  of 
Life."      _  V^  '  -^.iv/; 

In  collision  with  his  fellow-men,  for  with  him 
as  with  others  this  also  was  a  part  of  his  rela- 
tion to  society,  we  find  him  no  less  noble  than 
in  friendly  union  with  them.  He  mingles  in 
none  of  the  controversies  of  the  time ;  or  only 
like  a  god  in  the  battles  of  men.  In  his  con- 
duct towards  inferiors,  even  ill-intentioned  and 
mean  inferiors,  there  is  everywhere  a  true,  dig- 
nified, patrician  spirit  Ever  witnessing,  and 
inwardly  lamenting,  the  baseness  of  vulgar 
Literature  in  his  day,  he  makes  no  clamorous 
attacks  on  it ;  alludes  to  it  only  from  afar:  as  in 
Milton's  writings,  so  in  his,  few  of  his  con- 
temporaries are  named,  or  hinted  at ;  it  was 
not  with  men,  but  with  things  that  he  had  a 
warfare.  The  Review  of  Burger,  so  often  des- 
canted on,  was  doubtless  highly  afflicting  to 
that  down-broken,  unhappy  poet;  but  no  hos- 
tility to  Burger,  only  love  and  veneration  for 
the  Art  he  professed,  is  to  be  discerned  in  it. 
With  Burger,  or  with  any  other  mortal,  he  had 
no  quarrel  :  the  favour  of  the  public,  which  he 
himself  enjoyed  in  the  highest  measure,  he 
esteemed  at  no  high  value.  "  The  Artist,"  said 
he  in  a  noble  passage,  already  known  to  Eng- 
lish readers,  "  the  Artist,  it  is  true,  is  the  son 
of  his  time;  but  pity  for  him  if  he  is  its  pupil, 
or  even  its  favourite !  Let  some  beneficent 
divinity  snatch  him,  when  a  suckling,  from  the 
breast  of  his  mother,  and  nurse  him  with  the 
milk  of  a  better  time  ;  that  he  may  ripen  to  his 
full  stature  beneath  a  distant  Grecian  sky. 
And  having  grown  to  manhood,  let  him  return, 
a  foreign  shape,  into  his  century  ;  not,  however, 
to  delight  it  by  his  presence,  but,  dreadful  like 
the  son  of  Agamemnon,  to  purify  it!"     On  the 


ly  of  pride,  even  in  its  best  sense,  for  the  mo- 
dest self-consciousness,  which  characterizes 
genius,  is  with  him  rather  implied  than  openly 
expressed.  He  has  no  hatred;  no  anger,  save 
against  Falsehood  and  Baseness,  where  it  may 
be  called  a  holy  anger.  Presumptuous  trivi- 
ality stood  bared  in  his  keen  glance ;  but  his 
look  is  the  noble  scowl  that  curls  the  lip  of  an 
Apollo,  when,  pierced  with  sun-arrows,  the 
serpent  expires  before  him.  In  a  word,  we 
can  say  of  Schiller,  what  can  be  said  only  of 


of  all  conquerors,  and  demagogues,  and  politi- 1  few  in  any  country  or  time  :  He  was  a  high 
cal  reformers  had  quite  died  away,  some  tone  i  ministering  servant  at  Truth's  altar ;  and  bore 


SCHILLER. 


837 


him  worthily  of  the  office  he  held.  Let  this, 
and  that  it  was  even  in  our  age,  be  for  ever  re- 
membered to  his  praise. 

Schiller's  intellectual  character  has,  as  in- 
deed is  always  the  case,  an  accurate  conformity 
with  his  moral  one.  Here  too  he  is  simple  in 
his  excellence ;  lofty  rather  than  expansive  or 
varied ;  pure,  divinely  ardent  rather  than  great. 
A  noble  sensibility,  the  truest  sympathy  with 
Nature,  in  all  forms,  animates  him ;  yet 
scarcely  any  creative  gift  altogether  commen- 
surate with  this.  If  to  his  mind's  eye  all  forms 
of  Nature  have  a  meaning  and  beauty,  it  is 
only  under  a  few  forms,  chiefly  of  the  severe 
or  pathetic  kind,  that  he  can  body  forth  this 
meaning,  can  represent  as  a  Poet  what  as  a 
Thinker  he  discerns  and  loves.  We  might 
say,  his  music  is  true  spheral  music ;  yet  only 
with  few  tones,  in  simple  modulation ;  no  full 
choral  harmony  is  to  be  heard  in  it.  That 
Schiller,  at  least  in  his  later  years,  attained  a 
genuine  poetic  style,  and  dwelt,  more  or  less, 
in  the  perennial  regions  of  his  Art,  no  one  will 
deny :  yet  still  his  poetry  shows  rather  like  a 
partial  than  a  universal  gift ;  the  laboured 
product  of  certain  faculties  rather  than  the 
spontaneous  product  of  his  whole  nature.  At 
the  summit  of  the  pyre,  there  is  indeed  white 
flame ;  but  the  materials  are  not  all  in  flame, 
perhaps  not  all  ignited.  Nay,  often  it  seems 
to  us,  as  if  poetry  were,  on  the  whole,  not  his 
essential  gift ;  as  if  his  genius  were  reflective 
in  a  still  higher  degree  than  creative ;  philoso- 
phical and  oratorical  rather  than  poetic.  To 
the  last,  there  is  a  stiffness  in  him,  a  certain 
infusibility.  His  genius  is  not  an  ^olian- 
harp  for  the  common  wind  to  play  with,  and 
make  wild,  free  melody ;  but  a  scientific  har- 
monica, that  being  artfully  touched  will  yield 
rich  notes,  though  in  limited  measure.  It  may 
be,  indeed,  or  rather  it  is  highly  probable,  that 
of  the  gifts  which  lay  in  him  only  a  small  por- 
tion was  unfolded :  for  we  are  to  recollect  that 
nothing  came  to  him  without  a  strenuous 
effort;  and  that  he  was  called  away  at  middle 
age.  At  all  events,  here  as  we  find  him  we 
should  say,  that  of  all  his  endowments  the 
most  perfect  is  understanding.  Accurate, 
thorough  insight,  is  a  quality  we  miss  in  none 
of  his  productions,  whatever  else  may  be 
wanting.  He  has  an  intellectual  vision,  clear, 
wide,  piercing,  methodical, — a  truly  philoso- 
phic eye.  Yet  in  regard  to  this  also  it  is  to  be 
remarked,  that  the  same  simplicity,  the  same 
want  of  universality  again  displays  itself.  He 
looks  aloft  rather  than  around.  It  is  in  hi^, 
far-seeing  philosephic  Ttews^that  he  delights ; 
in  speculations  on  Art, — on  the  dignity  and 
destiny  of  Man,  rather  than  on  the  common 
doings  and  interests  of  Men.  Nevertheless 
these  latter,  mean  as  they  seem,  are  boundless 
in  significance ;  for  every  the  poorest  aspect 
of  Nature,  especially  of  living  Nature,  is  a 
type  and  manifestation  of  the  invisible  spirit 
that  works  in  Nature.  There  is  properly  no 
object  trivial  or  insignificant:  but  every  finite 
thing,  could  we  look  well,  is  as  a  window, 
through  which  solemn  vistas  are  opened  into 
Infinitude  itself.  But  neither  as  a  Poet  nor  as 
a  Thinker,  neither  in  delineation  nor  in  expo- 
sition and  discussion,  does  Schiller  more  than 


glance  at  snch  objects.  For  the  most  part,  the 
Common  is  to  him  still  the  Common,  or  is 
idealized,  rather  as  it  were  by  mechanical  art 
than  by  inspiration :  not  by  deeper  poetic  or 
philosophic  inspection,  disclosing  new  beauty 
in  its  everyday  features,  but  rather  by  deduct- 
ing these,  by  casting  them  aside,  and  dwelling 
on  what  brighter  features  may  remain  in  it. 
Herein  Schiller,  as,  indeed,  himself  was  mo- 
destly aware,  differs  essentially  from  most 
great  poets ;  and  from  none  more  than  from 
his  great  contemporary,  Goethe.  Such  intel- 
lectual pre-eminence  as  this,  valuable  though 
it  be,  is  the  easiest  and  the  least  valuable ;  a 
pre-eminence  that,  indeed,  captivates  the  gene- 
ral eye,  but  may,  after  all,  have  little  intrinsic 
grandeur.  Less  in  rising  into  lofty  abstrac- 
tions lies  the  difficulty,  than  in  seeing  well  and 
lovingly  the  complexities  of  what  is  at  hand. 
He  is  wise  who  can  instruct  us  and  assist  us 
in  the  business  of  daily  virtuous  living;  he 
who  trains  us  to  see  old  truth  under  Academic 
formularies  may  be  wise  or  not  as  it  chances ; 
but  we  love  to  see  Wisdom  in  unpretending 
forms,  to  recognise  her  royal  features  under 
week-day  vesture. — There  may  be  more  true 
spiritual  force  in  a  Proverb  than  in  a  philoso- 
phical System.  A  King  in  the  midst  of  his 
body-guards,  with  all  his  trumpets,  war-horses, 
and  gilt  standard-bearers,  will  look  great 
though  he  be  little  ;  but  only  some  Roman 
Cams  can  give  audience  to  satrap-ambassa- 
dors, while  seated  on  the  ground,  with  a 
woollen  cap,  and  supping  on  boiled  pease,  like 
a  common  soldier. 

In  all  Schiller's  earlier  writings,  nay,  more 
or  less,  in  the  whole  of  his  writings,  this  aris- 
tocratic fastidiousness,  this  comparatively 
barren  elevation,  appears  as  a  leading  cha- 
racteristic. In  speculation  he  is  either  alto- 
gether abstract  and  systematic,  or  he  dwells  on 
old,  conventionally-noble  themes  ;  never  look- 
ing abroad,  over  the  many-coloured  stream  of 
life,  to  elucidate  and  ennoble  it;  or  only  look- 
ing on  it,  so  to  speak,  from  a  college  window. 
The  philosophy  even  of  his  Histories,  for  ex- 
ample, founds  itself  mainly  on  the  perfectibility 
of  man,  the  eflfect  of  constitutions,  of  religions, 
and  other  such  high,  purely  scientific  objects. 
In  his  Poetry  we  have  a  similar  manifestation. 
The  interest  turns  on  prescribed,  old-establish- 
ed matters,  common  love-mania,  passionate 
greatness,  enthusiasm  for  liberty,  and  the  like. 
This,  even  in  Don  Carlos,  a  work  of  what  may 
be  called  his  transition-period,  the  turning- 
point  between  his  earlier  and  his  later  period, 
where  still  we  find  Posa,  the  favourite  hero, 
"  towering  aloft,  far-shining,  clear  and  cold,  as 
a  sea-beacon."  In  after  years,  Schiller  him- 
self saw  well  that  the  greatest  lay  not  here. 
With  unwearied  efl^ort  he  strove  to  lower  and 
to  widen  his  sphere,  and  not  without  success, 
as  many  of  his  Poems  testify;  for  example, 
the  Lied  der  Glocke,  (Song  of  the  Bell,)  every 
way  a  noble  composition  ;  and,  in  a  still  higher 
degree,  the  tragedy  of  Wilhelm  Tell,  the  last, 
and,  so  far  as  spirit  and  style  are  concerned, 
the  best  of  all  his  dramas. 

Closely  connected  with  this  imperfection, 
both  as  cause  and  as  consequence,  is  Schil- 
ler's singular  want  of  Humour.    Humour  is 


'238 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


properly  the  exponent  of  low  things;  that 
which  first  renders  them  poetical  to  the  mind. 
The  man  of  Humour  sees  common  life,  even 
mean  life,  under  the  new  light  of  sportfulness 
and  love;  whatever  has  existence  has  a  charm 
for  him.  Humour  has  justly  been  regarded  as 
the  finest  perfection  of  poetic  genius.  He  who 
wants  it,  be  his  other  gifts  what  they  may,  has 
only  half  a  mind ;  an  eye  for  what  is  above 
him,  not  for  what  is  about  him  or  below  him. 
Now,  among  all  writers  of  any  real  poetic 
genius,  we  cannot  recollect  one  who,  in  this 
respect,  exhibits  such  total  deficiency  as 
Schiller.  In  his  whole  writings  there  is 
scarcely  any  vestige  of  it,  scarcely  any  attempt 
that  way.  His  nature  was  without  Humour ; 
and  he  had  too  true  a  feeling  to  adopt  any 
counterfeit  in  its  stead.  Thus  no  drollery  or 
caricature,  still  less  any  barren  mockery, 
which,  in  the  hundred  cases,  are  all  that  we 
find  passing  current  as  Humour,  discover 
themselves  in  Schiller.  His  works  are  full  of 
laboured  earnestness  ;  he  is  the  gravest  of  all 
writers.  Some  of  his  criiical  discussions, 
especially  in  the  Aesthetische  Briefe,  where  he 
designates  the  ultimate  height  of  man's  culture 
by  the  title  Spicltrieh,  (literally.  Sport-impulse,) 
prove  that  he  knew  what  Humour  was,  and 
how  essential;  as  indeed,  to  his  intellect,  all 
forms  of  excellence,  even  the  most  alien  to  his 
own,  were  painted  with  a  wonderful  fidelity. 
Nevertheless,  he  himself  attains  not  that  height 
which  he  saw  so  clearly ;  to  the  last  the  Spiel- 
trieb  could  be  little  more  than  a  theory  with 
him.  With  the  single  exception  of  Wallen- 
steinh  Lager,  where,  too,  the  Humour,  if  it  be 
such,  is  not  deep,  his  other  attempts  at  mirth, 
fortunately  very  few,  are  of  the  heaviest.  A 
rigid  intensity,  a  serious  enthusiastic  ardour, 
majesty  rather  than  grace,  still  more  than 
lightness  or  sportfulness,  characterizes  him. 
Wit  he  had,  such  wit  as  keen  intellectual  in- 
sight can  give;  yet  even  of  this  no  large 
endowment.  Perhaps  he  was  too  honest,  too 
sincere,  for  the  exercise  of  -w'xi ;  too  intent  on 
the  deeper  relations  of  things  to  note  their 
more  transient  collisions.  Besides,  he  dealt  in 
Affirmation,  and  not  in  Negation ;  in  which 
last,  it  has  been  said,  the  material  of  wit 
chiefly  lies. 

These  observations  are  to  point  out  for  us 
the  special  department  and  limits  of  Schiller's 
excellence ;  nowise  to  call  in  question  its  re- 
ality. Of  his  noble  sense  for  Truth,  both  in 
speculation  and  in  action  ;  of  his  deep,  genial 
insight  into  nature;  and  the  living  harmony 
in  which  he  renders  back  what  is  highest  and 
grandest  in  Nature,  no  reader  of  his  works 
need  be  reminded.  In  whatever  belongs  to 
the  pathetic,  the  heroic,  the  tragically  elevat- 
ing, Schiller  is  at  home  ;  a  master;  nay,  per- 
haps the  greatest  of  all  late  poets.  To  the 
assiduous  student,  moreover,  much  else  that 
lay  in  Schiller,  but  was  never  worked  into 
shape,  will  become  partially  visible :  deep  in- 
exhaustible mines  of  thought  and  feeling;  a 
whole  world  of  gifts,  the  finest  produce  of 
which  was  but  beginning  to  be  realized.  To 
his  high-minded,  unwearied  efforts  what  was 
impossible,  had  length  of  years  been  granted 
him !     There  is  a  tone  in  some  of  his  later 


pieces,  which  here  and  there  breathes  of  the 
very  highest  region  of  Art.  Nor  are  the  na- 
tural or  accidental  defects  we  have  noticed  in 
his  genius,  even  as  it  stands,  such  as  to  ex- 
clude him  from  the  rank  of  great  Poets. 
Poets  whom  the  whole  world  reckons  great, 
have,  more  than  once,  exhibited  the  like.  Mil- 
ton, for  example,  shares  most  of  them  with 
him  :  like  Schiller  he  dwells,  with  full  power, 
only  in  the  high  and  earnest;  in  all  other 
provinces  exhibiting  a  certain  inaptitude,  an 
elephantine  unpliancy:  he  too  has  little  Hu- 
mour; his  coarse  invective  has  in  it  con- 
temptuous emphasis  enough,  yet  scarcely  any 
graceful  sport.  Indeed,  on  the  positive  side, 
also,  these  two  worthies  are  not  without  a  re- 
semblance. Under  far  other  circumstances, 
with  less  massiveness,  and  vehement  strength 
of  soul,  there  is  in  Schiller  the  same  intensi- 
ty ;  the  same  concentration,  and  towards 
similar  objects,  towards  whatever  is  Sublime 
in  Nature  and  in  Art,  which  sublimities 
they  both,  each  in  his  several  way,  worship 
with  undivided  heart.  There  is  not  in  Schil- 
ler's nature  the  same  rich  complexity  of 
rhythm,  as  in  Milton's,  with  its  depth  of  linked 
sweetness  ;  yet  in  Schiller  too  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  same  pure,  swelling  force,  some 
tone  which,  like  Milton's,  is  deep,  majestic, 
solemn. 

It  was  as  a  Dramatic  Author  that  Schiller 
distinguished  himself  to  the  world :  yet  often 
we  feel  as  if  chance  rather  than  a  natural  ten- 
dency had  led  him  into  this  province;  as  if 
his  talent  were  essentially,  in  a  certain  style, 
lyrical,  perhaps  even  epic,  rather  than  drama- 
tic. He  dwelt  within  himself,  and  could  not 
without  effort,  and  then  only  within  a  certain 
range,  body  forth  other  forms  of  being.  Nay, 
much  of  what  is  called  his  poetry  seems  to 
us,  as  hinted  above,  oratorical  rather  than  po- 
etical ;  his  first  bias  might  have  led  him  to  be 
a  speaker,  rather  than  a  singer.  Neverthe- 
less, a  pure  fire  dwelt  deep  in  his  soul ;  and 
only  in  Poetry,  of  one  or  the  other  sort,  could 
this  find  utterance.  The  rest  of  his  nature,  at 
the  same  time,  has  a  certain  prosaic  rigour; 
so  that  not  without  strenuous  and  complex  en- 
deavours, long  persisted  in,  could  its  poetic 
quality  evolve  itself.  Quite  pure,  and  as  the 
all-sovereign  element,  it  perhaps  never  did 
evolve  itself;  and  among  such  complex  en- 
deavours, a  small  accident  might  influence 
large  portions  in  its  course. 

Of  Schiller's  honest,  undivided  zeal  in  this 
great  problem  of  self-cultivation,  we  have  often 
spoken.  What  progress  he  had  made,  and  in. 
spite  of  what  difficulties,  appears,  if  we  con- 
trast his  earlier  compositions  with  those  of 
his  later  years.  A  few  specimens  of  both 
sorts  we  shall  here  present.  By  this  means, 
too,  such  of  our  readers  as  are  unacquainted 
with  Schiller,  may  gain  some  clearer  notion 
of  his  poetic  individuality  than  any  descrip- 
tion of  ours  could  give.  We  shall  take  the 
Robbers,  as  his  first  performance,  what  he  him- 
self calls  "a  monster  produced  by  the  unna- 
tural union  of  Genius  with  Thraldom ; "  the 
fierce  fuliginous  fire  that  burns  in  that  singu- 
lar piece  will  still  be  discernible  in  separated 
passages.    The  following  Scene,  even  in  the 


SCHILLER. 


239 


yeasty  vehicle  of  our  common  English  ver- 
sion, has  not  wanted  its  admirers ;  it  is  the 
Second  of  the  Third  Act. 

Country  on  the  Danube. 

The  Robbsrs. 

{Camped  on  a  Height,  under  Trees :  the  Horses  are 
grazing  on  the  Hill  further  down.) 

Moor.  I  can  no  farther  (throws  himself  on  the 
ground.)  My  limbs  ache  as  if  ground  to 
pieces.  My  tongue  parched  as  a  potsherd. 
{Schweitzer  glides  away  unperceived.)  I  would 
ask  you  to  fetch  me  a  handful  of  water  from 
the  stream ;  but  ye  all  are  wearied  to  death. 

ScHWARz.  And  the  wine  too  is  all  down 
there,  in  our  jacks. 

Moor.  See,  how  lovely  the  Harvest  looks ! — 
The  Trees  almost  breaking  under  their  load. 
The  vine  full  of  hope. 

Grimm.  It  is  a  plentiful  year. 

Moor.  Think'st  thou? — And  so  one  toil  in 
the  world  will  be  repaid.  One? — Yet  over 
night  there  may  come  a  hailstorm,  and  shatter 
it  all  to  ruin. 

ScHWARZ.  Possible  enough,  it  might  all  be 
ruined  two  hours  before  reaping. 

Moor,  Ay,  so  say  I.  It  will  all  be  ruined. 
Why  should  man  prosper  in  what  he  has  from 
the  Ant ;  when  he  fails  in  what  makes  him 
like  the  Gods  1 — or  is  this  the  true  aim  of  his 
Destiny  ? 

ScHWARz.  I  know  it  not. 

Moor.  Thou  hast  said  well ;  and  done  still 
better,  if  thou  never  tri'dst  to  know  it ! — Bro- 
ther,— I  have  looked  at  men,  at  their  insect- 
anxieties,  and  giant  projects — their  godlike 
schemes  and  mouselike  occupations — their 
wondrous  race-running  after  Happiness  ; — he 
trusting  to  the  gallop  of  his  horse, — he  to  the 
nose  of  his  ass, — a  third  to  his  own  legs;  this 
whirling  lottery  of  life,  in  which  so  many  a 
creature  stakes  his  innocence,  and — his  Hea- 
ven !  all  trying  for  a  prize,  and — blanks  are 
the  whole  drawing, — there  was  not  a  prize  in 
the  batch.  It  is  a  drama.  Brother,  to  bring 
tears  into  thy  eyes,  if  it  tickle  thy  midriff  to 
laughter. 

ScHWARz.  How  gloriously  the  sun  is  setting 
yonder ! 

Moor  (lost  in  the  view.)  So  dies  a  Hero ! — 
To  be  worshipped ! 

Grimm.  It  seems  to  move  thee. 

Moor.  When  I  was  a  lad — it  was  my  darling 
thought  to  live  so,  to  die  so — (with  suppressed 
pain.)     It  was  a  lad's  thought ! 

Grimm.  I  hope  so,  truly. 

Moor  (draws  his  hat  down  on  his  face.)  There 
was  a  lime — Leave  me  alone,  comrades. 

ScHWARZ.  Moor!  Moor!  What,  Devil? — 
How  his  colour  goes  ! 

Grimm.  Ha  !  What  ails  him  !  Is  he  ill  1 

Moor.  There  was  a  time  when  I  could  not 
sleep,  if  my  evening  prayer  had  been  forgot- 
ten— 

Grimm.  Art  thou  going  crazed  1  Will  Moor 
let  such  milksop  fancies  tutor  himi 

Moor  {lays  his  head  on  Grimm's  breast.)  Bro- 
ther! Brother! 

Grimm.  Come !  don't  be  a  child, — I  beg — 

MooB.  Were  I  a  child ! — Oh,  were  I  one  ! 


Grimm.  Pooh!  Pooh! 

ScHWARz.  Cheer  up.  Look  at  the  brave 
landscape, — the  fine  evening. 

Moor.  Yes,  Friends,  this  world  is  all  so 
lovely. 

ScHWARz.    There  now — that's  right. 

Moor.     This  Earth  is  so  glorious. 

Grimm.     Right, — Right — that  is  it. 

Moor  {sinking  back.)  And  I  so  hideous  in 
this  lovely  world,  and  I  a  monster  in  this  glo- 
rious Earth. 

Grimm.     Out  on  it ! 

Moor.  My  innocence  !  My  innocence  ! — 
See,  all  things  are  gone  forth  to  bask  in  the 
peaceful  beam  of  the  Spring, — why  must  I  alone 
inhale  the  torments  of  Hell  out  of  the  joys  of 
Heaven  1 — That  all  should  be  so  happy,  all  so 
married  together  by  the  spirit  of  peace  ! — The 
whole  world  one  family,  its  Father  above — that 
Father  not  mine! — I  alone  the  castaway, — I 
alone  struck  out  from  the  company  of  the  just ; 
— for  me  no  child  to  lisp  my  name, — never  for 
me  the  languishing  look  of  one  whom  I  love ; 
never,  never,  the  embracing  of  a  bosom  friend 
{dashing  wildly  back.)  Encircled  with  murder- 
ers,— serpents  hissing  round  me, — rushing 
down  to  the  gulph  of  perdition  on  the  eddying 
torrent  of  wickedness, — amid  the  flowers  of 
the  glad  world,  a  howling  Abaddon ! 

ScuwARz  {to  the  rest.)  How  /« this  1  I  never 
saw  him  so. 

Moor  {with  piercing  sorrow.)  Oh,  that  I  might 
return  into  my  mother's  womb, — that  I  might 
be  born  a  beggar ! — No !  I  durst  not  pray,  O 
Heaven,  to  be  as  one  of  these  day-labourers — 
Oh !  I  would  toil  till  the  blood  ran  down  my 
temples  to  buy  myself  the  pleasure  of  one 
noontide  sleep, — the  blessedness  of  a  single 
tear. 

Grimm  {to  the  rest.)  I^atience,  a  moment. 
The  tit  is  passing. 

Moor.  There  was  a  time  too  when  I  could 
weep — 0  ye  days  of  peace,  thou  castle  of  my 
father,  ye  green  lovely  valleys  !  O  all  ye  Ely- 
sian  scenes  of  my  childhood  !  will  ye  never 
come  again,  never  with  your  balmy  sighing 
cool  my  burning  bosom?  Mourn  with  me,  Na- 
ture !  They  will  never  come  again,  never  cool 
my  burning  bosom  with  their  balmy  sighing. 
They  are  gone !  gone  !  and  will  not  return ! 

Or  take  that  still  wilder  monologue  of  Moor's 
on  the  old  subject  of  suicide;  in  the  midnight. 
Forest,  among  the  sleeping  Robbers  : 

{He  lays  aside  the  lute,  and  walks  vp  and  down  in 
deep  thought.) 

Who    shall  warrant    me? 'Tis   all    so- 

dark, — perplexed  labyrinths, — no  outlet,  no 
loadstar — were  it  but  we?-  with  this  last  draught 
of  breath — Over,  like  a  sorry  farce.  But  whence 
this  fierce  Hunger  ahev  Happiness  ?  whence  this 
ideal  of  a  never-reached  perfection  ?  this  continua- 
tion of  uncompleted  plans  ? — if  the  pitiful 
pressure  of  this  pitiful  thing  {holding  out  a  pis- 
tol) makes  the  wise  man  equal  with  the  fool, 
the  coward  with  the  brave,  the  nobleminded 
with  the  caitiff? — There  is  so  divine  a  harmo- 
ny in  all  irrational  Nature,  why  should  there 
be  this  dissonance  in  rational  ?  No !  no  t  there 
is  somewhat  beyond,  for  I  have  yet  never 
known  happiaes.s. 


S40 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Think  ye,  I  will  tremble  1  spirits  of  my 
murdered  ones!  I  will  not  tremble.  {Trem- 
bling violently.) — Your  feeble  dying  moan, — 
your  black-choked  faces, — your  frightfully 
gaping  wounds  are  but  links  of  an  unbreaka- 
ble chain  of  Destiny ;  and  depend  at  last  on 
my  childish  sports,  on  the  whims  of  my 
nurses  and  pedagogues,  on  the  temperament 
of  my  father,  on  the  blood  of  my  mother — 
(shaken  with  horror.)  Why  has  my  Perillus 
made  of  me  a  Brazen  Bull  to  roast  mankind 
in  my  glowing  belly  ] 

{Gazing  on  the  Pistol.)  Time  and  Eterkity 
— linked  together  by  a  single  moment ! — Dread 
key,  that  shuttest  behind  me  the  prison  of  life, 
and  before  me  openest  the  dwelling  of  eternal 
Night — say — O  say — whither, — ivhither  wilt  thou 
lead  me  1  Foreign,  never  circumnavigated 
Land ! — See,  manhood  waxes  faint  under  this 
image;  the  effort  of  the  Unite  gives  up,  and 
Fancy,  the  capricious  ape  of  Sense,  juggles 
our  credulity  with  strange  shadows. — No  !  No  ! 
It  becomes  not  a  man  to  waver.  Be  what  thou 
wilt,  nameless  Yonder — so  this  me  keep  but  true. 
Be  what  thou  wilt,  so  I  take  myself  along  with 
me — ! — Outward  things  are  but  the  colouring 
of  the  man — I  am  my  Heaven  and  my  Hell. 

What  if  thou  shouldst  send  me  companionless 
to  some  burnt  and  blasted  circle  of  the  Uni- 
verse ;  which  thou  hast  banished  from  thy 
sight;  where  the  lone  darkness  and  the  mo- 
tionless desert  were  my  prospects — for  ever  1 
— I  would  people  the  silent  wilderness  with 
my  fantasies ;  I  should  have  Eternity  for  lei- 
sure to  unravel  the  perplexed  image  of  the 
boundless  wo. — Or  wilt  Thou  lead  me  through 
still  other  births !  still  other  scenes  of  pain, 
from  stage  to  stage — Onwards  to  Annihilation  ? 
The  life-threads  that  are  to  be  woven  for  me 
Yonder,  cannot  I  tear  them  asunder,  as  I  do 
these  1 — Thou  canst  make  me  Nothing  ; — this 
freedom  canst  Thou  not  take  from  me.  {He 
loads  the  Pistol.  Suddenly  he  Stops.)  And  shall 
I  for  terror  of  a  miserable  life — die  1 — Shall  I 
•give  wretchedness  the  victory  over  me  1 — No, 
I  will  endure  it.  {He  throtvs  the  Pistol  atvay.) 
Let  misery  blunt  itself  on  my  pride !  I  will 
go  through  with  it. — Act  IV.    Scene  VI. 

And  now  with  these  ferocities,  and  Sybilline 
frenzies,  compare  the  placid  strength  of  the 
following  delineation,  also  of  a  stern  charac- 
ter, from  the  Maid  of  Orleans ;  where  Talbot, 
the  gray  veteran,  dark,  unbelieving,  indomita- 
ble, passes  down,  as  he  thinks,  to  the  land  of 
«tter  Nothingness,  contemptuous  even  of  the 
Fate  that  destroys  him,  and — 

"  In  death  reposes  on  the  soil  of  France, 
Like  hero  on  his  unsurrender'd  shield." 

It  is  the  sixth  Scene  of  the  third  Act ;  in  the 
heat  of  a  Battle  : 
( The  scene  changes  to  an  open  Space  encircled  with 

Trees.  During  the  music,  Soldiers  are  seen  hastily 

retreating  across  the  Background.) 

Talbot,  leaning  on  Fastolf,  and  accompanied  by 
Soldiers.     Soon  after,  LioTfEL. 

TALBOT. 

Here,  set  me  down  beneath  this  tree,  and  you 
Betake  yourselves  again  to  battle  :  quick  I 
I  need  no  help  to  die. 


FASTOLF. 

O  day  of  wo !     {Lionel  enters.) 
Look  what  a  sight  awaits  you,  Lionel ! 
Our  leader  wounded,  dying  ! 

LIONEL. 

God  tbrbid ! 
O  noble  Talbot,  this  is  not  a  time  to  die. 
Yield  not  to  Death;  force  faltering  Nature 
By  your  strength  of  soul,  that  life  depart  not ! 

TALBOT. 

In  vain  !  the  day  of  Destiny  is  come 
That  levels  with  the  dust  our  power  in  France. 
In  vain,  in  the  fierce  clash  of  desp'rale  battle, 
Have  I  risk'd  our  utmost  to  withstand  it: 
The  bolt  has  smote  and  crush'd  me,  and  I  lie 
To  rise  no  more  for  ever.    Rheims  is  lost ; 
Make  haste  to  rescue  Paris. 

LIONEL. 

Paris  is  the  Dauphin's  : 
A  post  arrived  even  now  with  th'  evil  news 
It  had  surrender'd. 

TALBOT  {tears  away  his  bandages.) 
Then  flow  out,  ye  life-streams ; 
This  Sun  is  growing  loathsome  to  me. 

LIONEL. 

Fastolf, 
Convey  him  to  the  rear  :  this  post  can  hold 
Few  instants  more  ;  you  coward  knaves,  fall  back, 
Resistless  comes  the  Witch,  and  havoc  round  her. 

TALBOT. 

Madness,  thou  conquerest,  and  I  must  yield  : 
Against  Stupidity  the  Gods  themselves  are  powerless. 
High  Reason,  radiant  Daughter  of  the  head  of  God, 
Wise  Foundress  of  the  system  of  the  Universe, 
Ci)nductress  of  the  Stars,  who  art  thou,  then. 
If  tied  to  th'  tail  o'  th'  wild  horse,  Superstition, 
Thou  must  plunge,  eyes  open,  vainly  shrieking, 
Sheer  down  with  that  drunk  Beast  to  the  Abyss  1 
Cursed  who  sets  his  life  upon  the  great 
And  dignified  ;  and  with  forecasting  spirit 
Lays  out  wise  plans!  The  Fool-King's  is  this  World. 

LIONEL. 

Oh !  Death  is  near !  Think  of  your  God,  and  pray  I 

TALBOT. 

Were  we,  as  brave  men,  worsted  by  the  brave, 
'T  had  been  but  Fortune's  common  fickleness  : 
But  that  a  paltry  farce  should  tread  us  down  ;— 
Did  toil  and  peril,  all  our  earnest  life, 
Deserve  no  graver  issue  ? 

LIONEL   {grasps  his  hand.) 

Talbot,  farewell ! 
The  meed  of  bitter  tears  I'll  duly  pay  you, 
When  the  fight  is  done,  should  I  outlive  it 
But  now  Fate  calls  me  to  the  field,  where  yet 
She  wav'ring  sits,  and  shakes  her  doubtful  urn. 
Farewell !  we  meet  beyond  the  unseen  shore. 
Brief  parting  for  long  friendship !  God  be  with  you !  [Exit. 

TALBOT. 

Soon  it  is  over,  and  to  the  earth  I  render. 

To  th'  everlasting  Sun,  the  transient  atoms 

Which  for  pain  and  pleasure  join'd  to  form  me  ; 

And  of  the  mighty  Talbot,  whose  renown 

Once  fill'd  the  world,  remains  nought  but  a  handful 

Of  flitting  dust.    Thus  man  comes  to  his  end  ; 

And  all  our  conquest  in  the  fight  of  Life 

Is  knowledge  that  'tis  Nothing,  and  contempt 

For  hollow  shows  which  once  we  chas'd  and  worship'd. 

SCENE  VIL 
jEwfer  Charles,  Burgundy,  Dunois,Du  Chatel, 

and  Soldiers. 

burgundy. 
The  trench  is  stormed. 


SCHILLER. 


241 


Dusrois. 
Bravo  I  The  fight  is  ours. 

CHARLES  (^observing  TALBOT.) 

Ha !  who  is  this  that  to  the  light  of  day 
la  bidding  his  constrained  and  sad  farewell  1 
His  bearing  speaks  no  common  man ;  go,  haste, 
Assist  him,  if  assistance  yet  avail. 

{Soldiers  from  the  Dauphin's  suite  step  forward.) 

FASTOLF. 

Back !  Keep  away  !  Approach  not  the  Departing, 
Him  whom  in  life  ye  never  wished  too  near. 

BURGUBTDT. 

What  do  I  see  t  Great  Talbot  in  his  blood ! 
{He  goes  towards  him.    TALBOT  gazes  fixedly  at  kirn  and 
dies.) 
PASTOLF. 
Off,  Burgundy;  With  the  aspect  of  a  Traitor 
Disturb  not  the  last  moment  of  a  Hero. 

The  "  Power-words  and  Thunder-words,"  as 
the  Germans  call  them,  so  frequent  in  the 
Robbers*  are  altogether  wanting  here;  that 
volcanic  fury  has  assuaged  itself;  instead  of 
smoke  and  red  lava,  we  have  sunshine  and  a 
verdant  world.  For  still  more  striking  exam- 
ples of  this  benignant  change,  we  might  refer 
to  many  scenes,  (too  long  for  our  present  pur- 
poses) in  Wallenstein,  and  indeed  in  all  the 
Dramas  which  followed  this,  and  most  of  all 
in  WiJhelm  Tell,  which  is  the  latest  of  them. 
The  careful,  and  in  general  truly  poetic  struc- 
ture of  these  works,  considered  as  complete 
Poems,  would  exhibit  it  infinitely  better ;  but 
for  this  object,  larger  limits  than  ours  at  pre- 
sent, and  studious  Readers  as  well  as  a  Re- 
viewer, were  essential. 

In  his  smaller  Poems,  the  like  progress  is 
visible.  Schiller's  works  should  all  be  dated, 
as  we  study  them;  but  indeed  the  most,  by 
internal  evidence,  date  themselves.— Besides 
the  Lied  der  Glockc,  already  mentioned,  there 
are  many  lyrical  pieces  of  high  merit;  particu- 
larly a  whole  series  of  Ballads,  nearly  every 
one  of  which  is  true  and  poetical.  The  Ritter 
Toggenberg,  the  Dragon-fight,  the  Diver,  are  all 
well  known ;  the  Cranes  of  Ibycus  has  in  it, 
under  this  simple  form,  something  Old-Grecian, 
an  emphasis,  a  prophetic  gloom,  which  might 
seem  borrowed  even  from  the  spirit  of  ^schy- 
lus.  But  on  these,  or  any  farther  on  the  other 
poetical  works  of  Schiller,  we  must  not  dilate 
at  present.  One  little  piece,  which  lies  by  us 
translated,  we  may  give  as  a  specimen  of  his 
style  in  this  lyrical  province,  and  therewith 
terminate  this  part  of  our  subject.  It  is  en- 
titled Alpenlied,  (Song  of  the  Alps,)  and  seems 
to  require  no  commentary.  Perhaps  something 
of  the  clear,  melodious,  yet  still  somewhat 
metallic  tone  of  the  original  may  penetrate 
even  through  our  version  : 

Soxo  OF  THE  Alps. 
By  the  edge  of  the  chasm  is  a  slippery  Track, 

The  torrent  beneath,  and  the  mist  hanging  o'er  thee  : 
The  cliffs  of  the  mountain,  huge,  rugged,  and  black. 

Are  frowning  like  Giants  before  thee  ; 
And,  wouldst  thou  not  waken  the  sleeping  Lawine, 
Walk  silent  and  soft  through  the  deadly  ravine. 

•  Thus,  to  take  one  often  cited  Instance,  Moor's  simple 
question,  "  Whetherlhere  is  any  powder  leflf"  receives 
this  emphatic  answer,  "Powder  enough  to  blow  the 
Earth  into  the  Moon  1" 

31 


That  Bridge  with  its  dizzying,  periloug  span 

Aloft  o'er  the  gulph  and  its  flood  suspended, 
Think'st  thou  it  was  built  by  the  art  of  man, 

By  his  hand  that  grim  old  arch  was  bended? 
Far  down  in  the  jaws  of  the  gloomy  abyss 
The  water  is  boiling  and  hissing— for  ever  will  hiss. 

That  Gate  through  the  rocks  is  as  darksome  and  drear. 
As  if  to  the  region  of  Shadows  it  carried  : 

Yet  enter  !  A  sweet  laughing  landscape  is  here, 
Where  the  Spring  with  the  Autumn  is  married. 

From  the  world  with  its  sorrows  and  warfare  and  wail, 

O  could  I  but  hide  in  this  bright  little  vale ! 

Four  Rivers  rush  down  from  on  high. 

Their  spring  will  be  hidden  for  ever ; 
Their  course  is  to  all  the  four  points  of  the  sky. 

To  each  point  of  the  sky  is  a  river  ; 
And  fast  as  they  start  from  their  old  Mother's  feet. 
They  dash  forth,  and  no  more  will  they  meet. 

Two  Pinnacles  rise  to  the  depths  of  the  Blue  ; 

Aloft  on  their  white  summits  glancing, 
Bedeck'd  in  their  garments  of  golden  dew. 

The  Clouds  of  the  Sky  are  dancing ; 
There  threading  alone  their  lightsome  maze, 
Uplifted  apart  from  all  mortals'  gaze. 

And  high  on  her  ever-enduring  throne 

The  Queen  of  the  mountain  reposes  ; 
Her  head  serene,  and  azure,  and  lone 

A  diamond  crown  encloses  ; 
The  Sun  with  his  darts  shoots  round  it  keen  and  hot. 
He  gilds  it  always,  he  warms  it  not. 

Of  Schiller's  Philosophic  talent,  still  more 
of  the  results  he  had  arrived  at  in  philosophy, 
there  were  much  to  be  said  and  thought,  which 
we  must  not  enter  upon  here.  As  hinted  above, 
his  primary  endowment  seems  to  us  fully  as 
much  philosophical  as  poetical ;  his  intellect, 
at  all  events,  is  peculiarly  of  that  character; 
strong,  penetrating,  yet  systematic  and  scho- 
lastic, rather  than  intuitive ;  and  manifesting 
this  tendency  both  in  the  objects  it  treats,  and 
in  its  mode  of  treating  them.  The  transcen- 
dental Philosophy,  which  arose  in  Schiller's 
busiest  era,  could  not  remain  without  influence 
on  him ;  he  had  carefully  studied  Kant's  System, 
and  appears  to  have  not  only  admitted  but 
zealously  appropriated  its  fundamental  doc- 
trines;  remoulding  them,  however,  into  his 
own  peculiar  forms,  so  that  they  seem  no  longer 
borrowed,  but  permanently  acquired,  not  less 
Schiller's  than  Kant's.  Some,  perhaps,  little 
aware  of  his  natural  wants  and  tendencies,  are 
of  opinion  that  these  speculations  did  not  profit 
him:  Schiller  himself,  on  the  other  hand, 
appears  to  have  been  well  contented  with  his 
Philosophy;  in  which,  as  harmonized  with  his 
Poetry,  the  assurance  and  safe  anchorage 
for  his  moral  nature  might  lie. 

"  From  the  opponents  of  the  New  Philoso- 
phy," says  he,  "I  expect  not  that  tolerance, 
which  is  shown  to  every  other  system,  no 
better  seen  into  than  this :  for  Kant's  Philo- 
sophy itself,  in  its  leading  points,  practises  no 
tolerance ;  and  bears  much  too  rigorous  a 
character,  to  leave  any  room  for  accommoda- 
tion. But  in  my  eyes  this  does  it  honour; 
proving  how  little  it  can  endure  to  have  truth 
tampered  with.  Such  a  Philosophy  will  not  be 
discussed  with  a  mere  shake  of  the  head.  In 
the  open,  clear,  accessible  field  of  Inquiry  it 
builds  up  its  system ;  seeks  no  shade,  makes 
no  reservation  ;  but  even  as  it  treats  its  neigh- 
bours, so  it  requires  to  be  treated;  and  may 
2L 


348 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


be  forgiven  for  lightly  esteeming  every  thing 
but  Proofs.  Nor  am  I  terrified  to  think  that 
the  law  of  Change,  from  which  no  human  and 
no  divine  work  finds  grace,  will  operate  on 
this  Philosophy,  as  on  every  other,  and  one 
day  its  Form  will  be  destroyed:  but  its  Foun- 
dations will  not  have  this  destiny  to  fear;  for 
ever  since  mankind  has  existed,  and  any  Rea- 
son among  mankind,  these  same  first  principles 
have  been  admitted,  and  on  the  whole  acted 
upon." — Correspondence  with  Goethe,  I.  58. 

Schiller's  philosophical  performances  relate 
chiefly  to  matters  of  Art;  not,  indeed,  without 
significant  glances  into  still  more  important 
regions  of  speculation :  nay,  Art,  as  he  viewed 
it,  has  its  basis  on  the  most  important  interests 
of  man,  and  of  itself  involves  the  harmonious 
adjustment  of  these.  We  have  already  un- 
dertaken to  present  our  readers,  on  a  future 
occasion,  with  some  abstract  of  the  JEsthetic 
Letters,  one  of  the  deepest,  most  compact 
pieces  of  reasoning  we  are  anywhere  acquaint- 
ed with  :  by  that  opportunity,  the  general 
character  of  Schiller,  as  a  Philosopher,  will 
best  fall  to  be  discussed.  Meanwhile,  the  two 
following  brief  passages,  as  some  indication 
of  his  views  on  the  highest  of  all  philosophical 
questions,  may  stand  here  without  commentary. 
He  is  speaking  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  and  in  the 
first  extract,  of  the  Fair  Saint's  Confessions, 
which  occupy  the  Fifth  Book  of  that  work  : 

"The  transition  from  Religion  in  general  to 
the  Christian  Religion,  by  the  experience  of 
sin,  is  excellently  conceived.  •  •  *  I  find  vir- 
tually in  the  Christian  System  the  rudiments 
of  the  Highest  and  Noblest ;  and  the  different 
phases  of  this  System,  in  practical  life,  are  so 
oflTensive  and  mean,  precisely  because  they  are 
bungled  representations  of  that  same  Highest. 
If  you  study  the  specific  character  of  Chris- 
tianity, what  distinguishes  it  from  all  mono- 
theistic Religion,  it  lies  in  nothing  else  than  in 
that  making  dead  of  the  Law,  the  removal  of  that 
Kantean  Imperative,  instead  of  which  Chris- 
tianity requires  a  free  Inclination.  It  is  thus, 
in  its  pure  form,  a  representing  of  Moral 
Beauty,  or  the  Incarnation  of  the  Holy;  and  in 
this  sense,  the  only  aslhetic  Religion:  hence, 
too,  I  explain  to  myself  why  it  so  prospers 
with  female  natures,  and  only  in  women  is 
now  to  be  met  with  under  a  tolerable  figure." 
— Correspondence,  I.  195. 

"  But  in  seriousness,"  he  says  elsewhere, 
"  whence  may  it  proceed  that  you  have  had  a 
man  educated,  and  in  all  points  equipt,  without 
ever  coming  upon  certain  wants  which  only 
Philosophy  can  meetl  I  am  convinced,  it  is 
entirely  attributable  to  the  aesthetic  direction  you 
have  taken  through  the  whole  Romance. 
Within  the  aesthetic  temper  there  arises  no 
want  of  those  grounds  of  comfort,  which  are 
to  be  drawn  from  speculation  :  such  a  temper 
has  self-subsistence,  has  infinitude,  within  it- 
self; only  when  the  Sensual  and  the  Moral  in 
man  strive  hostilely  together,  need  help  be 
sought  of  pure  Reason.  A  healthy  poetic  na- 
ture wants,  as  you  yourself  say,  no  Moral  Law, 
no  Rights  of  Man,  no  Political  Metaphysics. 
You  might  have  added  as  well,  it  wants  no 
Deity,  no  Immortality,  to  stay  and  uphold 
itselif  withal.  Those  three  points  round  which, 


in  the  long  run,  all  speculation  turns,  may  in 
truth  afford  such  a  nature  matter  for  poetic 
play,  but  can  never  become  serious  concerns 
and  necessities  for  it." — II.  131. 

This  last  seems  a  singular  opinion  ;  and  may 
prove,  if  it  be  correct,  that  Schiller  himself 
was  no  "healthy  poetic  nature;"  for  undoubt- 
edly with  him  those  three  points  were  "  serious 
concerns  and  necessities;"  as  many  portions 
of  his  works,  and  various  entire  treatises,  will 
testify.  Nevertheless,  it  plays  an  important 
part  in  his  theories  of  Poetry;  and  often, 
under  milder  forms,  returns  on  us  there. 

But,  without  entering  farther  on  those  com- 
plex topics,  we  must  here  for  the  present  take 
leave  of  Schiller.  Of  his  merits  we  have  all 
along  spoken  rather  on  the  negative  side ;  and 
we  rejoice  in  feeling  authorized  to  do  so.  That 
any  German  writer,  especially  one  so  dear  to 
us,  should  already  stand  so  high  with  British 
readers  that,  in  admiring  him,  the  critic  may 
also,  without  prejudice  to  right  feeling  on  the 
subject,  coolly  judge  of  him,  cannot  be  other 
than  a  gratifying  circumstance.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  other  true  Poet  of  that  nation  with 
whom  the  like  course  would  be  suitable. 

Connected  with  this  there  is  one  farther  ob- 
servation we  must  make  before  concluding. 
Among  young  students  of  German  Literature, 
the  question  often  arises,  and  is  warmly 
mooted  :  whether  Schiller  or  Goethe  is  the 
greater  Poet  1  Of  this  question  we  must  be 
allowed  to  say  that  it  seems  rather  a  slender 
one,  and  for  two  reasons.  First,  because 
Schiller  and  Goethe  are  of  totally  dissimilar 
endowments  and  endeavours,  in  regard  to  all 
matters  intellectual,  and  cannot  well  be  com- 
pared together  as  Poets.  Secondly,  because 
if  the  question  mean  to  ask,  which  Poet  is  on 
the  whole  the  rarer  and  more  excellent,  as 
probably  it  does,  it  must  be  considered  as  long 
ago  abundantly  answered.  To  the  clear-sighted 
and  modest  Schiller,  above  all,  such  a  question 
would  have  appeared  surprising.  No  one 
knew  better  than  himself,  that  as  Goethe  was 
a  born  Poet,  so  he  was  in  great  part  a  made 
Poet ;  that  as  the  one  spirit  was  intuitive,  all- 
embracing,  instinct  with  melody,  so  the  other 
was  scholastic,  divisive,  only  partially  and  as 
it  were  artificially  melodious.  Besides,  Goethe 
has  lived  to  perfect  his  natural  gift,  which  the 
less  happy  Schiller  was  not  permitted  to  do. 
The  former,  accordingly,  is  the  national  Poet; 
the  latter  is  not,  and  never  could  have  been. 
We  once  heard  a  German  remark  that  readers 
till  their  twenty-fifth  year  usually  preferred 
Schiller ;  after  their  twenty -fifth  year,  Goethe. 
This  probably  was  no  unfair  illustration  of  the 
question.  Schiller  can  seem  higher  than 
Goethe  only  because  he  is  narrower.  Thus  to 
unpractised  eyes,  a  Peak  of  Teneriffe,  nay,  a 
Strasburg  Minster,  when  we  stand  on  it,  may 
seem  higher  than  a  Chimborazo  ;  because  the 
former  rise  abruptly,  without  abutment  or  en- 
vironment; the  latter  rises  gradually,  carrying 
half  a  world  aloft  with  it;  and  only  the  deeper 
azure  of  the  heavens,  the  widened  horizon,  the 
"eternal  sunshine,"  disclose  to  the  geographer 
that  the  "  Region  of  Change"  lies  far  below  him. 
However,  let  us  not  divide  these  two  Friends, 
who  in  life  were  so  benignantly  united.   With- 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


243 


out  asserting  for  Schiller  any  claim  that  even 
enemies  can  dispute,  enough  will  remain  for 
him.  We  may  say  that,  as  a  Poet  and  Thinker, 
he  attained  to  a  perennial  Truth,  and  ranks 
among  the  noblest  productions  of  his  century 
and  nation.  Goethe  may  continue  the  German 
Poet,  but  neither  through  long  generations  can 


Schiller  be  forgotten.  "His  works,  too,  the 
memory  of  what  he  did  and  was,  will  arise 
afar  off  like  a  towering  landmark  in  the  soli- 
tude of  the  Past,  when  distance  shall  have 
dwarfed  into  invisibility  many  lesser  people 
that  once  encompassed  him,  and  hid  him  from 
the  near  beholder." 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED.* 


[Westminster  Review,  1831.] 


In  the  year  1757,  the  Swiss  Professor  Bod- 
mer  printed  an  ancient  poetical  manuscript, 
under  the  title  of  Chriemhilden  Ruche  und  die 
Klage,  (Chriemhilde's  Revenge,  and  the  La- 
ment;) which  may  be  considered  as  the  first 
of  a  series,  or  stream  of  publications,  and 
speculations  still  rolling  on,  with  increased 
current,  to  the  present  day.  Not,  indeed,  that 
all  these  had  their  source  or  determining  cause 
in  so  insignificant  a  circumstance;  their 
source,  or  rather  thousand  sources,  lay  far 
elsewhere.  As  has  often  been  remarked,  a 
certain  antiquarian  tendency  in  Literature,  a 
fonder,  more  earnest  looking  back  into  the 
Past,  began  about  that  time  to  manifest  itself  in 
all  nations,  (witness  our  own  Percyh  Reliques:) 
this  was  among  the  first  distinct  symptoms  of 
it  in  Germany :  where,  as  with  ourselves,  its 
manifold  effects  are  still  visible  enough. 

Some  fifteen  years  after  Bodmer's  publica- 
tion, which,  for  the  rest,  is  not  celebrated  as 
an  editorial  feat,  one  C.  H.  Mxiller  undertook  a 
Collection  of  German  Poems  from  the  Twelfth, 
Thirteenth,  and  Fourteenth  Centuries;  wherein, 
among  other  articles,  he  reprinted  Bodmer's 
Chricmhilde  and  Klage,  with  a  highly  remarka- 
ble addition  prefixed  to  the  former,  essential 
indeed  to  the  right  understanding  of  it ;  and 
the  whole  now  stood  before  the  world  as  one 
Poem,  under  the  name  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied, 
or  Lay  of  the  Nibelungen.  It  has  since  been 
ascertained  that  the  Klage  is  a  foreign  inferior 
appendage;  at  best,  related  only  as  epilogue 
to  the  main  work:  meanwhile  out  of  this  Nibe- 
lungen,  such  as  it  was,  there  soon  proceeded 
new  inquiries,  and  kindred  enterprises.  For 
much  as  the  Poem,  in  the  shape  it  here  bore, 
was  defaced  and  marred,  it  failed  not  to  attract 
observation :  to  all  open-minded  lovers  of 
poetry,  especially  where  a  strong  patriotic 
feeling  existed,  this  singular,  antique  Nibehmgen 
was  an  interesting  appearance.  Johannes 
Miiller,  in  his  famous  Suriss  History,  spoke  of  it 
in  warm  terms :  subsequently,  August  Wilhelm 
Schlegel,  through  the  medium  of  Das  Deutsche 
Museum,  succeeded  in  awakening  something 
like  a  universal  popular  feeling  on  the  subject; 
and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  a  whole  host 
of  Editors  and  Critics,  of  deep  and  of  shallow 
endeavour,  whose  labours  we  yet  see  in  pro- 


*  Das  J^ibelvvgen  Lied,  iibersettt  von  Karl  Simrock. 
(The  J^ihduvgen  Lied,  translated  by  Karl  Simrock.) 
a  vols.  12mo.    Berlin,  1827. 


gress.  The  Nibelungen  has  now  been  investi- 
gated, translated,  collated,  commented  upon, 
with  more  or  less  result,  to  almost  boundless 
lengths:  besides  the  Work  named  at  the  head 
of  this  Paper,  and  which  stands  there  simply 
as  one  of  the  latest,  we  have  Versions  into  the 
modern  tongue  by  Von  der  Hagen,  by  Hins- 
berg,  Lachmann,  Biisching,  Zeune,  the  last  in 
Prose,  and  said  to  be  worthless;  Criticisms, 
Introductions,  Keys,  and  so  forth,  by  innumer- 
able others,  of  whom  we  mention  only  Docen 
and  the  Brothers  Grimm. 

By  which  means,  not  only  has  the  Poem 
itself  been  elucidated  with  all  manner  of  re- 
searches, but  its  whole  environment  has  come 
forth  in  new  light ;  the  scene  and  personages 
it  relates  to,  the  other  fictions  and  traditions 
connected  with  it,  have  attained  a  new  import- 
ance and  coherence.  Manuscripts,  that  for  aggs- 
had  lain  dormant,  have  issued  from  their 
archives  into  public  view;  books  that  had 
circulated  only  in  mean  guise  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  people,  have  become  important, 
not  to  one  or  two  virtuosos,  but  to  the  general 
body  of  the  learned:  and  now  a  whole  System 
of  antique  Teutonic  Fiction  and  Mythology 
unfolds  itself,  shedding  here  and  there  a  real 
though  feeble  and  uncertain  glimmer  over 
what  was  once  the  total  darkness  of  the  old 
Time.  No  fewer  than  Fourteen  ancient  Tradi- 
tionary Poems,  all  strangely  intertwisted,  and 
growing  out  of  and  into  one  another,  have 
come  to  light  among  the  Germans  ;  who  now, 
in  looking  back,  find  that  they  too,  as  well  as 
the  Greeks,  have  their  Heroic  Age,  and  round 
the  old  Valhalla,  as  their  Northern  Pantheon, 
a  world  of  demi-gods  and  wonders. 

Such  a  phenomenon,  unexpected  till  of  late, 
cannot  but  interest  a  deep-thinking,  enthusi- 
astic people.  For  the  Nibelungen  especially, 
which  lies  as  the  centre  and  distinct  keystone 
of  the  whole  too  chaotic  System, — let  us  say 
rather,  blooms  as  a  firm  sunny  island  in  the 
middle  of  these  cloud-covered,  ever-shifting, 
sand- whirlpools, — they  cannot  sufficiently  tes- 
tify their  love  and  veneration.  Learned  profes- 
sors lecture  on  the  Nibelungen,  in  public  schools, 
with  a  praiseworthy  view  to  initiate  the  Ger- 
man youth  in  love  of  their  fatherland ;  from 
many  zealous  and  nowise  ignorant  critics  we 
hear  talk  of  a  "  great  Northern  Epos,"  of  a 
"German  Iliad ;"  the  more  saturnine  are  shamed 
into  silence,  or  hollow  mouth-homage;  thus 
from  all  quarters  comes  a  sound  of  joyful 


244 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


acclamation :  the  Nibclungen  is  welcomed  as  a 
precious  national  possession,  recovered  after 
six  centuries  of  neglect,  and  takes  undisputed 
place  among  the  sacred  books  of  German 
literature. 

Of  these  curious  transactions,  some  rumour 
has  not  failed  to  reach  us  in  England,  where 
our  minds,  from  their  own  antiquarian  dis- 
positioh,  were  willing  enough  to  receive  it. 
Abstracts  and  extracts  of  the  Nibehmgen  have 
been  printed  in  our  language ;  there  have  been 
disquisitions  on  it  in  our  Reviews ;  hitherto, 
however,  such  as  nowise  to  exhaust  the  sub- 
ject. On  the  contrary,  where  so  much  was  to 
be  told  at  once,  the  speaker  might  be  some- 
what puzzled  where  to  begin:  it  was  a  much 
readier  method  to  begin  with  the  end,  or  with 
any  part  of  the  middle,  than  like  Hamilton's 
Ram  (whose  example  is  too  little  followed  in 
literary  narrative)  to  begin  with  the  beginning. 
Thus  has  our  stock  of  intelligence  come 
rushing  out  on  us  quite  promiscuously  and 
pell-mell ;  whereby  the  whole  matter  could  not 
but  acquire  a  tortuous,  confused,  altogether 
inexplicable,  and  even  dreary  aspect;  and  the 
class  of  "well-informed  persons"  now  find 
themselves  in  that  uncomfortable  position, 
where  they  are  obliged  to  profess  admiration, 
and  at  the  same  time  feel  that,  except  by  name, 
they  know  not  what  the  thing  admired  is. 
Such  a  position  towards  the  venerable  Nibclun- 
gen, which  is  no  less  bright  and  graceful  than 
historically  significant,  cannot  be  the  right 
one.  Moreover,  as  appears  to  us,  it  might  be 
somewhat  mended  by  very  simple  means. 
Let  any  one  that  had  honestly  rfead  the  Nibe- 
lungen,  which  in  these  days  is  no  surprising 
achievement,  only  tell  us  what  he  found  there, 
and  nothing  that  he  did  not  find :  we  should 
then  know  something,  and,  what  were  still  bet- 
ter, be  ready  for  knowing  more.  To  search  out 
the  secret  roots  of  such  a  production,  ramified 
through  successive  layers  of  centuries,  and 
drawing  nourishment  from  each,  may  be  work, 
and  too  hard  work,  for  the  deepest  philosopher 
and  critic;  but  to  look  with  natural  eyes  on 
what  part  of  it  stands  visibly  above  ground, 
and  record  his  own  experiences  thereof,  is  what 
any  reasonable  mortal,  if  he  will  take  heed, 
can  do. 

Some  such  slight  service  we  here  intend 
proffering  to  our  readers  :  let  them  glance  with 
us  a  little  into  that  mighty  maze  of  Northern 
Archaeology ;  where,  it  may  be,  some  pleasant 
prospects  will  open.  If  the  Nibelungen  is  what 
we  have  called  it,  a  firm  sunny  island  amid 
the  weltering  chaos  of  antique  tradition,  it  must 
be  worth  visiting  on  general  grounds;  nay,  if 
the  primeval  rudiments  of  it  have  the  antiquity 
assigned  them,  it  belongs  especially  to  us 
English  Teutones  as  well  as  to  the  German. 

Far  be  it  from  us,  meanwhile,  to  venture 
rashly  or  farther  than  is  needful,  into  that  same 
traditionary  chaos,  fondly  named  the  "  Cycle 
of  Northern  Fiction,"  with  its  Fourteen  Sectors, 
(or  separate  Poems,)  which  are  rather  Four- 
teen shoreless  Limbos,  where  we  hear  of 
pieces  containing  "a  hundred  thousand  verses," 
and  "  seventy  thousand  verses,"  as  of  a  quite 
natural  affair !  How  travel  through  that  inane 
country ;  by  what  art  discover  the  little  grain 


of  Substance  that  casts  such  multiplied  im- 
measurable Shadows  1  The  primeval  Mythus, 
were  it  at  first  philosophical  truth,  or  were  it 
historical  incident,  floats  too  vaguely  on  the 
breath  of  men  :  each  successive  Singer  and 
Redactor  furnishes  it  with  new  personages, 
new  scenery,  to  please  a  new  audience ;  each 
has  the  privilege  of  inventing,  and  the  far 
wider  privilege  of  borrowing  and  new-model- 
ling from  all  that  have  preceded  him.  Thus 
though  Tradition  may  have  but  one  root,  it 
grows  like  a  Banian,  into  a  whole  overarching 
labyrinth  of  trees.  Or  rather  might  we  say,  it 
is  a  Hall  of  Mirrors,  where  in  pale  light  each 
mirror  reflects,  convexly  or  concavely,  not 
only  some  real  Object,  but  the  Shadows  of  this 
in  other  mirrors  ;  which  again  do  the  like  for 
it :  till  in  such  reflection  and  re-reflection  the 
whole  immensity  is  filled  with  dimmer  and 
dimmer  shapes;  and  no  firm  scene  lies  round 
us,  but  a  dislocated,  distorted  chaos,  fading 
away  on  all  hands,  in  the  distance,  into  utter 
night.  Only  to  some  brave  Von  der  Hagen, 
furnished  with  indefatigable  ardour,  and  a  deep, 
almost  a  religious  love,  is  it  given  to  find  sure 
footing  there,  and  see  his  way.  All  those  Dukes 
o/^quitania,  therefore,  and  EtzeVs  Court-holdings, 
and  Dietriche  and  Sigenols,we  shall  leave  stand- 
ing where  they  are.  Such  as  desire  farther  in- 
formation, will  find  an  intelligible  account  of 
the  whole  Series  or  Cycle,  in  Messrs.  Weber 
and  Jamieson's  Illustrations  of  Northern  Anti- 
quities;  and  all  possible  furtherance,  in  the 
numerous  German  works  above  alluded  to; 
among  which  Von  derHagen's  writings,  though 
not  the  readiest,  are  probably  the  safest  guides. 
But  for  us,  our  business  here  is  with  the 
Nibelungen,  the  inhabited  poetic  country  round 
which  all  these  wildernesses  lie ;  only  as  en- 
vironments of  which,  as  routes  to  which,  are- 
they  of  moment  to  us.  Perhaps  our  shortest 
and  smoothest  route  will  be  through  the  Held- 
enbuch,  (Hero-book  ;)  which  is  greatly  the  most 
important  of  these  subsidiary  Fictions,  not 
without  interest  of  its  own,  and  closely  related 
to  the  Nibelungen.  This  Heldenhuch,  therefore, 
we  must  now  address  ourselves  to  traverse 
with  all  despatch.  At  the  present  stage  of  the 
business,  too,  we  shall  forbear  any  historical 
inquiry  and  argument  concerning  the  date  and 
local  habitation  of  those  Traditions;  reserving 
what  little  is  to  be  said  on  that  matter  till  the 
Traditions  themselves  have  become  better 
known  to  us.  Let  the  reader,  on  trust,  for  the 
present,  transport  himself  into  the  twelfth  or 
thirteenth  century;  and  therefrom  looking  back 
into  the  sixth  or  fifth,  see  what  presents  itself. 

Of  the  Heldenbuch,  tried  on  its  own  merits, 
and  except  as  illustrating  that  other  far  worthier 
Poem,  or  at  most  as  an  old  national,  and  still 
in  some  measure  popular  book,  we  should  have 
felt  strongly  inclined  to  say,  as  the  curate  in 
Don  Quixote  feo  often  did,  M  corral  con  cllo,  Out 
of  window  witHft !  Doubtless  there  are  touches 
of  beauty  in  the  work,  and  even  a  sort  of 
heartiness  and  antique  quaintness  in  its  wild- 
est follies ;  but  on  the  whole  that  George-and- 
Dragon  species  of  composition  has  long  ceased 
to  find  favour  with  any  one;  and  except  for  its 
groundwork,  more  or  less  discernible,  of  old 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


245 


Northern  Fiction,  this  Heldenbuch  has  little  to 
distinguish  it  from  these.  Nevertheless,  what 
is  worth  remark,  it  seems  to  have  been  a  far 
higher  favourite  than  the  Nibelungcn,  with  an- 
cient readers :  it  was  printed  soon  after  the 
invention  of  printing:  some  think  in  1472,  for 
there  is  no  place  or  date  on  the  first  edition;  at 
all  events,  in  1491,  in  1509,  and  repeatedly 
since ;  whereas  the  Nibelungen,  though  written 
earlier,  and  in  worth  immeasurably  superior, 
had  to  remain  in  manuscript  three  centuries 
longer.  From  which,  for  the  thousandth  time, 
inferences  might  be  drawn  as  to  the  infallibility 
of  popular  taste,  and  its  value  as  a  criterion  for 
poetry.  However,  it  is  probably  in  virtue  of  this 
neglect,  that  the  Nibelungen  boasts  of  its  actual 
purity ;  that  it  now  comes  before  us,  clear  and 
graceful  as  it  issued  from  the  old  singer's  head 
and  heart;  not  over-loaded  with  Ass-eared 
Giants,  Fiery  Dragons,  Dwarfs,  and  Hairy  Wo- 
men, as  the  Heldenbuch  is,  many  of  which,  as 
charity  would  hope,  may  be  the  produce  of  a 
later  age  than  that  famed  Swabian  Era,  to  which 
these  poems,  as  we  now  see  them,  are  common- 
ly referred.  Indeed,  one  Casper  von  Roen  is 
understood  to  have  passed  the  whole  Heldenbuch 
through  his  limbec,  in  the  fifteenth  century  ;  but 
like  other  rectifiers,  instead  of  purifying  it,  to 
have  only  drugged  it  with  still  fiercer  ingredi- 
ents to  suit  the  sick  appetite  of  the  time. 

Of  this  drugged  and  adulterated  Hero-Book 
(the  only  one  we  yet  have,  though  there  is  talk 
of  a  better)  we  shall  quote  the  long  Title-page 
of  Lessing's  Copy,  the  edition  of  1560 ;  from 
which,  with  a  few  intercalated  observations, 
.^ ,.  -the  reader's  curiosity  may  probably  obtain  what 
^\./«Iictile  satisfaction  it  wants. 

Das  Heldenbuch  Welchs  aufs  neue  corrigirt  und 
^cbessert  ist,  mit  shonen  Figuren  geziert.  Gedruckt 
zu  Frankfurt  am  Mayn,  durch  Weygand  Han  und 
Sygmund  Feyerabend,  &c.     That  is  to  say : 

"The  Hero-Book,  which  is  of  new  corrected 
and  improved,  adorned  with  beautiful  Figures. 
Printed  at  Frankfurt  on  the  Mayn,  through 
Weygand  Han,  and  Sygmund  Feyerabend. 

"  Part  First  saith  of  Kaiser  Ottnit  and  the 
little  King  Elberich,  how  they  with  great  peril, 
over  sea,  in  Heathendom,  won  from  a  king 
his  daughter,  (and  how  he  in  lawful  marriage 
took  her  to  wife.") 

From  which  announcement  the  reader  al- 
ready guesses  the  contents:  how  this  little 
King  Elberich  was  a  Dwarf,  or  Elf,  some  half- 
span  long,  yet  full  of  cunning  practices,  and 
the  most  helpful  activity ;  nay,  stranger  still, 
had  been  Kaiser  Ottnit  of  Lampartei,  or  Lom- 
bardy's  father,— having  had  his  own  ulterior 
views  in  that  indiscretion.  How  they  sailed 
with  Messina  ships,  into  Paynim  land;  fought 
with  that  unspeakable  Turk,  King  Machabol, 
in  and  about  his  fortress  and  metropolis  of 
Montebur,  which  was  all  stuck  round  with 
Christian  heads  ;  slew  from  seventy  to  a  hun- 
dred thousand  of  the  Infidels  at  one  heat;  saw 
the  lady  on  the  battlements;  and  at  length, 
chiefly  by  Dwarf  Elberich's  help,  carried  her 
oflf  in  triumph:  wedded  her  in  Messina;  and 
without  difficulty,  rooting  out  the  Mohammedan 
prejudice,  converted  her  to  the  creed  of  Mother 
Church.  The  fair  runaway  seems  to  have 
been  of  a  gentle,  tractable  disposition,  very 


diflJerent  from  old  Machabol ;  concerning  whom 
it  is  chiefly  to  be  noted  that  Dwarf  Elberich, 
rendering  himself  invisible  on  their  first  inter- 
view, plucks  out  a  handful  of  hair  from  his 
chin  ;  thereby  increasing  to  a  tenfold  pitch  the 
royal  choler ;  and,  what  is  still  more  remark- 
able, furnishing  the  poet  Wieland,  six  centuries 
afterwards,  with  the  critical  incident  in  his 
Oberon.  As  for  the  young  lady  herself,  we  can- 
not but  admit  that  she  was  well  worth  sailing 
to  Heathendom  for;  and  shall  here,  as  our 
sole  specimen  of  that  old  German  doggerel, 
give  the  description  of  her,  as  she  first  ap- 
peared on  the  battlements  during  the  fight; 
subjoining  a  version  as  verbal  and  literal  as 
the  plainest  prose  can  make  it.  Considered  as 
a  detached  passage,  it  is  perhaps  the  finest  we 
have  met  with  in  the  Heldenbu^L 

Ihr  hen  brann  also  schone, 

Recht  als  ein  rot  rubein, 

Oleich  dem  vollen  mone 

Oaben  ihr  lluglein  schein 

Sich  hett  die  maget  reine 

Mit  rosen  wohl  bekleid 

Und  auch  mit  Berlin  Kleine, 

JVieinand  da  trost  die  meid. 

Sie  war  schon  an  dem  leibe, 

Und  zu  den  Seiten  schmal 

Recht  als  ein  Kertze  Scheibe 

Wohlgeschaffen  ilberall : 

Ihr  bey  den  hUnd  gemeine 

Dars  ihr  gentz  nichts  gebrach  ; 

Ihr  ndglein  schOn  und  reine^ 

Das  man  sich  darin  besach. 

Ihr  har  war  schOn  umbfangen 

JUit  elder  seiden  fein ; 

Das  liess  sic  nieder  hangen, 

Das  hubsche  Magedlein. 

Sie  trug  ein  kron  mit  steinen 

Sie  war  von  gold  so  rot ; 

Elberich  dem  viel  kleinen 

War  zu  der  Magte  not. 

Da  vornen  in  den  Kronen 
Lag  ein  Karfunkelstein, 
Der  in  dem  Pallast  schone 
^echt  als  ein  Kertz  erschein  ; 
^uf  jrem  haupt  das  hare 
War  tauter  und  auch  fein 
Es  leuchtet  also  klare 
Recht  als  der  Sonnen  schein. 

Die  Magt  die  stand  alleine^ 
Gar  trawrig  war  jr  mut ; 
Ihrfarb  und  die  war  reine, 
Lieblich  we  Milch  und  Blut : 
Her  durch  jr  zdpffe  reinen 
Schienjr  hals  als  der  Schnee 
Elberich  dem  viel  Kleinen 
That  der  Maget  Jammer  weh. 

Her  heart  burnt  (with  anxiety)  aa  beautifal 
Just  as  a  red  ruby, 
Like  the  full  moon 

Her  eyes  (eyelings,  pretty  eyes)  gave  sheen. 
Herself  had  the  maiden  pure 
Well  adorned  with  roses, 
And  also  with  pearls  small : 
No  one  there  comforted  the  maid. 
She  was  fair  of  body. 
And  in  the  waist  slender  ; 
Right  as  a  (golden)  candlestick 
Well-fashioned  everywhere  : 
Her  two  hands  proper. 
So  that  she  wanted  nought ; 
Her  little  nails  fair  and  pure, 
That  you  could  see  yourself  therein. 
Her  hair  was  beautifully  girt 
With  noble  silk  (band)  fine  ; 
X% 


246 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


She  let  it  flow  down, 

The  lovely  iiiaidling. 

She  wore  a  crown  with  jewels, 

It  was  of  gold  80  red : 

For  Elberich  the  very  small 

The  maid  had  need  (to  console  her.) 

There  in  front  of  the  crown 
Lay  a  carbuncle-stone, 
Which  in  the  palace  fair 
Even  as  a  taper  seemed  ; 
On  her  head  the  hair 
Was  glossy  and  also  fine, 
It  shone  as  bright 
Even  as  the  sun's  sheen. 

The  maid  she  stood  alone, 

Right  sad  was  her  mind ; 

Her  colour  it  was  pure. 

Lovely  as  milk  and  blood : 

Out  through  her  pure  locks 

Shone  her  neck  like  the  snow. 

Elberich  the  very  small 

Was  touched  with  the  maiden's  sorrow. 

Happy  man  was  Kaiser  Ottnit,  blessed  with 
such  a  wife,  after  all  his  travail ; — had  not  the 
Turk  Machabol  cunningly  sent  him,  in  re- 
venge, a  box  of  young  Dragons,  or  Dragon- 
eggs,  by  the  hands  of  a  caitiff  Infidel,  con- 
triver of  mischief;  by  whom  in  due  course  of 
time  they  were  hatched  and  nufsed  to  the  in- 
finite wo  of  all  Lampartie,  and  ultimately  to 
the  death  of  Kaiser  Ottnit  himself,  whom  they 
swallowed  and  attempted  to  digest,  once  with- 
out effect,  but  the  next  time  too  fatally,  crown 
and  all! 

^^Part  Second  announceth  (jmeldet)  of  Herr 
Hugdietrich  and  his  son  Wolfdietrich ;  how 
they  for  justice's  sake,  oft  by  their  doughty  acts 
succoured  distressed  persons,  with  other  bold 
heroes  that  stood  by  them  in  extremity." 

Concerning  which  Hugdietrich,  Emperor  of 
Greece,  and  his  son  Wolfdietrich,  one  day  the 
renowned  Dietrich  of  Bern,  we  can  here  say 
little  more  than  that  the  former  trained  him- 
self to  sempstress  work  ;  and  for  many  weeks, 
plied  his  needle,  before  he  could  get  wedded  and 
produce  Wolfdietrich ;  who  coming  into  the 
world  in  this  clandestine  manner,  was  let  down 
into  the  castle-ditch,  and  like  Romulus  and 
Remus  nursed  by  a  Wolf,  whence  his  name. 
However,  after  never-imagined  adventures,  with 
enchanters  and  enchantresses,  pagans,  and  gi- 
ants, in  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  he  finally,  with 
utmost  effort,  slaughtered  those  Lombardy  Dra- 
gons ;  then  married  Kaiser  Ottnit's  widow,  whom 
he  had  rather  flirted  with  before  ;  and  so  lived 
universally  respected  in  his  new  empire,  per- 
forming yet  other  notable  achievements.  One 
strange  property  he  had,  sometimes  useful  to 
him,  sometimes  hurtful :  that  his  breath,  when 
he  became  angry,  grew  flame,  red  hot,  and 
would  take  the  temper  out  of  swords.  We 
find  him  again  in  the  Nibelungen,  among  King 
Etzel's  (Aitila's)  followers:  a  staid,  cautious, 
yet  still  invincible  man  ;  on  which  occasion, 
though  with  great  reluctance,  he  is  forced  to 
interfere,  and  does  so  with  effect.  Dietrich  is 
the  favourite  hero  of  all  those  Southern  Fic- 
tions, and  well  acknowledged  in  the  Northern 
also,  where  the  chief  man,  however,  as  we 
shall  find,  is  not  he,  but  Siegfried. 

"Fart  Third  showeth  of  the  Rose-garden  at 


Worms,  which  was  planted  by  Chrimhilte, 
King  Gibrich's  daughter;  whereby  afterwards 
most  part  of  those  Heroes  and  Giants  came  to 
destruction  and  were  slain." 

In  this  Third  Part  the  Southern  or  Lombard 
Heroes  come  into  contact  and  collision  with 
another  as  notable.  Northern  class  ;  and  for 
us  much  more  important.  Chriemhild,  whose 
ulterior  history  makes  such  a  figure  in  the 
Nibelungen,  had,  it  would  seem,  near  the  an- 
cient City  of  Worms,  a  Rose-garden,  some 
seven  English  miles  in  circuit;  fenced  only 
b)''  a  silk  thread ;  wherein,  however,  she  main- 
tained Twelve  stout  fighting  men  ;  several  of 
whom,  as  Hagen,  Volker,  her  three  Brothers, 
above  all  the  gallant  Siegfried  her  betrothed, 
we  shall  meet  with  again  :  these,  so  unspeaka- 
ble was  their  prowess,  sufficed  to  defend  the 
silk-thread  Garden  against  all  mortals.  Our 
good  antiquary.  Von  der  Hagen,  imagines  that 
this  Rose-garden  business  (in  the  primeval 
Tradition)  glances  obliquely  at  the  Ecliptic 
with  its  Twelve  Signs,  at  Jupiter's  fight  with 
the  Titans,  and  we  know  not  what  confused 
skirmishing  in  the  Utgard,  or  Asgard,  or  Mid- 
gard  of  the  Scandinavians.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
Chriemhild,  we  are  here  told,  being  very  beau- 
tiful, and  very  wilful,  boasts  in  the  pride  of 
her  heart,  that  no  heroes  on  earth  are  to  be 
compared  with  hers  ;  and  hearing  accidentally 
that  Dietrich  of  Bern  has  a  high  character  in 
this  line,  forthwith  challenges  him  to  visit 
Worms,  and  with  eleven  picked  men,  to  do 
battle  there  against  those  other  Twelve  cham- 
pions of  Christendom  that  watch  her  Rose- 
garden.  Dietrich,  in  a  towering  passion  at  the 
style  of  the  message,  which  was  "surly  and 
stout,"  instantly  pitches  upon  his  eleven  se- 
conds, who  also  are  to  be  principals  ;  and  with 
a  retinue  of  other  sixty  thousand,  by  quick 
stages,  in  which  obstacles  enough  are  over- 
come, reaches  Worms,  and  declares  himself 
ready.  Among  these  eleven  Lombard  heroes 
of  his,  are  likewise  several  whom  we  meet 
with  again  in  the  Nihehmgen ;  besides  Dietrich 
himself,  we  have  the  old  Duke  Hildebrand, 
Wolfhart,  Ortwin.  Notable  among  them,  in 
another  way,  is  Monk  Ilsan,  a  truculent,  gray- 
bearded  fellow,  equal  to  any  Friar  Tuck  in 
Robin  Hood. 

The  conditions  of  fight  are  soon  agreed  on: 
there  are  to  be  twelve  successive  duels,  each 
challenger  being  expected  to  find  his  match; 
and  the  prize  of  victory  is  a  Rose-garland  from 
Chriemhild,  and  ein  Heisscn  mid  ein  Kiissen,  that 
is  to  say  virtually,  one  kiss  from  her  fair  lips, 
to  each.  But  here,  as  it  ever  should  do,  Pride 
gets  a  fall ;  for  Chriemhild's  bully-hectors,  are 
in  divers  ways  all  successively  felled  to  the 
ground  by  the  Berners  ;  some  of  whom,  as  old 
Hildebrand,  will  not  even  take  her  Kiss  when 
it  is  due  :  even  Siegfried  himself,  most  reluc- 
tantly engaged  with  by  Dietrich,  and  for  a 
while  victorious,  is  at  last  forced  to  seek 
shelter  in  her  lap.  Nay,  Monk  Ilsan,  after  the 
regular  fight  is  over,  and  his  part  in  it  well 
performed,  calls  out,  in  succession,  fifty-two 
other  idle  Champions  of  the  Garden,  part  of 
them  Giants,  and  routs  the  whole  fraternity: 
thereby  earning,  besides  his  own  regular 
allowance,  fifty-two  spare  Garlands,  and  fifty- 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


U7 


txro  several  kisses ;  in  the  course  of  which 
latter,  Chriemhild's  cheek,  a  just  punishment 
as  seemed,  was  scratched  to  the  drawing  of 
blood  by  his  rough  beard.  It  only  remains  to 
be  added  that  King  Gibrich,  Chriemhild's 
Father,  is  now  fain  to  do  homage  for  his  king- 
dom to  Dietrich;  who  returns  triumphant  to 
his  own  country ;  where  also,  Monk  Ilsan,  ac- 
cording to  promise,  distributes  these  fifty-two 
Garlands  among  his  fellow  Friars,  crushing  a 
garland  on  the  bare  crown  of  each,  till  "  the 
red  blood  ran  over  their  ears."  Under  which 
hard  but  not  undeserved  treatment,  they  all 
agreed  to  pray  for  remission  of  Ilsan's  sins: 
indeed,  such  as  continued  refractory  he  tied 
together  by  the  beards,  and  hung  pair-wise 
over  poles  ;  whereby  the  stoutest  soon  gave  in. 

So  endeth  here  this  ditty 

Of  strife  from  woman's  pride  : 

God  on  our  griefo  taite  pitj', 

A.nd  Mary  still  by  us  abide. 

"In  Part  Fourth  is  announced  (gemelt)  of  the 
little  King  Laurin,  the  Dwarf,  how  he  encom- 
passed his  Rose-garden  with  so  great  manhood 
and  art-magic,  till  at  last  he  was  vanquished 
by  the  heroes,  and  forced  to  become  their  Jug- 
gler, with,  &c.  &c." 

Of  which  Fourth  and  happily  last  part  we 
shall  here  say  nothing ;  inasmuch  as,  except 
that  certain  of  our  old  heroes  again  figure 
there,  it  has  no  coherence  or  connection  with 
the  rest  of  the  Heldenbuch;  and  is  simply  a  new 
tale,  which  by  way  of  episode  Heinrich  von 
Ofterdingen,  as  we  learn  from  his  own  words, 
had  subsequently  appended  thereto.    He  says: 

Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen 
This  story  hath  been  singing, 
To  the  joy  of  Princes  bold, 
They  gave  him  silver  and  gold, 
Moreover  pennies  and  garments  rich! 
Here  endeth  this  Book  the  which 
Doth  sing  our  noble  Heroes'  story  : 
God  help  us  all  to  heavenly  glory. 

Such  is  some  outline  of  the  famous  Helden- 
buch; on  which  it  is  not  our  business  here  to 
add  any  criticism.  The  fact  that  it  has  so 
long  been  popular  betokens  a  certain  worth  in 
it;  the  kind  and  degree  of  which  is  also  in 
some  measure  apparent.  In  poetry  "  the  rude 
man,"  it  has  been  said,  "  requires  only  to  see 
something  going  on ;  the  man  of  more  refine- 
ment wishes  to  feel ;  the  truly  refined  man 
must  be  made  to  reflect."  For  the  first  of 
these  classes  our  Hero-Book,  as  has  been  appa- 
rent enough,  provides  in  abundance;  for  the 
other  two  scantily,  indeed;  for  the  second  not 
not  at  all.  Nevertheless  our  estimate  of  this 
work,  which  as  a  series  of  Antique  Traditions 
may  have  considerable  meaning,  is  apt  rather 
to  be  too  low.  Let  us  remember  that  this  is 
not  the  original  Heldenbuch  which  we  now  see ; 
but  only  a  version  of  it  into  the  Knight-errant 
dialect  of  the  thirteenth,  indeed  partly  of  the 
fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  with  all  the 
fantastic  monstrosities,  now  so  trivial,  pertain- 
ing to  that  style;  under  which  disguises  the 
really  antique  earnest  groundwork,  interesting  \ 
as  old  Thought,  if  not  as  old  Po«try,  is  all  but 
quite  obscured  from  us.  But  Antiquarian 
diligence  is  now  busy  with  the  Heldenbuch 
also,  from  which  what  light  is  in  it  will  doubt- 


less be  elicited,  and  here  and  there  a  deformity 
removed.  Though  the  Ethiop  cannot  change 
his  skin,  there  is  no  need  that  even  he  should 
go  abroad  unwashed.*     ^'  " 

Casper  von  Roen,  or  whoever  was  the  ulti- 
mate redactor  of  the  Heldenbuch,  whom  Lessing 
designates  as  "a  highly  ill-informed  man," 
would  have  done  better  had  he  quite  omitted 
that  little  King  Laurin,  "  and  his  little  Rose- 
garden,"  which  properly  is  no  Rose-garden  at 
all ;  and  instead  thereof  introduced  the  Gehd'rnte 
Siegfried,  (Behorned  Siegfried,)  whose  history 
lies  at  the  heart  of  the  whole  Northern  Tradi- 
tions ;  and,  under  a  rude  prose  dress,  is  to  this 
day  a  real  child's-book  and  people's-book 
among  the  Germans.  Of  this  Siegfried  we 
have  already  seen  somewhat  in  the  Rose-gar- 
den at  Worms  ;  and  shall  ere  long  see  much 
more  elsewhere ;  for  he  is  the  chief  hero  of  the 
Nibelungen:  indeed  nowhere  can  we  dip  into 
those  old  Fictions,  whether  in  Scandinavia  or 
the  Rhine-land,  but  under  one  figure  or  another, 
whether  as  Dragon-killer  and  Prince-royal,  or 
as  Blacksmith  and  Horse-subduer,  as  Sigurd, 
Sivrit,  Siegfried,  we  are  sure  to  light  on  him. 
As  his  early  adventures  belong  to  the  strange 
sort,  and  will  afterwards  concern  us  not  a 
little,  we  shall  here  endeavour  to  piece  together 
some  consistent  outline  of  them  ;  so  far  indeed 
as  that  may  be  possible,  for  his  biographers, 
agreeing  in  the  main  points,  difier  widely  in 
the  details. 

First,  then,  let  no  one  from  the  title  Gehorntef 
(Horned,  Behorned,)  fancy  that  our  brave 
Siegfried,  who  was  the  loveliest  as  well  as  the 
bravest  of  men,  was  actually  cornuted,  and  had 
horns  on  his  brow,  though  like  Michael  An- 
gelo's  Moses;  or  even  that  his  skin,  to  which 
the  epithet  Behorned  refers,  was  hard  like  a 
crocodile's,  and  not  softer  than  the  softest 
shamoy:  for  the  truth  is,  his  Hornedness 
means  only  an  Invulnerability,  like  that  of 
Achilles,  which  he  came  by  in  the  following 
manner.  All  men  agree  that  Siegfried  was  a 
king's  son ;  he  was  born,  as  we  here  have 
good  reason  to  know,  "  at  Santen  in  Nether- 
land,"  of  Siegemund  and  the  fair  Siegelinde: 
yet  by  some  family  misfortune  or  discord,  of 
which  the  accounts  are  very  various,  he  came 
into  singular  straits  during  boyhood ;  having 
passed  that  happy  period  of  life,  not  under  the 
canopies  of  costly  state,  but  by  the  sooty  stithy, 
in  one  Mimer  a  Blacksmith's  shop.  Here, 
however,  he  was  nowise  in  his  proper  ele- 
ment ;  ever  quarrelling  with  his  fellow  appren- 
tices ;  nay,  as  some  say,  breaking  the  hardest 
anvils  into  shivers  by  his  too  stout  hammer- 
ing. So  that  Mimer,  otherwise  a  first-rate 
Smith,  could  by  no  means  do  with  him  there. 
He  sends  him,  accordingly,  to  the  neighbouring 
forest,  to  fetch  charcoal;  well  aware  that  a 
monstrous  Dragon,  one  Regin,  the  Smith's  own 
Brother,  would   meet   him   and  devour  him. 


*  Our  inconsiderable  knowledge  of  the  Heldenbuch  is 
derived  from  various  secondary  sources;  chiefly  from 
Lessing's  VVerke  [B.  XHI.],  where  the  reader  will  find 
an  epitome  of  the  whole  Poem,  with  Extracts  by  Herr 
Fiilleborn,  from  which  the  above  are  taken.  A  still 
more  accessible  and  larger  Abstract,  with  long  specimens 
translated  into  verse,  stands  in  the  fllustrations  of  J^orth- 
ern  Antiquities,  [p.  45 — 167.]  Von  der  Hagen  has  since 
been  employed  specially  on  the  Heldenbuch  ;  with  what 
result  we  have  not  y»t  learned. 


248 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


But  far  otherwise  it  proved :  Siegfried  by  main 
force  slew  this  Dragon,  or  rather  Dragonized 
Smith' s-Brother  ;  made  broth  of  him ;  and, 
warned  by  some  significant  phenomena,  bathed 
therein ;  or,  as  others  assert,  bathed  directly  in 
the  monster's  blood  without  cookery ;  and 
hereby  attained  that  Invulnerability,  complete 
in  all  respects,  save  that  between  his  shoulders 
where  a  limetree  leaf  chanced  to  settle  and 
stick  during  the  process,  there  was  one  little 
spot,  a  fatal  spot  as  afterwards  turned  out,  left 
in  its  natural  state. 

Siegfried,  now  seeing  through  the  craft  of  the 
Smith,  returned  home  and  slew  him ;  then  set 
forth  in  search  of  adventures,  the  bare  cata- 
logue of  which  were  long  to  recite.  We  men- 
tion only  two,  as  subsequently  of  moment 
both  for  him  and  for  us.  He  is  by  some  said 
to  have  courted  and  then  jilted  the  fair  and 
proud  Queen  Brunhild  of  Isenland ;  nay,  to  have 
thrown  down  the  seven  gates  of  her  Castle; 
and  then  ridden  off  with  her  wild  horse  Gana, 
having  mounted  him  in  the  meadow,  and  in- 
stantly broken  him.  Some  cross  passages 
between  him  and  Queen  Brunhild,  who  under- 
stood no  jesting,  there  must  clearly  have  been, 
so  angry  is  her  recognition  of  him  in  the  Nibe- 
lungen ,-  nay,  she  bears  a  lasting  grudge  against 
him  there,  as  he,  and  indeed,  she  also,  one  day 
too  sorely  felt. 

His  other  grand  adventure  is  with  the  two 
sons  of  the  deceased  King  Nibelung,  in  Nibe- 
lungen-land :  these  two  youths,  to  whom  their 
father  had  bequeathed  a  Hoard  or  Treasure, 
beyond  all  price  or  computation,  Siegfried, 
"riding  by  alone,"  found  on  the  side  of  a 
mountain,  in  a  state  of  great  perplexity.  They 
had  brought  out  the  treasure  from  the  cave 
where  it  usually  lay ;  but  how  to  part  it  was 
the  difficulty ;  for  not  to  speak  of  gold,  there 
were  as  many  jewels  alone  "  as  twelve  wagons 
in  four  days  and  nights  each  going  three  jour- 
neys could  carry  away ;"  nay,  "  however  much 
you  took  from  it  there  was  no  diminution;" 
besides,  in  real  property,  a  Sword,  Balmung, 
of  great  potency ;  a  Divining-rod  "  which  gav^e 
power  over  every  one;"  and  a  Tamkappe,  (or 
Cloak  of  Darkness,)  which  not  only  rendered 
the  wearer  invisible,  but  also  gave  him  twelve 
men's  strength.  So  that  the  two  Princes  Royal, 
without  counsel  save  from  their  Twelve  stupid 
Giants,  knew  not  how  to  fall  upon  any  amicable 
arrangement;  and,  seeing  Siegfried  ride  by  so 
opportunely, requested  him  to  be  arbiter;  offer- 
ing also  the  Sword  Balmung  for  his  trouble. 
Siegfried,  who  readily  undertook  the  impossible 
problem,  did  his  best  to  accomplish  it;  but,  of 
course,  without  effect ;  nay  the  two  Nibelungen 
Princes,  being  of  choleric  temper,  grew  impa- 
tient, and  provoked  him;  whereupon,  with  the 
Sword  Balmung  he  slew  them  both,  and  their 
Twelve  Giants  (perhaps  originally  Signs  of 
the  Zodiac)  to  boot.  Thus  did  the  famous 
Nibelungen  Hort,  (Hoard,)  and  indeed  the  whole 
Nibelungen-land  come  into  his  possession ; 
wearing  the  Sword  Balmung,  and  having  slain 
the  two  Princes  and  their  champions,  what 
was  there  farther  to  oppose  him  1  Vainly  did 
the  Dwarf  Alberich,  our  old  friend  Elberich 
of  the  Heldenbnch,  who  had  now  become  special 
keeper  of  this  Hoard,  attempt  some  resistance 


with  a  Dwarf  Army;  he  was  driven  back  into 
the  cave:  plundered  of  his  Tamkappe;  and 
obliged  with  all  his  myrmidons  to  swear  fealty 
to  the  conqueror,  whom  indeed  thenceforth  he 
and  they  punctually  obeyed. 

Whereby  Siegfried  might  now  farther  style 
himself  King  of  the  Nibelungen ;  master  of 
the  infinite  Nibelungen  Hoard  (collected  doubt- 
less by  art-magic  in  the  beginning  of  Time,  in 
the  deep  bowels  of  the  Universe)  with  the 
Wunschelruthe,  (Wishing  or  Divining-rod,)  per- 
taining thereto ;  owner  of  the  Tamkappe,  which 
he  ever  after  kept  by  him,  to  put  on  at  will ;  and 
though  last  not  least,  Bearer  and  Wielder  of 
the  Sword  Balmung,*  by  the  keen  edge  of  which 
all  this  gain  had  come  to  him.  To  which  last 
acquisitions,  adding  his  previously  acquired 
Invulnerability,  and  his  natural  dignities  as 
Prince  of  Netherland,  he  might  well  show  him- 
self before  the  foremost  at  Worms  or  else- 
where ;  and  attempt  any  the  highest  adventure 
that  fortune  could  cut  out  for  him.  However, 
his  subsequent  history  belongs  all  to  the  Nibe- 
lungen  Song ;  at  which  fair  garden  of  poesy  we 
are  now,  through  all  these  shaggy  wildernesses 
and  enchanted  woods,  finally  arrived. 

Apart  from  its  antiquarian  value,  and  not 
only  as  by  far  the  finest  monument  of  old 
German  art,  but  intrinsically,  and  as  a  mere 
detached  composition,  this  Nibelungen  has  an 
excellence  that  cannot  but  surprise  us.  With 
little  preparation,  any  reader  of  poetry,  even 
in  these  days,  might  find  it  interesting.  It  is 
not  without  a  certain  Unity  of  interest  and 
purport,  an  internal  coherence  and  complete- 
ness ;  it  is  a  Whole,  and  some  spirit  of  Music 
informs  it :  these  are  the  highest  characteristics 
of  a  true  Poem.  Considering  farther  what  in- 
tellectual environment  we  now  lind  it  in,  it  is 
doubly  to  be  prized  and  wondered  at ;  for  it 
differs   from   those   Hero-Books,  as    molten  or 

*  By  this  Sword  Balmung  also  hangs  a  tale.  Doubt- 
less it  was  one  of  those  invaluable  weapons  sometimes 
fabricated  by  the  old  Northern  Smiths,  compared  with 
which  our  modern  Foxes,  and  Ferraras,  and  Tole- 
dos  are  mere  leaden  tools.  Von  der  Hagen  seems  to 
think  it  simply  the  Sword  Mimung  under  another  name  ; 
in  which  case  Siegfried'.s  old  master,  Mimer,  had  been 
the  maker  of  it,  and  called  it  after  himself,  as  if  it  had 
been  his  son.  In  Scandinavian  chronicles,  veridical  or 
not,  we  have  the  following  account  of  that  transaction. 
Mimer  (or  as  some  have  it,  surely  without  ground,  one 
Veliant,  once  an  apprentice  of  his)  was  challenged  by 
another  Craftsman,  named  Amilias,  who  boasted  that  he 
had  made  a  suit  of  armour  which  no  stroke  could  dint, — 
to  equal  that  feat,  or  own  himself  the  second  Smith 
then  extant.  This  last  the  stout  Mimer  would  in  no 
case  do,  but  proceeded  to  forge  the  Sword  Mimung  ; 
with  which,  when  it  was  finished,  he,  '•  in  presence  of 
the  King,"  cut  asunder  "a  thread  of  wool  floating  on 
water."  This  would  have  seemed  a  fair  fire-edge  to 
most  Smiths:  not  so  to  Mimer  :  he  sawed  the  blade  in 
pieces,  \velded  it  in  "  a  red  hot  fire  for  three  days,"  tem- 
pered it  with  "milk  and  oatmeal,"  and  by  much  other 
cunning,  brought  nut  a  sword  that  severed  "a  ball  of 
wool  floatini;  on  water."  But  neither  would  this  suffice 
him  ;  he  returned  to  his  smithy  ;  and  by  means  known 
only  to  himself,  produced  in  the  course  of  seven  weeks 
a  tliird  .'ind  final  edition  of  Mimung,  which  split  asunder 
a  whole  floating  pack  of  wool.  The  comparative  trial 
now  took  place  forthwith.  Amilias,  cased  in  his  im- 
penetrable coat  of  mail,  sat  down  on  a  bench,  in  presence 
of  assembled  thousands,  and  bade  Mimer  strike  him. 
Mimer  fetched  of  course  his  best  blow,  on  which  Amilias 
I  observed  that  there  was  a  strange  feeling  of  cold  iron  in 
1  his  inwards.  "Shake  thyself,"  said  Mimer;  the  luck- 
less wi'-'ht  did  so,  and  fell  in  two  halves,  being  cleft  sheer 
I  throuirh  from  collir  to  haunch,  never  more  to  swing 
j  haminer  in  this  world.— See  Illustrations  of  J^ortkern 
I  Jintiquities,  p.  31. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIEp. 


249 


carved  metal  does  from  rude  agglomerated  ore ; 
almost  as  some  Shakspeare  from  his  fellow 
Dramatists,  whose  Tarnburlaines  and  Island 
Princesses,  themselves  not  destitute  of  merit, 
first  show  us  clearly  in  what  pure  loftiness  and 
loneliness  the  Hamlets  and  Tempests  reign. 

The  unknown  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen, 
though  no  Shakspeare,  must  have  had  a  deep, 
poetic  soul ;  wherein  things  discontinuous  and 
inanimate  shaped  themselves  together  into 
life,  and  the  Universe  with  its  wondrous  pur- 
port stood  significantly  imaged;  overarching, 
as  with  heavenly  firmaments  and  eternal  har- 
monies, the  little  scene  where  men  strut  and 
fret  their  hour.  \His  Poem,  unlike  so  many 
old  and  new  pretenders  to  that  name,  has  a 
basis  and  organic  structure,  a  beginning,  mid- 
dle, and  end;  there  is  one  great  principle  and 
idea  set  forth  in  it,  round  which  all  its  multi- 
farious parts  combine  in  living  union.  Re- 
markable it  is,  moreover,  how  along  with  this 
essence  and  primary  condition  of  all  poetic 
virtue,  the  minor  external  virtues  of  what  we 
call  Taste,  and  so  forth,  are,  as  it  were,  pre- 
supposed; and  the  living  soul  of  Poetry  being 
there,  its  body  of  incidents,  its  garment  of  lan- 
guage, come  of  their  own  accord.  So,  too,  in 
the  case  of  Shakspeare:  his  feeling  of  propriety, 
as  compared  with  that  of  the  Marlowes  and 
Fletchers,  his  quick  sure  sense  of  what  is  fit 
and  unfit,  either  in  act  or  word,  might  astonish 
us,  had  he  no  other  superiority.  But  true  In- 
spiration, as  it  may  well  do,  includes  that  same 
Taste,  or  rather  a  far  higher  and  heartfelt 
Taste,  of  which  that  other  "  elegant"  species 
is  but  an  ineffectual,  irrational  apery :  let  us 
see  the  herald  Mercury  actually  descend  from 
his  Heaven,  and  the  bright  wings,  and  the 
graceful  movement  of  these,  will  not  be  want- 
ing. 

With  an  instinctive  art,  far  different  from 
acquired  artifice,  this  Poet  of  the  Nibelungen, 
working  in  the  same  province  with  his  con- 
temporaries of  the  Heldenbuch,  on  the  same 
material  of  tradition,  has,  in  a  wonderful  de- 
gree, possessed  himself  of  what  these  could 
only  strive  after;  and  with  his  "clear  feeling 
of  fictitious  truth,"  avoided  as  false  the  errors 
and  monstrous  perplexities  in  which  they 
vainly  struggled.  He  is  of  another  species 
than  they;  in  language,  in  purity  and, depth 
of  feeling,  in  fineness  of  invention,  stands 
quite  apart  from  them. 

The  language  of  the  Heldenbuch,  as  we  saw 
above,  was  a  feeble  half-articulate  child's- 
speech,  the  metre  nothing  better  than  a  misera- 
ble doggerel ;  whereas  here  in  the  old  Prank- 
ish (Obcrdutsch)  dialect  of  the  Nibelungen,  we 
have  a  clear  decisive  utterance,  and  in  a  real 
system  of  verse,  not  without  essential  regu- 
larity, great  liveliness,  and  now  and  then  even 
harmony  of  rhythm.  Doubtless  we  must  often 
call  it  a  diffuse  diluted  utterance;  at  the  same 
time  it  is  genuine,  with  a  certain  antique 
garrulous  heartiness,  and  has  a  rhythm  in  the 
thoughts  as  well  as  the  words.  The  simplicity 
is  never  silly,  even  in  that  perpetual  recur- 
rence of  epithets,  sometimes  of  rhymes,  as 
where  two  words  for  instance  lib  (body,  life, 
leib)  and  wip  (woman,  wife,  iceip)  are  indis- 
solubly  wedded  together,  and  the  one  never 


shows  itself  without  the  other  following, — 
there  is  something  which  reminds  us  not  so 
much  of  poverty,  as  of  trustfulness  and  child- 
like innocence.  Indeed  a  strange  charm  lies 
in  those  old  tones,  where,  in  gay  dancing  melo- 
dies, the  sternest  tidings  are  sung  to  us ;  and 
deep  floods  of  Sadness  and  Strife  play  lightly 
in  little  curling  billows,  like  seas  in  summer. 
It  is  as  a  meek  smile,  in  whose  still,  thought- 
ful depths  a  whole  infinitude  of  patience,  and 
love,  and  heroic  strength  lie  revealed.  But  in 
other  cases,  too,  we  have  seen  this  outward 
sport  and  inward  earnestness  offer  grateful 
contrast,  and  cunning  excitement;  for  example, 
in  Tasso  ;  of  whom,  though  otherwise  different 
enough,  this  old  Northern  Singer  has  more 
than  once  reminded  us.  There,  too,  as  here, 
we  have  a  dark  solemn  meaning  in  light 
guise  ;  deeds  of  high  temper,  harsh  self-denial, 
daring,  and  death,  stand  embodied  in  that  soft, 
quick-flowing,  joyfully-modulated  verse.  Nay, 
farther,  as  if  the  implement,  much  more  than 
we  might  fancy,  had  influenced  the  work  done, 
these  two  Poems,  could  we  trust  our  individual 
feeling,  have  in  one  respect  the  same  poetical 
result  for  us :  in  the  Nibelungen  as  in  the  Genc- 
sulemme,  the  persons  and  their  story  are  indeed 
brought  vividly  before  us,  yet  not  near  and 
palpably  present;  it  is  rather  as  if  we  looked 
on  that  scene  through  an  inverted  telescope, 
whereby  the  whole  was  carried  far  away  into 
the  distance,  the  life-large  figures  comprised  into 
brilliant  miniatures,  so  clear,  so  real,  yet  tiny, 
elf-like,  and  beautified  as  well  as  lessened, 
their  colours  being  now  closer  and  brighter, 
the  shadows  and  trivial  features  no  longer 
visible.  This,  as  we  partly  apprehend,  comes 
of  Singing  Epic  Poems ;  most  part  of  which 
only  pretend  to  be  sung.  Tasso's  rich  melody 
still  lives  among  the  Italian  people ;  the  Nibe- 
lungen also  is  what  it  professes  to  be,  a  Song. 

No  less  striking  than  the  verse  and  language 
is  the  quality  of  the  invention  manifested  here. 
Of  the  Fable,  or  narrative  material  of  the 
Nibelungen,  we  should  say  that  it  had  high, 
almost  the  highest  merit ;  so  daintily,  yet  firmly, 
is  it  put  together;  with  such  felicitous  selec- 
tion of  the  beautiful,  the  essential,  and  no  less 
felicitous  rejection  of  whatever  was  unbeauti- 
ful  or  even  extraneous.  The  reader  is  no 
longer  afflicted  with  that  chaotic  brood  of  Fire- 
drakes,  Giants,  and  malicious  turbaned  Turks,, 
so  fatally  rife  in  the  Heldenbuch:  all  this  is 
swept  away,  or  only  hovers  in  faint  shadows 
afar  off";  and  a  free  field  is  opened  for  legiti- 
mate perennial  interests.  Yet  neither  is  the 
Nibelungen  without  its  wonders;  for  it  is  poetry 
and  not  prose ;  here  too,  a  supernatural  world 
encompasses  the  natural,  and,  though  at  rare 
intervals  and  in  a  calm  manner,  reveals  itself 
there.  It  is  truly  wonderful  with  what  skill 
our  simple,  untaught  Poet  deals  with  the  mar- 
vellous ;  admitting  it  without  reluctance  or 
criticism,  yet  precisely  in  the  degree  and 
shape  that  will  best  avail  him.  Here,  if  in  no 
other  respect,  we  should  say  that  he  has  a  de- 
cided superiority  to  Homer  himself.  The  -whole 
story  of  the  Nibelungen  is  fateful,  mysterious, 
guided  on  by  unseen  influences;  yet  the 
actual  marvels  are  few,  and  done  in  the  far 
distance ;  those  Dwarfs,  and  Cloaks  of  Dark- 


250 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ness,  and  charmed  Treasure-caves,  are  heard 
of  rather  than  beheld,  the  tidings  of  them  seem 
to  issue  from  unknown  space.  Vain  were  it 
to  inquire  where  that  Nibelungen  land  specially 
is :  its  very  name  is  Nebel-land  or  Nifl-land,  the 
land  of  Darkness,  of  Invisibility.  The  "  Nibe- 
lungen Heroes,"  that  muster  in  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands,  though  they  march  to  the 
Rhine  or  Danube,  and  we  see  their  strong 
limbs  and  shining  armour,  we  could  almost 
fancy  to  be  children  of  the  air.  Far  beyond 
the  hrm  horizon,  that  wonder-bearing  region 
swims  on  the  infinite  waters ;  unseen  by 
bodily  eye,  or  at  most  discerned  as  a  faint 
streak,  hanging  in  the  blue  depths,  uncertain 
whether  island  or  cloud.  And  thus  the  Nibe- 
lungen Song,  though  based  on  the  bottomless 
foundation  of  Spirit,  and  not  unvisited  of  skyey 
messengers,  is  a  real,  rounded,  habitable  Earth, 
where  we  find  firm  footing,  and  the  wondrous 
and  the  common  live  amicably  together.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  Poet  of 
ancient  or  modern  times,  who  in  this  trying 
problem  has  steered  his  way  with  greater 
delicacy  and  success. 

To  any  of  our  readers,  who  may  have  per- 
sonally studied  the  Nibchmgen,  these  high 
praises  of  ours  will  not  seem  exaggerated:  the 
rest,  who  are  the  vast  majority,  must  endeavour 
to  accept  them  with  some  degree  of  faith,  at 
least,  of  curiosity  ;  to  vindicate,  and  judicially 
substantiate  them  would  far  exceed  our  pre- 
sent opportunities.  Nay,  in  any  case,  the 
criticisms,  the  alleged  Characteristics  of  a 
Poem  are  so  many  Theorems,  which  are  in- 
deed enunciated,  truly  or  falsely,  but  the 
Demonstration  of  which  must  be  sought  for  in 
the  reader's  own  study  and  experience.  Nearly 
all  that  can  be  attempted  here,  is  some  hasty 
epitome  of  the  mere  Narrative ;  no  substantial 
image  of  the  work,  but  a  feeble  outline  and 
shadow.  To  which  task,  as  the  personages 
and  their  environment  have  already  been  in 
some  degree  illustrated,  we  can  now  proceed 
without  obstacle. 

The  Nibelungen  has  been  called  the  Northern 
Epos ;  yet  it  has,  in  great  part,  a  Dramatic 
character:  those  thirty-nine  Jvcntiuren  (Adven- 
tures) which  it  consists  of,  might  be  so  many 
scenes  in  a  Tragedy.  The  catastrophe  is  dimly 
prophesied  from  the  beginning;  and,  at  every 
fresh  step,  rises  more  and  more  clearly  into 
view.  A  shadow  of  coming  Fate,  as  it  were, 
a  low  inarticulate  voice  of  Doom  falls  from  the 
first,  out  of  that  charmed  Nibelungen-land :  the 
discord  of  two  women,  is  as  a  little  spark  of 
evil  passion,  that  ere  long  enlarges  itself  into  a 
crime  ;  foul  murder  is  done ;  and  now  the  Sin 
rolls  on  like  a  devouring  fire,  till  the  guilty  and 
the  innocent  are  alike  encircled  with  it,  and  a 
whole  land  is  ashes,  and  a  whole  race  is  swept 
away. 

Uns  ist  in  alten  mcBren  Wunders  vil  g-eseit^ 
Von  helden  lobebaren  Von  groier  chuonheit^ 
Von  vrouden und hoch-geziten  Von  weinen undvon  chlagen, 
Von  chuner  rechen  striten  Muget  ir  nu  wunder  horen 
sagen. 

We  find  in  ancient  story,  Wonders  many  fold. 
Of  heroes  in  great  glory,  With  spirit  free  and  bold, 
Of  joyances,  and  high-tides.  Of  weeping  and  of  wo, 
Of  noble  Recken  striving,  Mote  ye  now  wonders  know. 


This  is  the  brief  artless  Proem ;  and  the  pro- 
mise contained  in  it  proceeds  directly  towards 
fulfilment.  In  the  very  second  stanza  we 
learn  : — 

Es  wilhs  in  Burgonden  FAn  vil  edel  magediUf 
Das  in  alien  landen  J^iht  sckoners  mohte  sin, 
Chriemhilt  was  si  gehein  Si  wart  ein  schdne  wip, 
Darumhe  milsen  degene  Vil  verliesen  den  lip. 

A  right  noble  maiden  Did  grow  in  Burgundy, 
That  in  all  lands  of  earth  Nought  fairer  mote  there  be  ; 
Chriemhild  of  Worms  she  hight,  She  was  a  fairest  wife  : 
For  the  which  must  warriors  A  many  lose  their  life.* 

Chriemhild,  this  world's-wonder,  a  king's 
daughter  and  king's  sister,  and  no  less  coy  and 
proud  than  fair,  dreams  one  night  that  "she 
had  petted  a  falcon,  strong,  beautiful,  and  wild; 
which  two  eagles  snatched  aAvay  from  her: 
this  she  was  forced  to  see ;  greater  sorrow  felt 
she  never  in  the  world."  Her  mother,  Ute,  to 
whom  she  relates  the  vision,  soon  redes  it  for 
her ;  the  falcon  is  a  noble  husband,  whom,  God 
keep  him,  she  must  suddenly  lose.  Chriemhild 
declares  warmly  for  the  single  state  ;  as  indeed, 
living  there  at  the  Court  of  Worms,  with  her 
brothers,  Gunther,  Gemot,  Geiselher,  "three 
kings  noble  and  rich,"  in  such  pomp  and  re- 
nown, the  pride  of  Burgunden-land  and  Earth., 
she  might  readily  enough  have  changed  for 
the  worse.  However,  dame  Ute  bids  her  not  be 
too  emphatical ;  for  "  if  ever  she  have  heart-felt 
joy  in  life,  it  will  be  from  man's  love,  and  she 
shall  be  a  fair  wife,  (wip),  when  God  sends  her 
a  right  worthy  Ritter's  lip^  Chriemhild  is  more 
in  earnest  than  maidens  usually  are  when  they 
talk  thus  ;  it  appears,  she  guarded  against  love 
"for  many  a  lief-long  day;"  nevertheless,  she 
too  must  yield  to  destiny.  "  Honourably  she 
was  to  become  a  most  noble  Ritter's  wife." 
"  This,"  adds  the  old  Singer,  "  was  that  same 
falcon  she  dreamed  of:  how  sorely  she  since 
revenged  him  on  her  nearest  kindred !  For  that 
one  death  died  full  many  a  mother's  son." 

It  may  be  observed  that  the  Poet,  here, 
and  all  times,  shows  a  marked  partiality  for 
Chriemhild;  ever  striving,  unlike  his  fellow 
singers,  to  magnify  her  worth,  her  faithfulness, 
and  loveliness ;  and  softening,  as  much  as  may 
be,  whatever  makes  against  her.  No  less  a 
favourite  with  him  is  Siegfried,  the  prompt, 
gay,  peaceably  fearless  hero  ;  to  whom,  in  the 
Second  Aventiure,  we  are  here  suddenly  intro- 
duced, at  Santen  (Xanten)  the  Court  of  Neth- 
erland;  whither,  to  his  glad  parents,  after 
achievements  (to  us  partially  known)  "of 
which  one  might  sing  and  tell  for  ever,"  that 
noble  prince  has  returned.  Much  as  he  has  done 
and  conquered,  he  is  but  just  arrived  at  man's 

*  This  is  the  first  of  a  thousand  instances,  in  which 
the  two  inseparables,  Wiv  and  Lip,  or  in  modern  tongne, 
Weib  and  Leih,  as  mentioned  above,  appear  together. 
From  these  two  opening  stanzas  of  the  JVibelungen  Lied, 
in  its  purest  form,  the  reader  may  obtain  some  idea  of 
the  versification  ;  it  runs  on  in  more  or  less  regular  Al- 
exandrines, with  a  caesural  pause  in  each,  where  the 
capital  letter  occurs ;  indeed,  the  lines  seem  originally 
to  have  been  divided  into  two  at  that  point,  for  some- 
times, as  in  Stanza  First,  the  middle  words  (niaren,  Inbe- 
bmren  ;  geziten,  stritev)  also  rhyme  ;  but  this  is  rather  a 
rare  case.  The  word  Rechen  or  Recken.  used  in  the  First 
Stanza,  is  the  constant  designation  for  bold  fighters,  and 
has  the  same  root  with  rich,  (thus  in  old  French,  hammes 
riches  ;  in  Spanish,  ricos  hombres,)  which  last  is  here  also 
synonymous  with  powerful,  and  is  applied  to  kings,  and 
even  to  the  Almighty,  Qat  dem  richen. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


251 


years :  it  is  on  occasion  of  this  joyful  event, 
that  a  high-tide  (hochgezit)  is  now  held  there, 
with  infinite  joustings,  minstrelsy,  largesses, 
and  other  chivalrous  doings,  all  which  is  sung 
with  utmost  heartiness.  The  old  King  Siege- 
mund  offers  to  resign  his  crown  to  him ;  but 
Siegfried  has  other  game  a-field:  the  un- 
paralleled beauty  of  Chriemhild  has  reached  his 
ear  and  his  fancy;  and  now  he  will  to  Worms, 
and  woo  her,  at  least  "  see  how  it  stands  with 
her."  Fruitless  is  it  for  Siegemund  and  the 
mother  Siegelinde  to  represent  the  perils  of  that 
enterprise,  the  pride  of  those  Burgundian 
Gunthers  and  Gemots,  the  fierce  temper  of  their 
uncle  Hagen  ;  Siegfried  is  as  obstinate  as  young 
men  are  in  these  cases,  and  can  hear  no  coun- 
sel. Nay,  he  will  not  accept  the  much  more 
liberal  proposition,  to  take  an  army  with  him, 
and  conquer  the  country,  if  it  must  be  so;  he 
will  ride  forth,  like  himself,  with  twelve  cham- 
pions only,  and  so  defy  the  future.  Where- 
upon, the  old  people  finding  that  there  is  no 
other  course,  proceed  to  make  him  clothes  ;* — 
at  least,  the  good  queen  with  "  her  fair  women 
sitting  night  and  day,"  and  sewing,  does  so,  the 
father  furnishing  noblest  battle  and  riding  gear; 
— and  so  dismiss  him  with  many  blessings  and 
lamentations.  "  For  him  wept  sore  the  king 
and  his  ivife,  but  he  comforted  both  their  bodies 
(lip) ;  he  said,  *  ye  must  not  weep,  for  my 
body  ever  shall  ye  be  without  care.' " 

Sad  was  it  to  the  Recken,  Stood  weeping  many  a  maid, 
I  ween,  their  heart  had  them  The  tidings  true  foresaid 
That  of  their  friends  so  many  Death  thereby  should  find  ; 
Cause  had  they  of  lamenting  Such  boding  in  their  mind. 

Nevertheless,  on  the  seventh  morning,  that 
adventurous  company  •*  ride  up  the  sand,"  (on 
the  Rhine  beach  to  Worms,)  in  high  temper, 
in  dress  and  trappings,  aspect  and  bearing, 
more  than  kingly. 

Siegfried's  reception  at  King  Gunther's  court, 
and  his  brave  sayings  and  doings  there  for 
some  time,  we  must  omit.  One  fine  trait  of 
his  chivalrous  delicacy  it  is  that,  for  a  whole 
year,  he  never  hints  at  his  errand;  never  once 
sees  or  speaks  of  Chriemhild,  whom,  neverthe- 
less, he  is  longing  day  and  night  to  meet.  She, 
on  her  side,  has  often  through  her  lattices 
noticed  the  gallant  stranger  victorious  in  all 
tiltings  and  knightly  exercises;  whereby  it 
would  seem,  in  spite  of  her  rigorous  predeter- 
minations, some  kindness  for  him  is  already 
gliding  in.  Meanwhile,  mighty  wars  and 
threats  of  invasion  arise,  and  Siegfried  does 
the  state  good  service.  Returning  victorious, 
both  as  general  and  soldier,  from  Hessen, 
(Hessia,)  where,  by  help  of  his  own  courage 
and  the  sword  Balmung,  he  has  captured  a 
Danish  King,  and  utterly  discomfited  a  Saxon 
one ;  he  can  now  show  himself  before  Chriem- 
hild without  other  blushes  than  those  of  timid 
love.  Nay,  the  maiden  has  herself  inquired 
pointedly  of  the  messengers,  touching  his  ex- 
ploits ;  and  "her  fair  face  grew  rose-red  when 
she  heard  them."  A  gay  High-tide,  by  way  of 
triumph,  is  appointed;  several  kings,  and  two- 
and-lhirty  princes,  and  knights  enough   with 


♦  This  is  a  never-failinir  preparative  for  all  expedi- 
tions, and  always  specified  and  insisted  on  with  a  simple, 
loving,  almost  female  impressiveness. 


"  gold-red  saddles,"  come  to  joust;  and  better 
than  whole  infinities  of  kings  and  princes  with 
their  saddles,  the  fair  Chriemhild  herself,  under 
guidance  of  her  mother,  chiefly  too  in  honour 
of  the  victor,  is  to  grace  that  sport.  "  Ute  the 
full  rich"  fails  not  to  set  her  needle-women  to 
work,  and  "  clothes  of  price  are  taken  from 
their  presses,"  for  the  love  of  her  child, "  where- 
with to  deck  many  women  and  maids."  And 
now,  "  on  the  Whitsun-morning,"  all  is  ready^ 
and  glorious  as  heart  could  desire  it;  brave 
Ritters  "  five  thousand  or  more,"  all  glancing 
in  the  lists ;  but  grander  still,  Chriemhild  her- 
self is  advancing  beside  her  mother,  with  a 
hundred  body-guards,  all  sword-in-hand  and 
many  a  noble  maid  "  wearing  rich  raiment,"  in 
her  train ! 

"  Now  issued  forth  the  lovely  one,  (minnech- 
liche,)  as  the  red  morning  doth  from  troubled 
clouds ;  much  care  fled  away  from  him,  who 
bore  her  in  his  heart,  and  long  had  done ;  he 
saw  the  lovely  one  stand  in  her  beauty. 

"There  glanced  from  her  garments  full 
many  precious  stones,  her  rose-red  colour 
shone  full  lovely ;  try  what  he  might,  each 
man  must  confess  that  in  this  world  he  had 
not  seen  aught  so  fair. 

"  Like  as  the  light  moon  stands  before  the 
stars,  and  its  sheen  so  clear  goes  over  the 
clouds,  even  so  stood  she  now  before  many 
fair  women ;  whereat  cheered  was  the  mind 
of  the  hero. 

"  The  rich  chamberlains  you  saw  go  before 
her,  the  high  spirited  Recken  would  not  for- 
bear, but  pressed  on  where  they  saw  the  lovely 
maiden.  Siegfried  the  lord  was  both  glad  and 
sad. 

"  He  thought  in  his  mind,  how  could  this  be 
that  I  should  woo  thee  ]  That  was  a  foolish 
dream ;  yet  must  I  for  ever  be  a  stranger,  I 
were  rather  (sanfter,  softer)  dead.  He  became 
from  these  thoughts,  in  quick  changes,  pale 
and  red. 

"Thus  stood  so  lovely  the  child  of  Siege- 
linde, as  if  he  were  limned  on  parchment  by 
a  master's  art;  for  all  granted  that  hero  so 
beautiful  they  had  never  seen." 

In  this  passage,  which  we  have  rendered, 
from  the  Fifth  Jventiure^  into  the  closest  prose, 
it  is  to  be  remarked,  among  other  singular- 
ities, that  there  are  two  similes:  in  which 
figure  of  speech  our  old  Singer  deals  very 
sparingly.  The  first,  that  comparison  of 
Chriemhild  to  the  moon  among  stars  with  its 
sheen  going  over  the  clouds,  has  now  for 
many  centuries  had  little  novelty  or  merit; 
but  the  second,  that  of  Siegfried  to  a  Figure 
in  some  illuminated  Manuscript,  is  graceful  in 
itself;  and  unspeakably  so  to  antiquaries,  sel- 
dom honoured,  in  their  Black-letter  stubbing 
and  grubbing,  with  such  a  poetic  windfall. 

A  prince  and  a  princess  of  this  quality  are 
clearly  made  for  one  another.  Nay,  on  the 
motion  of  young  Herr  Gemot,  fair  Chriemhild 
is  bid  specially  to  salute  Siegfried,  she  who 
had  never  before  saluted  man :  which  unpa- 
ralleled grace  the  lovely  one,  in  all  courtliness, 
openly  does  him.  "Be  welcome,"  said  she, 
"Herr  Siegfried,  a  noble  Ritter  good;"  from 
which  salute,  for  this  seems  to  have  been  all, 
"  much    raised  was  his   mind."    He  bowed 


S52 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


with  graceful  reverence,  as  his  manner  was 
with  women;  she  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
with  fond  stolen  glances,  they  looked  at  each 
other.  Whether  in  that  ceremonial  joining  of 
hands  there  might  not  be  some  soft,  slight 
pressure,  of  far  deeper  import,  is  what  our 
Singer  will  not  take  upon  him  to  say ;  how- 
ever, he  thinks  the  affirmative  more  probable. 
Henceforth,  in  that  bright  May  weather,  the 
two  were  seen  constantly  together :  nothing 
but  felicity  around  and  before  them. — In  these 
days,  truly,  it  must  have  been  that  the  famous 
Prize-fight  with  Dietrich  of  Bern  and  his  ele- 
ven Lombardy  champions,  took  place,  little  to 
the  profit  of  the  two  Lovers ;  were  it  not  ra- 
ther that  the  whole  of  that  Rose-garden  trans- 
action, as  given  in  the  Heldenbuch,  might  be 
falsified  and  even  imaginary;  for  no  mention 
or  hint  of  it  occurs  here.  War  or  battle  is 
not  heard  of;  Siegfried,  the  peerless,  walks 
wooingly  by  the  side  of  Chriemhild  the  peer- 
less :  matters,  it  is  evident,  are  in  the  best 
possible  course.    ^^ 

But  now  corals  a  new  side-wind,  which, 
however,  in  the  long  run  also  forwards  the 
voyage.  Tidings,  namely,  reached  over  the 
Rhine,  not  so  surprising  we  might  hope,  "  that 
there  was  many  a  fair  maiden  ;  "  whereupon 
Gunther  the  King  "  thought  with  himself  to 
win  one  of  them."  It  was  an  honest  purpose 
in  King  Gunther,  only  his  choice  was  not  the 
discreetest.  For  no  fair  maiden  will  content 
him  but  Queen  Brunhild,  a  lady  who  rules  in 
Isenland,  far  over  sea,  famed  indeed  for  her 
beauty,  yet  no  less  for  her  caprices.  Fables 
we  have  met  with  of  this  Brunhild  being  pro- 
perly a  Valkyr,  or  Scandinavian  Houri,  such 
as  were  wont  to  lead  old  northern  warriors 
from  their  last  battle  field,  into  Valhalla;  and 
that  her  castle  of  Isenstein  stood  amidst  a  lake 
of  fire ;  but  this,  as  we  said,  is  fable  and 
groundless  calumny,  of  which  there  is  not  so 
much  as  notice  taken  here.  Brunhild,  it  is 
plain  enough,  was  a  flesh-and-blood  maiden, 
glorious  in  look  and  faculty,  only  with  some 
preternatural  talents  given  her,  and  the  strang- 
est, wayward  habits.  It  appears,  for  example, 
that  any  suitor  proposing  for  her  has  this  brief 
condition  to  proceed  upon  :  he  must  try  the 
adorable  in  the  three  several  games  of  hurling 
the  Spear  (at  one  another).  Leaping,  and 
throwing  the  Stone ;  if  victorious,  he  gains 
her  hand;  if  vanquished,  he  loses  his  own 
head  ;  which  latter  issue,  such  is  the  fair 
Amazon's  strength,  frequent  fatal  experiment 
has  shown  to  be  the  only  probable  one. 

Siegfried,  who  knows  something  of  Burn- 
hild  and  her  ways,  votes  clearly  against  the 
whole  enterprise  ;  however,  Gunther  has  once 
for  all  got  the  whim  in  him,  and  must  see  it 
out.  The  prudent  Hagen  von  Toneg,  uncle  to 
love-sick  Gunther,  and  ever  true  to  him,  then 
advises  that  Siegfried  be  requested  to  take 
part  in  the  adventure ;  to  which  request  Sieg- 
fried readily  accedes  on  one  condition  ;  that 
should  they  prove  fortunate  he  himself  is  to 
have  Chriemhild  to  wife,  when  they  return. 
This  readily  settled,  he  now  takes  charge  of 
the  business,  and  throws  a  little  light  on  it  for 
the  others.  They  must  lead  no  army  thither, 
only  two,  Hagen  and  Dankwart,  besides  the 


king  and  himself,  shall  go.  The  grand  sub- 
ject of  waete*  (clothes)  is  next  hinted  at,  and 
in  general  terms  elucidated ;  whereupon  a  so- 
lemn consultation  with  Chriemhild  ensues; 
and  a  great  cutting  out,  on  her  part,  of  white 
silkfrom  Araby,  of  green  silk  from  Zazemang, 
of  strange  fish-skins  covered  with  morocco 
silk;  a  great  sewing  thereof  for  seven  weeks, 
on  the  part  of  her  maids ;  lastly  a  fitting-on 
of  the  three  suits  by  each  hero,  for  each  had 
three ;  and  heartiest  thanks  in  return,  seeing 
all  fitted  perfectly,  and  was  of  grace  and  price 
unutterable.  What  is  still  more  to  the  point, 
Siegfried  takes  his  Cloak  of  Darkness  with 
him,  fancying  he  may  need  it  there.  The 
good  old  Singer,  who  has  hitherto  alluded  only 
in  the  faintest  way  to  Siegfried's  prior  adven- 
tures and  miraculous  possessions,  introduces 
this  of  the  Tarnkappe  with  great  frankness 
and  simplicity.  "  Of  wild  dwarfs,  (getwargen,)" 
says  he,  "  I  have  heard  tell,  they  are  in  hollow 
mountains,  and  for  defence  wear  somewhat 
called  Tarnkappe,  of  wondrous  sort:"  the 
qualities  of  which  garment,  that  it  renders  in- 
visible, and  gives  twelve  men's  strength,  are 
already  known  to  us. 

The  voyage  to  Isenstein,  Siegfried  steering 
the  ship  thither,  is  happily  accomplished  in 
twenty  days.  Gunther  admires  to  a  high  de- 
gree the  fine  masonry  of  the  place ;  as  indeed 
he  well  might,  there  being  some  eighty-six 
towers,  three  immense  palaces,  and  one  im- 
mense hall,  the  whole  built  of  "  marble  green 
as  grass;"  farther  he  sees  many  fair  women 
looking  from  the  windows  down  on  the  bark, 
and  thinks  the  loveliest  is  she  in  the  snow- 
white  dress;  which,  Siegfried  informs  him,  is 
a  worthy  choice;  the  snow-white  maiden  being 
no  other  than  Brunhild.  It  is  also  to  be  kept 
in  mind  that  Siegfried,  for  reasons  known  best 
to  himself,  had  previously  stipulated  that, 
though  a  free  king,  they  should  all  treat  him 
as  vassal  of  Gunther;  for  whom  accordingly 
he  holds  the  stirrup,  as  they  mount  on  the 
beach ;  thereby  giving  rise  to  a  misconception, 
which  in  the  end  led  to  saddest  consequences. 

Queen  Brunhild,  who  had  called  back  her 
maidens  from  the  windows,  being  a  strict  dis- 
ciplinarian, and  retired  into  the  interior  of  her 
green  marble  Isenstein,  to  dress  still  better, 
now  inquires  of  some  attendant.  Who  these 
strangers  of  such  lordly  aspect  are,  and  what 
brings  them.  The  attendant  professes  himself 
at  a  loss  to  say ;  one  of  them  looks  like  Sieg- 
fried, the  other  is  evidently  by  his  port  a  noble 
king.  His  notice  of  Von  Troneg  Hagen  is 
peculiarly  vivid. 

The  third  of  those  companions,  He  is  of  aspect  stern. 

And  yet  with  lovely  body,  Rich  queen,  as  ye  might  dis- 
cern; 

From  those  his  rapid  glances.  For  the  eyes  nought  rest 
in  him, 

Meseems  this  foreign  Recke  Is  of  temper  fierce  and 
grim. 

This  is  one  of  those  little  graphic  touches* 
scattered  all  over  our  Poem,  which  do  more 
for  picturing  out  an  object,  especially  a  man, 
than  whole  pages  of  enumeration  and  mensura- 
tion.    Never  after  do  we  hear  of  this  stout,  in- 


*  Hence  our  English  weeds,  and  Scotch  wad  (pledge) 
and,  say  the  etymologists,  wadding,  and  even  wedding. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


253 


domitable  Hagen',  in  all  the  wild  deeds  and 
sufferings  he  passes  through,  but  those  swindcn 
blicken  of  his  come  before  us,  with  the  rest- 
less, deep,  dauntless  spirit  that  looks  through 
them. 

Brunhild's  reception  of  Siegfried  is  not  with- 
out tartness;  which,  however,  he,  with  polished 
courtesy,  and  the  nimblest  address,  ever  at  his 
command,  softens  down,  or  hurries  over:  he 
is  here,  without  will  of  his  own,  and  so  forth, 
only  as  attendant  on  his  master,  the  renowned 
King  Gunther,  who  comes  to  sue  for  her  hand, 
as  the  summit  and  keystone  of  all  earthly 
blessings.  Brunhild,  who  had  determined  on 
fighting  Siegfried  himself,  if  he  so  willed  it, 
makes  small  account  of  this  King  Gunther,  or 
his  prowess ;  and  instantly  clears  the  ground, 
and  equips  her  for  battle.  The  royal  wooer 
mu5t  have  looked  a  little  blank  when  he  saw  a 
shield  brought  in  for  his  fair  one's  handling, 
"  three  spans  thick  with  gold  and  iron,"  which 
four  chamberlains  could  hardly  bear,  and  a 
spear  or  javelin  she  meant  to  shoot  or  hurl, 
which  was  a  burden  for  three.  Hagen,  in  angry 
apprehension  for  his  king  and  nephew,  ex- 
claims that  they  shall  all  lose  their  life,  (lip,) 
and  that  she  is  the  tiuvels  wip,  or  Devil's  wife. 
Nevertheless  Siegfried  is  already  there  in  his 
Cloak  of  Darkness,  twelve  men  strong,  and 
privily  whispers  in  the  ear  of  royalty  to  be  of 
comfort ;  takes  the  shield  to  himself,  Gunther 
only  affecting  to  hold  it,  and  so  fronts  the  edge 
of  battle.  Brunhild  performs  prodigies  of 
spear-hurling,  of  leaping,  and  stone-pitching  ; 
but  Gunther,  or  rather  Siegfried,  "who  does 
the  work,  he  only  acting  the  gestures,"  nay, 
who  even  snatches  him  up  into  the  air  and 
leaps  carrying  him, — gains  a  decided  victory, 
and  the  lovely  Amazon  must  own  with  sur- 
prise and  shame,  that  she  is  fairly  won. 
Siegfried  presently  appears  without  Tarnkappe, 
and  asks  with  a  grave  face,  When  the  games 
then  are  to  begin  1 

So  far  well;  yet  somewhat  still  remains  to 
be  done.  Brunhild  will  not  sail  for  Worms, 
to  be  wedded,  till  she  have  assembled  a  fit 
train  of  warriors:  wherein  the  Burgundians, 
being  here  without  retinue,  see  symptoms  or 
possibilities  of  mischief.  The  deft  Siegfried, 
ablest  of  men,  again  knows  a  resource.  In 
his  Tarnkappe  he  steps  on  board  the  bark, 
which,  seen  from  the  shore,  appears  to  drift  off 
of  its  own  accord  ;  and  therein,  stoutly  steering 
towards  Nibelv/ngen-land,  he  reaches  that  mys- 
terious country  and  the  mountain  where  his 
Hoard  lies,  before  the  second  morning;  finds 
Dwarf  Alberich  and  all  his  giant  sentinels  at 
their  post,  and  faithful  almost  to  the  death ; 
these  soon  rouse  him  thirty  thousand  Nibelun- 
gen  Recken,  from  whom  he  has  only  to  choose 
one  thousand  of  the  best;  equip  them  splen- 
didly enough  ;  and  therewith  return  to  Gunther, 
simply  as  if  they  were  that  sovereign's  own 
body-guard,  that  had  been  delayed  a  little  by 
stress  of  weather. 

The  final  arrival  at  Worms ;  the  bridal 
feasts,  for  there  are  two,  Siegfried  also  receiv- 
ing his  reward;  and  the  joyance  and  splendour 
of  man  and  maid,  at  this  lordliest  of  hightides ; 
and  the  joustings,  greater  than  those  at  Aspra- 
njont  or  Montauban — every  reader  can  fancy 


for  himself.  Remarkable  only  is  the  evil  eye 
with  which  queen  Brunhild  still  continues  to 
regard  the  noble  Siegfried.  She  cannot  under- 
stand how  Gunther,  the  Landlord  of  the  Rhine,* 
should  have  bestowed  his  sister  on  a  vassal : 
the  assurance  that  Siegfried  also  is  a  prince 
and  heir-apparent,  the  prince  namely  of  Ne- 
therland,  and  little  inferior  to  Burgundian 
majesty  itself,  yields  no  complete  satisfaction; 
and  Brunhild  hints  plainly  that,  unless  the 
truth  be  told  her,  unpleasant  consequences 
may  follow.  I  Thus  is  there  ever  a  ravelled 
thread  in  the  web  of  life !  But  for  this  little 
cloud  of  spleen,  these  bridal  feasts  had  been 
all  bright  and  balmy  as  the  month  of  June. 
Unluckily,  too,  the  cloud  is  an  electric  one; 
spreads  itself  in  time  into  a  general  earth- 
quake; nay,  that  very  night  becomes  a  thun- 
der-storm, or  tornado,  unparalleled  we  may 
hope  in  the  annals  of  connubial  happiness. 

The  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen,  unlike  the  Au- 
thor of  Roderick  Random,  cares  little  for  inter- 
meddling with  "  the  chaste  mysteries  of 
hymen."  Could  we,  in  the  corrupt,  ambigu- 
ous, modern  tongue,  hope  to  exhibit  any  sha- 
dow of  the  old,  simple,  true-hearted,  merely 
historical  spirit,  with  which,  in  perfect  purity 
of  soul,  he  describes  things  unattempted  yet  in 
prose  or  rhyme, — we  could  a  tale  unfold! 
Suffice  it  to  say,  King  Gunther,  Landlord  of 
the  Rhine,  falling  sheer  down  from  the  third 
heaven  of  hope,  finds  his  spouse  the  most 
athletic  and  intractable  of  women ;  and  him- 
self, at  the  close  of  the  adventure,  nowise 
encircled  in  her  arms,  but  tied  hard  and  fast, 
hand  and  foot,  in  her  girdle,  and  hung  thereby, 
at  considerable  elevation,  on  a  nail  in  the  wall. 
Let  any  reader  of  sensibility  figure  the  emo- 
tions of  the  royal  breast,  there  as  he  vibrates 
suspended  on  his  peg,  and  his  inexorable  bride 
sleeping  sound  in  her  bed  below !  Towards 
morning  he  capitulates;  engaging  to  observe 
the  prescribed  line  of  conduct  with  utmost 
strictness,  so  he  may  but  avoid  becoming  a 
laughing-stock  to  all  men. 

No  wonder  the  dread  king  looked  rather 
grave  next  morning,  and  received  the  con- 
gratulations of  mankind  in  a  cold  manner. 
He  confesses  to  Siegfried,  who  partly  suspects 
how  it  may  be,  that  he  has  brought  the  "  evil 
devil"  home  to  his  house  in  the  shape  of  wife, 
whereby  he  is  wretched  enough.  However, 
there  are  remedies  for  all  things  but  death. 
The  ever-serviceable  Siegfried  undertakes 
even  -here  to  make  the  crooked  straight.  What 
may  not  an  honest  friend  with  Tarnkappe  and 
twelve  men's  strength  perform?  Proud  Brun- 
hild, next  night,  after  a  fierce  contest,  owns 
herself  again  vanquished ;  Gunther  is  there  to 
reap  the  fruits  of  another's  victory;  the  noble 
Siegfried  withdraws,  taking  nothing  with  him 
but  the  luxury  of  doing  good,  and  the  proud 
queen's  Ring  and  Girdle  gained  from  her  in 
that  struggle;  which  small  trophies  he,  with 
the  last  infirmity  of  a  noble  mind,  presents  to 
his  own  fond  wife,  little  dreaming  that  they 
would  one  day  cost  him  and  her,  and  all  of 


*  Der  Wirt  vom  Rive :  singular  enough  the  word  Wirth, 
often  applied  to  royalty  in  that  old  dialect,  is  now  also 
the  title  of  innkeepers.  To  such  base  uses  may  we 
come. 

y 


S54 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


them,  so  dear.  Such  readers  as  take  any  in- 
terest in  poor  Gunther  will  be  gratified  to  learn, 
that  from  this  hour  Brunhild's  preternatural 
faculties  quite  left  her,  being  all  dependent  on 
her  maidhood ;  so  that  any  more  spear-hurling, 
or  other  the  like  extraordinary  work,  is  not  to 
be  apprehended  from  her. 

If  we  add  that  Siegfried  formally  made  over 
to  his  dear  Chriemhild  the  Nibelungen  Hoard, 
byway  of  Morgengabe,  (or,  as  we  may  say.  Join- 
ture ;)  and  the  high-tide,  though  not  the  honey- 
moon being  past,  returned  to  Netherland  with 
his  spouse,  to  be  welcomed  there  with  infinite 
rejoicings, — we  have  gone  through  as  it  were 
the  First  Act  of  this  Tragedy,  and  may  here 
pause  to  look  round  us  for  a  moment.  The 
main  characters  are  now  introduced  on  the 
scene,  the  relations  that  bind  them  together  are 
dimly  sketched  out:  there  is  the  prompt,  cheer- 
fully heroic,  invulnerable,  and  invincible  Sieg- 
fried, now  happiest  of  men;  the  high  Chriem- 
hild, fitly-mated,  and  if  a  moon,  revolving  glo- 
rious round  her  s\in,ovFriedel(ioy  and  darling); 
not  without  pride  and  female  aspirings,  yet  not 
prouder  than  one  so  gifted  and  placed  is 
pardonable  for  being.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
have  King  Gunther,  or  rather  let  us  say  king's- 
mantle  Gunther,  for  never  except  in  that  one 
enterprise  of  courting  Brunhild,  in  which  too, 
without  help,  he  would  have  cut  so  poor  a 
figure,  does  the  worthy  sovereign  show  will 
of  his  own,  or  character  other  than  that  of 
good  potter's  clay;  farther,  the  suspicious,  fore- 
casting, yet  stout  and  reckless  Hagen,  him 
with  the  rapid  glances,  and  these  turned  not  too 
kindly  on  Siegfried,  whose  prowess  he  has 
used  yet  dreads,  whose  Nibelungen  Hoard  he 
perhaps  already  covets ;  lastly,  the  rigorous  and 
vigorous  Brunhild,  of  whom  also  more  is  to  be 
feared  than  hoped.  Considering  the  fierce 
nature  of  these  now  mingled  ingredients,  and 
how,  except  perhaps  in  the  case  of  Gunther 
there  is  no  menstruum  of  placid  stupidity  to 
soften  them,  except  in  Siegfried,  no  element  of 
heroic  truth  to  master  them  and  bind  them  to- 
gether,— unquiet  fermentation  may  readily  be 
apprehended. 

Meanwhile,  for  a  season  all  is  peace  and 
sunshine.  Siegfried  reigns  in  Netherland,  of 
which  his  father  has  surrendered  him  the 
crown  ;  Chriemhild  brings  him  a  son,  whom 
in  honour  of  the  uncle  he  christens  Gunther, 
which  courtesy  the  uncle  and  Brunhild  repay 
in  kind.  The  Nibelungen  Hoard  is  still  open 
and  inexhaustible;  Dwarf  Alberich  and  all  the 
Recken  there  still  loyal ;  outward  relations 
friendly,  internal  supremely  prosperous  :  these 
are  halcyon  days.  But,  alas,  they  cannot  last. 
Queen  Brunhild,  retaining  with  true  female 
tenacity  her  first  notion,  right  or  wrong,  re- 
jects one  day  that  Siegfried,  who  is  and  shall 
be  nothing  but  her  husband's  vassal,  has  for  a 
long  while  paid  him  no  service ;  and,  deter- 
mined on  a  remedy,  manages  that  Siegfried 
and  his  queen  shall  be  invited  to  a  high-tide 
at  Worms,  where  opportunity  may  chance  for 
enforcing  that  claim.  Thither  accordingly, 
after  ten  years'  absence,  we  find  these  illustri- 
ous guests  returning;  Siegfried  escorted  by  a 
thousand  Nibelungen  Ritters,  and  farther  by 
his  father  Siegemund,  who  leads  a  train  of 


Netherlanders.  Here  for  eleven  days,  amid 
infinite  joustings,  there  is  a  true  heaven  on 
earth:  but  ihe  apple  of  Discord  is  already 
lying  in  the  knightly  ring,  and  two  Women, 
the  proudest  and  keenest-tempered  of  the 
world,  simultaneously  stoop  to  lift  it.  Aventiure 
Fourteenth  is  entitled  "  How  the  two  queens 
rated  one  another."  Never  was  courtlier 
Billingsgate  uttered,  or  which  came  more 
directly  home  to  the  business  and  bosoms  of 
women.  The  subject  is  that  old  story  of  Pre- 
cedence, which  indeed,  from  the  time  of  Cain 
and  Abel  downwards,  has  wrought  such  effu- 
sion of  blood  and  bile  both  among  men  and  wo- 
men; lying  at  the  bottom  of  all  armaments  and 
battle-fields,  whether  Blenheims  and  Water- 
loos,  or  any  plate-displays,  and  tongue-and 
eye  skirmishes,  in  the  circle  of  domestic  Tea: 
nay,  the  very  animals  have  it ;  and  horses, 
were  they  but  the  miserablest  Shelties  and 
Welsh  ponies,  will  not  graze  together  till  it  has 
been  ascertained,  by  clear  fight,  who  is  master 
of  whom,  and  a  proper  drawing-room  etiquette 
established. 

Brunhild  and  Chriemhild  take  to  arguing 
about  the  merits  of  their  husbands:  the  latter 
fondly  expatiating  on  the  pre-eminence  of  her 
Friedel,  how  he  walks  "  like  the  moon  among 
stars  "  before  all  other  men,  is  reminded  by 
her  sister  that  one  man  at  least  must  be  ex- 
cepted, the  mighty  king  Gunther  of  Worms,  to 
whom,  by  his  own  confession  long  ago  at 
Isenstein,  he  is  vassal  and  servant.  Chriemhild 
will  sooner  admit  that  clay  is  above  sunbeams, 
than  any  such  proposition  ;  which  therefore 
she,  in  all  politeness,  requests  of  her  sister 
never  more  to  touch  upon  while  she  lives. 
The  result  may  be  foreseen  :  rejoinder  follows 
reply,  statement  grows  assertion  ;  flint-sparks 
have  fallen  on  the  dry  flax,  which  from  smoke 
bursts  into  conflagration.  The  two  queens  part 
in  hottest,  though  still  clear-flaming  anger. 
Not,  however,  to  let  their  anger  burn  out,  only 
to  feed  it  with  more  solid  fuel.  Chriemhild 
dresses  her  forty  maids  in  finer  than  royal  ap- 
parel; orders  out  all  her  husband's  Recken; 
and  so  attended,  walks  foremost  to  the  Minster, 
where  mass  is  to  be  said ;  thus  practically  assert- 
ing that  she  is  not  only  a  true  queen,  but  the 
worthier  of  the  two.  Brunhild,  quite  outdone 
in  splendour,  and  enraged  beyond  all  patience, 
overtakes  her  at  the  door  of  the  Minster,  with 
peremptory  order  to  stop  :  "  before  king's  wife 
shall  vassal's  never  §o." 

Then  said  the  fair  Chriemhilde,  Right  angry  was  her 

mood : 
"  Couldest  thou  but  hold  thy  peace,  It  were  surely  for 

thy  good, 
Thyself  hast  all  polluted  With  shame  thy  fair  bodye ; 
How  can  a  Concubine  By  right  a  King's  wife  be  1" 

"Whom   hast  thou  Concubined?"     The  King's  wife 

quickly  spake ; 
"  That  do  I  thee,"  said  Chriemhilde ;  "  For  thy  pride  and 

vaunting's  sake  ; 
Who  first  had  thy  fair  body  Was  Siegfried  my  beloved 

Man  ; 
My  brother  was  it  not  That  thy  maidhood  from  thee  wan." 

In  proof  of  which  outrageous  saying,  she  pro- 
duces that  Ring  and  Girdle  ;  the  innocent  con- 
quest of  which,  as  we  well  know,  had  a  far  other 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


255 


origin.    Brunhild  bursts  into  tears  ;   "  sadder  I 
day  she  never  saw."  Nay,  perhaps  a  new  light 
now  rose  on  her  over  much   that  had  been 
dark  in  her  late  history ;  "  she  rued  full  sore 
that  ever  she  was  born." 

Here,  then,  is  the  black  injury,  which  only 
blood  will  wash  away.  The  evil  fiend  has 
begun  his  work ;  and  the  issue  of  it  lies  be- 
yond man's  control.  Siegfried  may  protest 
his  innocence  of  that  calumny,  and  chastise 
his  indiscreet  spouse  for  uttering  it  even  in 
the  heat  of  anger:  the  female  heart  is  wounded 
beyond  healing  ;  the  old  springs  of  bitterness 
against  this  hero  unite  into  a  fell  flood  of  hate; 
while  he  sees  the  sunlight,  she  cannot  know  a 
joyful  hour.  Vengeance  is  soon  offered  her : 
Hagen,  who  lives  only  for  his  prince,  under- 
takes this  bad  service ;  by  treacherous  profes- 
sions of  attachment,  and  anxiety  to  guard 
Siegfried's  life,  he  gains  from  Chriemhild  the 
secret  of  his  vulnerability  ;  Siegfried  is  carried 
out  to  hunt ;  and  in  the  hour  of  frankest  gayety 
is  stabbed  through  the  fatal  spot;  and,  felling 
the  murderer  to  the  ground,  dies  upbraiding 
his  false  kindred,  yet,  with  a  touching  sim- 
plicity, recommending  his  child  and  wife  to 
their  protection.  "  Let  her  feel  that  she  is  your 
sister ;  was  there  ever  virtue  in  princes,  be 
true  to  her :  for  me  my  Father  and  my  men 
shall  long  wait."  "  The  flowers  all  round 
were  wetted  with  blood,  then  he  struggled  with 
death ;  not  long  did  he  this,  the  weapon  cut 
him  too  keen  ;  so  he  could  speak  naught  more., 
the  Recke  bold  and  noble." 

At  this  point,  we  might  say,  ends  the  Third 
Act  of  our  Tragedy ;  the  whole  story  hence- 
forth takes  a  darker  character;  it  is  as  if  a 
tone  of  sorrow  and  fateful  boding  became  more 
and  more  audible  in  its  free,  light  music.  Evil 
has  produced  new  evil  in  fatal  augmentation : 
injury  is  abolished ;  but  in  its  stead  there  is 
guilt  and  despair.  Chriemhild,  an  hour  ago  so 
rich,  is  now  robbed  of  all:  her  grief  is  bound- 
less as  her  love  has  been.  No  glad  thought 
can  ever  more  dwell  in  her;  darkness,  utter 
night,  has  come  over  her,  as  she  looked  into 
the  red  of  morning.  The  spoiler  too  walks 
abroad  unpunished ;  the  bleeding  corpse  wit- 
nesses against  Hagen,  nay  he  himself  cares 
not  to  hide  the  deed.  But  who  is  there  to 
avenge  the  friendless  1  Siegfried's  father  has 
returned  in  haste  to  his  own  land;  Chriemhild 
is  now  alone  on  the  earth,  her  husband's  grave 
is  all  that  remains  to  her;  there  only  can  she 
sit,  as  if  waiting  at  the  threshold  of  her  own 
dark  home;  and  in  prayers  and  tears,  pour  out 
the  sorrow  and  love  that  have  no  end.  Still 
farther  injuries  are  heaped  on  her:  by  advice 
of  the  crafty  Hagen,  Gunther,  who  had  not 
planned  the  murder,  yet  permitted  and  wit- 
nessed it,  now  comes  with  whining  professions 
of  repentance  and  good-will ;  persuades  her  to 
send  for  the  Nibelungen  Hoard  to  Worms  : 
where  no  sooner  is  it  arrived,  than  Hagen  and 
the  rest  forcibly  take  it  from  her;  and  her  last 
trust  in  aflJection  or  truth  from  mortal  is  rudely 
cut  away.  Bent  to  the  earth,  she  weeps  only 
for  her  lost  Siegfried,  knows  no  comfort,  but 
will  weep  for  ever. 

One  lurid  gleam  of  hope,  after  long  years  of 
darkness,  breaks  in  on  her,  in  the  prospect  of 


revenge.  King  Etzel  sends  from  his  far  country 
to  solicit  her  hand :  the  embassy  she  hears  at 
first,  as  a  woman  of  ice  might  do;  the  good 
Rudiger,  Etzel's  spokesman,  pleads  in  vain 
that  his  king  is  the  richest  of  all  earthly  kings; 
that  he  is  so  lonely  "since  Frau  Helke  died;" 
that  though  a  Heathen  he  has  Christians  about 
him,  and  may  one  day  be  converted:  till,  at 
length,  when  he  hints  distantly  at  the  power  of 
Etzel  to  avenge  her  injuries,  she  on  a  sudden 
becomes  all  attention.  Hagen,  foreseeing  such 
possibilities,  protests  against  the  match ;  but 
is  overruled:  Chriemhild  departs  with  Rudiger 
for  the  land  of  the  Huns;  taking  cold  leave  of 
her  relations  ;  only  two  of  whom,  her  brothers 
Gemot  and  Geiselher,  innocent  of  that  murder, 
does  she  admit  near  her  as  convoy  to  the 
Donau. 

The  Nibelungen  Hoard  has  hitherto  been 
fatal  to  all  its  possessors ;  to  the  two  sons  of 
Nibeiung;  to  Siegfried  its  conqueror:  neither 
does  the  Burgundian  Royal  House  fare  better 
with  it.  Already,  discords  threatening  to 
arise,  Hagen  sees  prudent  to  sink  it  in  the 
Rhine;  first  taking  oath  of  Gunther  and  his 
brothers,  that  none  of  them  shall  reveal  the 
hiding-place,  while  any  of  the  rest  is  alive. 
But  the  curse  that  clave  to  it  could  not  be 
sunk  there.  The  Nibelungen-land  is  now 
theirs  :  they  themselves  are  henceforth  called 
Nibelungen  ;  and  this  history  of  their  fate  is 
the  Nibelungen  Song,  or  Nibelungen  Noth, 
(Nibelungen's  Need,  extreme  need,  or  final 
wreck  and  abolition.) 

The  Fifth  Act  of  our  strange  eventful  history 
now  draws  on.  Chriemhild  has  a  kind  husband, 
of  hospitable  disposition,  who  troubles  himself 
little  about  her  secret  feelings  and  intents. 
With  his  permission,  she  sends  two  minstrels, 
inviting  the  Burgundian  Court  to  a  high-tide, 
at  Etzel's:  she  has  charged  the  messengers  to 
say  that  she  is  happy,  and  to  bring  all  Gun- 
ther's  champions  with  them.  Her  eye  was  on 
Hagen,  but  she  could  not  single  him  from  the 
rest.  After  seven  days'  deliberation,  Gunther 
answers  that  he  will  come.  Hagen  has  loudly 
dissuaded  the  journey,  but  again  been  over- 
ruled. "It  is  his  fate>"  says  a  commentator, 
"  like  Cassandra's,  ever  to  foresee  the  evil, 
and  ever  to  be  disregarded.  He  himself  shut 
his  ear  against  the  inward  voice;  and  now  his 
warnings  are  uttered  to  the  deaf."  He  argues 
long,  but  in  vain  :  nay,  young  Gemot  hints  at 
last  that  this  aversion  originates  in  personal 
fear: 

Then  spake  Von  Troneg  Hagen  :  "  Nowise  is  it  through 

fear; 
So  you  command  it.  Heroes,  Then  up,  gird  on  your  gear  ; 
1  ride  with  you  the  foremost  Into  King  Etzel's  land." 
Since  then  full  many  a  helm  Was  shivered  by  his  hand. 

Frau  Ute's  dreams  and  omens  are  now  una- 
vailing with  him;  "whoso  heedeth  dreams,'* 
said  Hagen,  "of  the  right  story  wotteih  not:'* 
he  has  computed  the  worst  issue,  and  defied  iu 
Many  a  little  touch  of  pathos,  and  even 
solemn  beauty  lies  carelessly  scattered  in  these 
rhymes,  had  we  space  to  exhibit  such  here. 
As  specimen  of  a  strange,  winding,  diffuse, 
yet  innocently  graceful  style  of  narrative,  we 
had  translated  some  considerable  portion  of 
this  Twenty-fifth  Jventiurc,  "  How  the  Nibelun- 


256 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


gen  marched  (fared)  to  the  Huns,"  into  verses 
as  literal  as  might  be ;  which  now,  alas,  look- 
mournfully  different  from  the  original ;  almost 
like  Scriblerus's  shield  when  the  barbarian 
housemaid  had  scoured  it.  Nevertheless,  to 
do  for  the  reader  what  we  can,  let  somewhat 
of  that  modernized  ware,  such  as  it  is,  be  set 
before  him.  The  brave  Nibelungen  are  on  the 
eve  of  departure  ;  and  about  ferrying  over  the 
Rhine  ;  and  here  it  may  be  noted  that  Worms,* 
with  our  old  Singer,  lies  not  in  its  true  posi- 
tion, but  at  some  distance  from  the  river;  a 
proof  at  least  that  he  was  never  there,  and 
probably  sang  and  lived  in  some  very  distant 
region : 

The  boats  were  floating  ready,  And  many  men  there 

were; 
What  clothes  of  price  they  had  They  took  and  stow'd 

them  there, 
Was  never  a  rest  from  toiling  Until  the  even  tide, 
Then  they  took  the  flood  right  gaily,  Would  longer  not 

abide. 

Brave  tents  and  hutches  You  saw  raised  on  the  grass, 
Other  side  the  Rhine-stream  That  camp  it  pitched  was  : 
The  king  to  stay  a  while   Was  besought  of  his  fair 

wife  ; 
That  night  she  saw  him  with  her,  And  never  more  in  life. 

Trumpets  and  flutes  spoke  out,  At  dawning  of  the  day, 
That  time  was  come  for  parting,  So  they  rose  to  march 

away: 
Who  loved-one  had  in  arms  Did  kiss  that  same,  I  ween  ; 
And  fond  farewells  were  bidden   By  cause  of  Etzel's 

Queen. 

Frau  Ute's  noble  sons  They  had  a  serving  man, 
A  brave  one  and  a  true  :  Or  ever  the  march  began, 
He  speaketh  to  King  Gunther,  What  for  his  ear  was  fit, 
He  said  :  "  Wo  for  this  journey,  I  grieve  because  of  it." 


*  This  City  of  Worms,  had  we  a  right  imagination, 
ought  to  be  as  venerable  to  us  Moderns,  as  any  Thebes 
or  Troy  was  to  the  Ancients.  Whether  founded  by  the 
Gods  or  not,  it  is  of  quite  unknown  antiquity,  and  has 
witnessed  the  most  wonderful  things.  Within  authentic 
times,  the  Romans  were  here,  and  if  tradition  may  be 
credited,  Attila  also  ;  it  was  the  seat  of  the  Austrasian 
kings  ;  the  frequent  residence  of  Charlemagne  himself; 
innumerable  Festivals,  Hightides,  Tournaments,  and 
Imperial  Diets  were  held  in  it,  of  which  latter,  one  at 
least,  that  where  Luther  appeared  in  I.')21,  will  be  for 
ever  remembered  by  all  mankind.  Nor  is  Worms  more 
famous  in  history  than,  as  indeed  we  may  see  here,  it  is 
in  romance  ;  whereof  many  monuments  and  vestiges 
remain  to  this  day.  "A  pleasant  meadow  there,"  says 
Von  der  Hafren,  "  is  still  called  Chriemhild's  Rosencrarten. 
The  name  Worms  itself  is  derived  (by  Legendary  Etymo- 
logy) from  the  Dragon,  or  Worm,  which  Siegfried  slew, 
the  figure  of  which  once  formed  the  City  Arms  ;  in  past 
times,  there  was  also  to  be  seen  here  an  ancient  strong 
Riesen-IIaus,  (Giant's  house,)  and  many  a  memorial  of 
Siegfried  :  his  Lance,  66  feet  long,  (almost  80  English 
feet,)  in  the  Cathedral ;  his  Statue,  of  gigantic  size  on 
the  JVeue  Thurm  (New  Tower)  on  the  Rhine  ;"  &c.  &c. 
"And  lastly  the  Siegfried's  Chapel,  in  primeval  Pre- 
Gothic  architecture,  not  long  since  pulled  down.  In  the 
time  of  the  Meistersdngers,  too,  the  Stadtrath  was 
bound  to  give  every  Master,  who  sang  the  Lay  of  Sieg- 
fried (JUeisterlied  von  Siegfrieden,  the  purport  of  which  is 
now  unknown)  without  mistake,  a  certain  gratuity." — 
Glossary  to  the  J^ihelungen,  $  Worms. 

One  is  sorry  to  learn  that  this  famed  Imperial  City  is 
no  longer  Imperial,  but  much  fallen  in  every  way  from 
its  palmy  state  ;  the  30,000  inhabitants  (to  be  found  there 
in  Gustavus  Adolphus's  time)  having  now  declined  into 
some  6.800, — "  who  maintain  themselves  by  wine-grow- 
ing, Rhine-boats,  tobacco-manufacture,  and  making 
sugar-of-lead."  So  hard  has  war,  which  respects  no- 
thing, pressed  on  Worms,  ill-placed  for  safety,  on  the 
hostile  border  :  Louvois,  or  Louis  XIV.,  in  1689,  had  it 
utterly  devastated;  whereby  in  the  interior,  "spaces 
that  were  once  covered  with  buildings  are  now  gar- 
'dens." — See  Conv.  Lexicon,  $  Worms. 


He  Rumold  hight,  the  Sewer,  Was  known  as  hero  true  ; 
He  spake  :  "  Whom  shall  his  people  And  land  be  trusted 

tol 
Wo  on't,  will  nought  persuade  ye,  Brave  Recken,  from 

this  road ! 
Frau  Chriemhild's  flattering  message  No  good  doth  seem 

to  bode." 

"  The  land  to  thee  be  trusted,  And  my  fair  boy  also. 
And  serve  thou  well  the  women,  I  tell  thee  ere  I  go, 
Whomso  thou  findest  weeping  Her  heart  give  comfort  to : 
No  harm  to  one  of  us  King  Etzel's  wife  will  do." 

The  steeds  were  standing  ready,  For  the  Kings  and  for 

their  men  ; 
With  kisses  tenderest.  Took  leave  full  many  then, 
Who,  in  gallant  cheer  and  hope.  To  march  were  nought 

afraid ! 
Them  since  that  day  bewaileth  Many  a  noble  wife  and 

maid. 

But  when  the  rapid  Recken  Took  horse  and  prickt  away, 
The  women  shent  in  sorrow  You  saw  behind  them  stay ; 
Of  parting  all  too  long  Their  hearts  to  them  did  tell  ; 
When  grief  so  great  is  coming,  The  mind  forebodes  not 
well. 

Nathless  the  brisk  Burgonden  All  on  their  way  did  go. 
Then  rose  the  country  over  A  mickle  dole  and  wo  ; 
On  both  sides  of  the  hills,  Woman  and  man  did  weep  : 
Let  their  folk  do  how  they  list,  These  gay  their  course 
did  keep. 

The  Nibelungen  Recken*  Did  march  with  them  as  well, 
In  a  thousand  glittering  hauberks,  Who  at  home  had 

ta'en  farewell 
Of  many  a  fair  woman  Should  see  them  never  more  : 
The  wound  of  her  brave  Siegfried  Did  grieve  Chriem- 

hilde  sore. 

Then  'gan  they  shape  their  journey  Towards  the  River 

Maine, 
All  on  through  East-Franconia,  King  Gunther  and  his 

train  : 
Hagen  he  was  their  leader.  Of  old  did  know  the  way, 
Dankwart  did  keep,  as  marshal,  their  ranks  in  good 

array. 

As  they,  from  East-Franconia,  The  Salfield  rode  along, 
Might  you  have  seen  them  prancing,  A  bright  and  lordly 

throng. 
The  Princes  and  their  vassals,  All  heroes  of  great  fame  : 
The  twelfth  morn  brave  king  Gunther  Unto  the  Donau 

came. 

There  rode  Von  Troneg  Hagen,  The  foremost  of  that 

host. 
He  was  to  the  Nibelungen  The  guide  they  loved  the  most : 
The  Ritter  keen  dismounted,  Set  foot  on  the  sandy  ground, 
His  steied  to  a  tree  he  tied,  Look'd  wistful  all  around. 

"Much  Bcaith,"  Von  Troneg  said,  " May  lightly  chance 

to  thee, 
King  Gunther,  by  this  tide.  As  thou  with  eyes  mayst  see  : 
The  river  is  overflowing,  Full  strong  runs  here  its  stream, 
For  crossing  of  this  Donau  Some  counsel  might  well  be- 
seem." 

"  What  counsel  hast  thou,  brave  Hagen,"  King  Gunther 

then  did  say, 
Of  thy  own  wit  and  cunning?  Dishearten  me  not  I  pray: 
Thyself  the  ford  will  find  us,  If  knightly  skill  it  can, 
That  safe  to  yonder  shore  We  may  pass  both  horse  and 

man." 


*  These  are  the  Nibelungen  proper  who  had  come  to 
Worms  with  Siegfried,  on  the  famed  bridal  journey 
from  Isonstein,  long  ago.  Observe,  at  the  same  time, 
that  ever  since  the  J^ibelungen  Hoard  was  transferred 
to  Rhineland,  the  whole  subjects  of  King  Gunther  are 
often  called  Nibelungen,  and  their  subsequent  history 
is  this  J^ibeluvgen  Sovg. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


257 


"To  me  I  trow,"  spake  Hagen,  "  Life  hath  not  grown  so 

cheap, 
To  go  with  will  and  drown  me  In  riding  these  waters 

deep; 
But  first,  of  men  some  few  By  this  hand  of  mine  shall 

die, 
In  great  King  Etzel's  country,  As  best  good  will  have  I. 

"  But  bide  ye  here  by  the  River,  Ye  Ritters  brisk  and 

sound, 
Myself  will  seek  some  boatman,  If  boatman,  here  be 

found, 
To  row  us  at  his  ferry,  Across  to  Gelfrat's  land :" 
The  Troneger  grasped  his  buckler,  Fared  forth  along  the 

strand. 

He  was  full  bravely  harness'd,  Himself  the  knightly 

bore, 
With  buckler  and  with  helmet.  Which  bright  enough  he 

wore: 
And,  bound  above  his  hauberk,  A  weapon  broad  was 

seen, 
That  cut  with  both  its  edges,  Was  never  sword  so  keen. 

Then  hither  he  and  thither  Search'd  for  the  Ferryman, 
He  heard  a  splashing  of  waters.  To  watch  the  same  he 

'gan; 
It  was  the  white  Mer-women,  That  in  a  Fountain  clear. 
To  cool  their  fair  bodyes.  Were  merrily  bathing  here. 

From  these  Mer-women,  who  "skimmed 
aloof  like  white  cygnets,  at  sight  of  him,"  Ha- 
gen snatches  np  "their  wondrous  raiment;" 
on  condition  of  returning  which,  they  rede 
him  his  fortune ;  how  this  expedition  is  to 
speed.     At  first  favourably :    ^ 

She  said  :  "  To  Etzel's  country,  Of  a  truth  ye  well  may 

hie, 
For  here  I  pledge  my  hand.  Now  kill  me  if  I  lie  ; 
That  heroes  seeking  honour  Did  never  arrive  thereat 
So  richly  as  ye  shall  do,  Believe  thou  surely  that." 

But  no  sooner  is  the  wondrous  raiment 
restored  them,  than  they  change  their  tale; 
for  in  spite  of  that  matchless  honour,  it  ap- 
pears, every  one  of  the  adventurous  Recken 
is  to  perish. 

Outspake  the  wild  Mer-woman  :  "  I  tell  thee  it  will  ar- 
rive, 

Of  all  your  gallant  host  No  man  shall  be  left  alive. 

Except  king  Gunther's  chaplain.  As  we  full  well  do 
know  ; 

He  only,  home  returning.  To  the  Rhine-land  back  sha:il 
go." 

Then  spake  Von  Troneg  Hagen,  His  wroth  did  fiercely 

swell : 
"  Such  tidings  to  my  master  I  were  right  wroth  to  tell, 
That  in  king  Etzel's  country  We  all  must  lose  our  life  : 
Yet  show  me  over  the  water,  Thou  wise  all-knowing 

wife." 

Thereupon,  seeing  him  bent  on  ruin,  she 
gives  directions  how  to  find  the  ferry,  but 
withal  counsels  him  to  deal  warily :  the  ferry- 
house  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  river; 
the  boatman,  too,  is  not  only  the  hottest-tem- 
pered of  men,  but  rich  and  indolent;  never- 
theless, if  nothing  else  will  serve,  let  Hagen 
call  himself  Amelrich,  and  that  name  will 
bring  him.  All  happens  as  predicted:  the 
boatman,  heedless  of  all  shouting  and  offers 
of  gold  clasps,  bestirs  himself  lustily  at  the 
name  of  Amelrich ;  but  the  more  indignant 
is  he,  on  taking  in  his  fare,  to  find  it  a  coun- 
terfeit. He  orders  Hagen,  if  he  loves  his  life, 
to  leap  out. 

33 


"Now  say  not  that,"  spake  Hagen;  "Right  hard  ami 

bested. 
Take  from  me  for  good  friendship  This  clasp  of  gold  so 

red; 
And  row  our  thousand  heroes  And  steeds  across  this 

river  :" 
Then  spake  the  wrathful  boatman,  "  That  will  I  surely 

never." 

Then  one  of  his  oars  he  lifted,  Right  broad  it  was  and 

long, 
He  struck  it  down  on  Ilagen,  Did  the  hero  mickle  wrong, 
That  in  the  boat  he  staggered,  and  alighted  on  his  knee ; 
Other  such  wrathful  boatman  Did  never  the  Troneger 

see. 

His  proud  unbidden  guest  He  would  now  provoke  still 

more. 
He  struck  his  head  so  stoutly  That  it  broke  in  twain  the 

oar. 
With  strokes  on  head  of  Hagen  ;  He  was  a  sturdy  wight : 
Nathless  had  Gelfrat's  boatman  Small  profit  of  that  fight. 

With  fiercely  raging  spirit,  the  Troneger  tum'd  him 

round, 
Clutch'd  quick  enough  his  scabbard,  And  a  weapon  there 

he  found ; 
He  smote  his  head  from  oflfhini,  And  cast  it  on  the  sand. 
Thus  had  that  wrathful  boatman  His  death  from  Hagen's 

hand. 

Even  as  Von  Troneg  Hagen  The  wrathful  boatmen  slew» 
The  boat  whirl'd  round  to  the  river.  He  had  work  enough 

to  do; 
Or  ever  he  turn'd  it  shorewards,  To  weary  he  began, 
But  kept  full  stoutly  rowing.  The  bold  king  Gunther's 

man. 

He  wheel'd  it  back  brave  Hagen,  With  many  a  lusty 

stroke. 
The  strong  oar,  with  such  rowing.  In  his  hand  asunder 

broke ; 
He  fain  would  reach  the  Recken,  All  waiting  on  the 

shore. 
No  tackle  now  he  had ;  Hei,*  how  deftly  he  spliced  the 

oar. 

With  throng  from  off  his  buckler !  It  was  a  slender  band ; 
Right  over  against  a  forest  He  drove  the  boat  to  land  ; 
Where  Gunther's  Recken  waited.  In  crowds  along  the 

beach ; 
Full  many  a  goodly  hero  Moved  down  his  boat  to  reach. 

Hagen  ferries  them  over  himself  "  into  the 
unknown  land,"  like  a  right  yare  steersman ;. 
yet  ever  brooding  fiercely  on  that  prediction 
of  the  wild  Mer-woman,  which  had  outdone 
even  his  own  dark  forebodings.  Seeing  the 
Chaplain,  who  alone  of  them  all  was  to  return, 
standing  in  the  boat  beside  his  chappelsoume, 
(pyxes  and  other  sacred  furniture,)  he  deter- 
mines to  belie  at  least  this  part  of  the  pro- 
phecy, and  on  a  sudden  hurls  the  chaplain 
overboard.  Nay,  as  the  poor  priest  swims 
after  the  boat,  he  pushes  him  down,  regardless 
of  all  remonstrance,  resolved  that  he  shall  die.. 
Nevertheless  it  proved  not  so :  the  chaplain 
made  for  the  other  side ;  when  his  strength 
failed,  "  then  God's  hand  helped  him,"  and  at 
length  he  reached  the  shore.  Thus  does  the 
stern  truth  stand  revealed  to  Hagen  by  the  very 


*  These  apparently  insignificant  circumstances,  down 
even  to  mending  the  oar  from  his  shield,  are  preserved 
with  a  singular  fidelity,  in  the  most  distorted  editions  of 
the  tale :  see,  for  example,  the  Danish  ballad.  Lady 
Orimhild's  Wrack  (translated  in  the  JVorthem  Antiqui- 
ties, p.  275,  by  Mr.  Jamieson.)  This  "Hei!"  is  a  brisk 
interjection,  whereby  the  worthy  old  Singer  now  and 
then  introduces  his  own  person,  when  any  thing  very 
eminent  is  going  forward. 

t8 


S58 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


means  he  took  for  eluding  it:  "he  thought 
with  himself  these  Recken  must  all  lose  their 
lives."  From  this  time,  a  grim  reckless  spirit 
takes  possession  of  him ;  a  courage,  an  auda- 
city, waxing  more  and  more  into  the  fixed 
strength  of  desperation.  The  passage  once 
finished,  he  dashes  the  boat  in  pieces,  and  casts 
it  in  the  stream,  greatly  as  the  others  wonder 
at  him. 

"  Why  do  ye  this,  good  brother"?"  Said  the  Ritter  Dank- 
wart  then, 

"  How  shall  we  cross  this  river,  When  the  road  we  come 
again  ? 

Returning  home  from  Hunland,  Here  must  we  lingering 
stay?" 

Not  then  did  Hagen  tell  him  That  return  no  more  could 
they. 

In  this  shipment  "into  the  unknown  land" 
there  lies,  for  the  more  penetrating  sort  of 
commentators,  some  hidden  meaning  and 
allusion.  The  destruction  of  the  unreturning 
Ship,  as  of  the  Ship  Argo,  of  ^neas's  Ships, 
and  the  like,  is  a  constant  feature  of  such 
traditions:  it  is  thought,  this  ferrying  of  the 
Nibelungen  has  a  reference  to  old  Scandina- 
vian Mythuses ;  nay,  to  the  oldest,  most  uni- 
versal emblems  shaped  out  by  man's  Imagina- 
tion ;  Hagen  the  ferryman  being,  in  some  sort, 
a  type  of  Death,  who  ferries  over  his  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  into  a  Land  still  more 
unknown.* 

But  leaving  these  considerations,  let  us  re- 
mark the  deep  fearful  interest,  which,  in  ga- 
thering strength,  rises  to  a  really  tragical 
height  in  the  close  of  this  Poem.  Strangely 
has  the  old  Singer,  in  these  his  loose  melodies, 
modulated  the  wild  narrative  into  a  poetic 
whole,  with  what  we  might  call  true  art,  were 
it  not  rather  an  instinct  of  genius  still  more 
unerring.  A  fateful  gloom  now  hangs  over  the 
fortune?  of  the  Nibelungen,  which  deepens  and 
deepens  as  they  march  onwards  to  the  judg- 
ment-bar, till  all  are  engulphed  in  utter  night. 

Hagen  himself  rises  in  tragic  greatness  ;  so 
helpful,  so  prompt  and  strong  is  he,  and  true 
to  the  death,  though  without  hope.  If  sin  can 
ever  be  pardoned,  then  that  one  act  of  his  is 
pardonable ;  by  loyal  faith,  by  free  daring,  and 
heroic  constancy,  he  has  made  amends  for  it. 
Well  does  he  know  what  is  coming;  yet  he 
goes  forth  to  meet  it,  offers  to  Ruin  his  sullen 
welcome.  Warnings  thicken  on  him,  which 
he  treats  lightly,  as  things  now  superfluous. 
Spite  of  our  love  for  Siegfried,  we  must  pity 
and  almost  respect  the  lost  Hagen,  now  in  his 
extreme  need,  and  fronting  it  so  nobly.  "  Mixed 
was  his  hair  with  a  gray  colour,  his  limbs 
strong,  and  threatening  his  look."  Nay,  his 
sterner  qualities  are  beautifully  tempered  by 
another  feeling,  of  which  till  now  we  under- 
stood not  that  he  was  capable, — the  feeling  of 
friendship.  There  is  a  certain  Volker  of 
Alsace  here  introduced,  not  for  the  first  time, 
yet  first  in  decided  energy,  who  is  more  to 
Hagen  than  a  brother.  This  Volker,  a  courtier 
and  noble,  is  also  a  Spielmann,  (minstrel,)  a 
Fidelere  gut,  (fiddler  good  ;)  and  surely  the 
prince  of  all  Fideleres ;  in  truth  a  very  phoenix, 
melodious  as  the  soft  nightingale,  yet  strong 


*  See  Von  der  Hagen's  Mbelungen  ihre  Bedeutung,  &c. 


as  the  royal  eagle:  for  also  in  the  brunt  of' 
battle  he  can  play  tunes ;  and  with  a  Steel  Fid' 
dleboio,  beats  strange  music  from  the  cleft  hel- 
mets of  his  enemies.  There  is,  in  this  con- 
tinual allusion  to  Volker's  Sckwertfidelbogen, 
(Sword-fiddlebow,)  as  rude  as  it  sounds  to  us, 
a  barbaric  greatness  and  depth  ;  the  light 
minstrel  of  kingly  and  queenly  halls  is  gay 
also  in  the  storm  of  Fate,  its  dire  rushing  pipes 
and  whistles,  to  him  :  is  he  not  the  image  of 
every  brave  man  fighting  with  Necessity,  be 
that  duel  when  and  where  it  may ;  smiting  the 
fiend  with  giant  strokes,  yet  every  stroke 
musical? — This  Volker  and  Hagen  are  united 
inseparably,  and  defy  death  together.  "What- 
ever Volker  said  pleased  Hagen;  whatever 
Hagen  did  pleased  Volker." 

But  into  these  last  Ten  Jventiures,  almost 
like  the  image  of  a  Doomsday,  we  must  hardly 
glance  at  present.  Seldom,  perhaps,  in  the 
poetry  of  that  or  any  other  age,  has  a  grander 
scene  of  pity  and  terror  been  exhibited  than 
here,  could  we  look  into  it  clearly.  At  every 
new  step  new  shapes  of  fear  arise.  Dietrich 
of  Bern  meets  the  Nibelungen  on  their  way, 
with  ominous  warnings:  but  warnings,  as  we 
said,  are  now  superfluous,  when  the  evil  itself 
is  apparent  and  inevitable.  Chrierahild,  wasted 
and  exasperated  here  into  a  frightful  Medea, 
openly  threatens  Hagen,  but  is  openly  defied 
by  him ;  he  and  Volker  retire  to  a  seat  before 
her  palace,  and  sit  there,  while  she  advances 
in  angry  tears,  with  a  crowd  of  armed  Huns  to 
destroy  them.  But  Hagen  has  Siegfried's 
Balmung  lying  naked  on  his  knee,  the  Minstrel 
also  has  drawn  his  keen  Fiddlebow,  and  the 
Huns  dare  not  provoke  the  battle.  Chriemhild 
would  fain  single  out  Hagen  for  vengeance ; 
but  Hagen,  like  other  men,  stands  not  alone: 
and  sin  is  an  infection  which  will  not  rest  with 
one  victim.  Partakers  or  not  of  his  crime,  the 
others  also  must  share  his  punishment.  Sin- 
gularly touching,  in  the  meanwhile,  is  king 
Etzel's  ignorance  of  what  every  one  else  un- 
derstands too  well ;  and  how,  in  peaceful  hos- 
pitable spirit,  he  exerts  himself  to  testify  his 
joy  over  these  royal  guests  of  his,  who  are 
bidden  hither  for  far  other  ends.  That  night 
the  wayworn  Nibelungen  are  sumptuously 
lodged;  yet  Hagen  and  Volker  see  good  to 
keep  watch  :  Volker  plays  them  to  sleep : 
"under  the  door  of  the  house  he  sat  on  the 
stone:  bolder  fiddler  was  there  never  any; 
when  the  tones  flowed  so  sweetly  they  all  gave 
him  thanks.  Then  sounded  his  strings  till  all 
the  house  rang;  his  strength  and  the  art  were 
great,  sweeter  and  sweeter  he  began  to  play, 
till  flitted  forth  from  him  into  sleep  full  many 
a  care-worn  soul."  It  was  their  last  lullaby; 
they  were  to  sleep  no  more.  Armed  men 
appear,  but  suddenly  vanish,  in  the  night; 
assassins  sent  by  Chriemhild,  expecting  no 
sentinel :  it  is  plain  that  the  last  hour  draws 
nigh. 

In  the  morning  the  Nibelungen  are  for  the 
Minster  to  hear  mass;  they  are  putting  on 
gay  raiment;  but  Hagen  tells  them  a  difl^erent 
tale :  "  Ye  must  lake  other  garments,  Recken  ;" 
"instead  of  silk  shirts,  hauberks;  for  rich 
mantles  your  good  shields;"  "and,  beloved 
masters,  moreover  squires  and  men,  ye  shall 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


H99 


tall  earnestly  go  to  the  church,  and  plain  to 
God  the  powerful  (Got  dem  richen)  of  your  sor- 
row and  utmost  need;  and  know  of  a  surety 
that  death  for  us  is  nigh."  In  Etzel's  Hall, 
where  the  Nibelungen  appear  at  the  royal 
feast  in  complete  armour,  the  Strife,  incited  by 
Chriemhild,  begins :  the  first  answer  to  her 
provocation  is  from  Hagen,  who  hews  oflf  the 
head  of  her  own  and  Etzel's  son,  making  it 
bound  into  the  mother's  bosom :"  "then  began 
among  the  Recken  a  murder  grim  and  great." 
Dietrich,  with  a  voice  of  preternatural  power, 
commands  pause;  retires  with  Etzel  and 
Chriemhild ;  and  now  the  bloody  work  has 
free  course.  We  have  heard  of  battles,  and 
massacres,  and  deadly  struggles  in  siege  and 
storm ;  but  seldom  has  even  the  poet's  imagina- 
tion pictured  any  thing  so  fierce  and  terrible  as 
this.  Host  after  host,  as  they  enter  that  huge 
vaulted  Hall,  perish  in  the  conflict  with  the 
doomed  Nibelungen  ;  and  even  after  the  terrific 
uproar,  ensues  a  still  more  terrific  silence.  All 
night,  and  through  morning  it  lasts.  They 
throw  the  dead  from  the  windows;  blood  runs 
like  water;  the  Hall  is  set  fire  to,  they  quench 
it  with  blood,  their  own  burning  thirst  they 
slake  with  blood.  It  is  a  tumult  like  the  Crack 
of  Doom,  a  thousand  voiced,  wild  stunning 
hubbub:  and,  frightful  like  a  Trump  of  Doom, 
the  Sword-fiddlebow  of  Volker,  who  guards  the 
door,  makes  music  to  that  death-dance.  Nor 
are  traits  of  heroism  wanting,  and  thrilling 
tones  of  pity  and  love  ;  as  in  that  act  of  Rudi- 
ger,  Etzel's  and  Chriemhild's  champion,  who, 
bound  by  oath,  "  lays  his  soul  in  God's  hand," 
and  enters  that  Golgotha  to  die  fighting  against 
his  friends ;  yet  first  changes  shields  with 
Hagen,  whose  own,  also  given  him  by  Rudiger 
in  a  far  other  hour,  had  been  shattered  in  the 
fight.  "  When  he  so  lovingly  bade  give  him 
the  shield,  there  were  eyes  enough  red  with 
hot  tears ;  it  was  the  last  gift  which  Rudiger 
of  Bechelaren  gave  to  any  Recke.  As  grim 
as  Hagen  was,  and  as  hard  of  mind,  he  wept 
at  this  gift  which  the  hero  good,  so  near  his  last 
times,  had  given  him ;  full  many  a  noble  Rit- 
ter  began  to  weep." 

At  last  Volker  is  slain ;  they  are  all  slain,  save 
only  Hagen  and  Gunther,  faint  and  wounded, 
yet  still  unconquered  among  the  bodies  of  the 
dead.  Dietrich  the  wary,  though  strong  and 
invincible,  whose  Recken  too,  except  old  Hilde- 
brand,  he  now  finds  are  all  killed,  though  he 
had  charged  them  strictly  not  to  mix  in  the 
quarrel,  at  last  arms  himself  to  finish  it.  He 
subdues  the  two  wearied  Nibelungen,  binds 
them,  delivers  them  to  Chriemhild;  "  and  Herr 
Dietrich  went  away  with  weeping  eyes,  worthily 
from  the  heroes."  These  never  saw  each  other 
more.  Chriemhild  demands  of  Hagen,  Where 
the  Nibelungen  Hoard  is  1  But  he  answers  her 
that  he  has  sworn  never  to  disclose  it,  while 
any  of  her  brothers  live.  "I  bring  it  to  an 
end,"  said  the  infuriated  woman  ;  orders  her 
brother's  head  to  be  struck  off,  and  holds  it  up 
to  Hagen.  "Thou  hast  it  now  according  to 
thy  v/ill,"  said  Hagen  ;  "  of  the  Hoard  knoweth 
none  but  God  and  I ;  from  thee,  she-devil, 
{Videndinne,)  shall  it  for  ever  be  hid."  She 
kills  him  with  his  own  sword,  once  her  hus- 
band's; and  is  herself  struck  dead  by  Hilde- 


brand,  indignant  at  the  wo  she  has  wrought ; 
King  Etzel,  there  present,  not  opposing  the 
deed.  Whereupon  the  curtain  drops  over  that 
wild  scene,  "the  full  highly  honoured  were 
lying  dead ;  the  people,  all  had  sorrow  and 
lamentation,  in  grief  had  the  king's  feast  ended, 
as  all  love  is  wont  to  do ; 

Ine  chan  iu  nicht  bescheiden  Waz  sider  da  gescfiaehf 
Wan  ritter  unde  wrovven  IVeinen  man  do  sack 
Dar-zuo  die  edeln  chnechte  Ir  lieben  vriunde  tot : 
Da  hat  das  mare  ein  ende  ;  Diz  ist  der  JVibelunge  not. 

I  cannot  say  you  now  What  hath  befallen  since, 

The  women  all  were  weeping,  And  the  Rittera  and  the 

prince, 
Also  the  noble  squires.  Their  dear  friends  lying  dead : 
Here  hath  the  story  ending ;  This  is  the  J^Tibelungen't 

JVeed. 

We  have  now  finished  our  slight  analysis 
of  this  Poem ;  and  hope  that  readers,  who  are 
curious  in  this  matter,  and  ask  themselves, 
What  is  the  Nibelungen?  may  have  here  found 
some  outlines  of  an  answer,  some  help  towards 
farther  researches  of  their  own.  To  such 
readers  another  question  will  suggest  itself: 
Whence  this  singular  production  comes  to  us, 
When  and  How  it  originated?  On  which 
point  also,  what  little  light  our  investigation 
has  yielded  may  be  summarily  given. 

The  worthy  Von  der  Hagen,  who  may  well 
understand  the  Nibelu/ngen  better  than  any  other 
man,  having  rendered  it  into  the  modem 
tongue,  and  twice  edited  it  in  the  original,  not 
without  collating  some  eleven  manuscripts,  and 
travelling  several  thousands  of  miles  to  make 
the  last  edition  perfect, — writes  a  Book  some 
years  ago,  rather  boldly  denominated  The  Nibe- 
lungen,  its  meaning  for  the  present  and  for  ever  ; 
wherein,  not  content  with  any  measurable 
antiquity  of  centuries,  he  would  fain  claim  an 
antiquity  beyond  all  bounds  of  dated  time. 
Working  his  way  with  feeble  mine-lamps  of 
etymology  and  the  like,  he  traces  back  the 
rudiments  of  his  beloved  Nibehmgen,  "  to  which 
the  flower  of  his  whole  life  has  been  conse- 
crated," into  the  thick  darkness  of  the  Scandi- 
navian Niflheim  und  Muspelheim,  and  the  Hindoo 
Cosmogony ;  connecting  it  farther  (as  already 
in  part  we  have  incidentally  pointed  out)  with 
the  Ship  Argo,  with  Jupiter's  goatskin  ^gis, 
the  fire-creed  of  Zerdusht,  and  even  with  the 
heavenly  Constellations.  His  reasoning  is 
somewhat  abstruse ;  yet  an  honest  zeal,  very 
considerable  learning  and  intellectual  force 
bring  him  tolerably  through.  So  much  he 
renders  plausible  or  probable:  that  in  the 
Nibelungen,  under  more  or  less  defacement,  lie 
fragments,  scattered  like  mysterious  Runes,  yet 
still  in  part  decipherable,  of  the  earliest 
Thoughts  of  men  ;  that  the  fiction  of  the  Nibe- 
lungen was  at  first  a  religious  or  philosophical 
Mythus;  and  only  in  later  ages,  incorporating 
itself  more  or  less  completely  with  vague 
traditions  of  real  events,  took  the  form  of  a 
story,  or  mere  Narrative  of  earthly  transac- 
tions; in  which  last  form,  moreover,  our 
actual  Nibelungen  Lied  is  nowise  the  original 
Narrative,  but  the  second,  or  even  third  redac- 
tion of  one  much  earlier. 

At  what  particular  era  the  primeval  fiction 


260 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  the  Nibelungen  passed  from  its  Mythological 
into  its  Historical  shape;  and  the  obscure 
spiritual  elements  of  it  wedded  themselves 
to  the  obscure  remembrances  of  the  Northern 
Immigrations  ;  and  the  Twelve  Signs  of  the 
Zodiac  became  Twelve  Champions  of  Attila's 
Wife,— there  is  no  fixing  with  the  smallest 
certainty.  It  is  known  from  history  that  Egin- 
hart,  the  secretary  of  Charlemagne,  compiled, 
by  order  of  that  monarch,  a  collection  of  the 
ancient  German  Songs ;  among  which,  it  is 
fondly  believed  by  antiquaries,  this  Nibelungen, 
(not  indeed  our  actual  Nibelungen  Lied,  yet  an 
older  one  of  similar  purport,)  and  the  main 
traditions  of  the  Heldenbuch  connected  there- 
with, may  have  had  honourable  place.  Un- 
luckily Eginhart's  Collection  has  quite  per- 
ished; and  only  his  Life  of  the  Great  Charles, 
in  which  this  circumstance  stands  noted,  sur- 
vives to  provoke  curiosity.  One  thing  is  cer- 
tain, Fulco,  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  in  the 
year  886,  is  introduced  as  "citing  certain 
German  books,"  to  enforce  some  argument  of 
his  by  instance  of"  King  Ermerich's  crime 
towards  his  relations ;"  which  King  Ermerich 
and  his  crime  are  at  this  day  part  and  parcel 
of  the  "  Cycle  of  German  Fiction,"  and  pre- 
supposed in  the  Nibelungen.*  Later  notices, 
of  a  more  decisive  sort,  occur  in  abundance. 
Saxo  Grammaticus,  who  flourished  in  the 
twelfth  century,  relates  that  about  the  year 
1130,  a  Saxon  minstrel  being  sent  to  Seeland, 
with  a  treacherous  invitation  from  one  royal 
Dane  to  another;  and  not  daring  to  violate  his 
oath,  yet  compassionating  the  victim,  sang  to 
him  by  way  of  indirect  warning  "the  Song  of 
Chriemhild's  Treachery  to  her  Brothers;"  that 
is  to  say,  the  latter  portion  of  the  Story  which 
we  still  read  at  greater  length  in  the  existing 
Nibelungen  Lied.  To  which  direct  evidence, 
that  these  traditions  were  universally  known 
in  the  twelfth  century,  nay,  had  been  in  some 
shape  committed  to  writing,  as  "German 
Books,"  in  the  ninth  or  rather  in  the  eighth, — 
we  have  still  to  add  the  probability  of  their 
being  "ancient  songs,"  even  at  that  earliest 
date;  all  which  may  perhaps  carry  us  back 
into  the  seventh  or  even  sixth  century  ;  yet  not 
farther,  inasmuch  as  certain  of  the  poetic  per- 
sonages that  figure  in  them  belong  historically 
to  the  fifth. 

Other  and  more  open  proof  of  antiquity  lies 
in  the  fact,  that  these  Traditions  are  so  univer- 
sally difl'used.  There  are  Danish  and  Icelandic 
versions  of  them,  externally  more  or  less 
altered  and  distorted,  yet  substantially  real 
copies,  professing  indeed  to  be  borrowed 
from  the  German ;  in  particular  we  have  the 
Niflinga  and  the  Wilkina  Saga,  composed  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  which  still  in  many  ways 
illustrate  the  German  original.  Innumerable 
other  songs  and  sagas  point  more  remotely  in 
the  same  direction.  Nay,  as  Von  der  Hagen 
informs  us,  certain  rhymed  tales,  founded"  on 
these  old  adventures,  have  been  recovered 
from  popular  recitation,  in  the  Faroe  Islands, 
within  these  few  years. 

If  we  ask  now,  what  lineaments  of  Fact  still 
exist  in  these  Traditions  ;  what  are  the  Histori- 


♦  Von  der  Hagen's  Mbelungen,  Einleitung,  $  vii. 


cal  events  and  persons  which  our  primeval 
Mythuses  have  here  united  with,  and  so 
strangely  metamorphosed!  the  answer  is  un- 
satisfactory enough.  The  great  Northern  Im- 
migrations, unspeakably  momentous  and  glori- 
ous as  they  were  for  the  Germans,  have  well 
nigh  faded  away  utterly  from  all  vernacular 
records.  Some  traces,  nevertheless,  some 
names,  and  dim  shadows  of  occurrences  in 
that  grand  movement,  still  linger  here :  which, 
in  such  circumstances,  we  gather  with  avidity. 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  for  example,  but  this 
"Etzel,  king  of  Hunland,"  is  the  Attila  of 
history;  several  of  whose  real  achievements 
and  relations  are  faintly,  yet  still  recognisably 
pictured  forth  in  these  Poems.  Thus  his  first 
queen  is  named  Halke,  and  in  the  Scandinavian 
versions,  Herka ;  which  last  (Erca)  is  also  the 
name  that  Priscus  gives  her,  in  the  well-known 
Account  of  his  embassy  to  Attila.  Moreover, 
it  is  on  his  second  marriage,  which  had  in  fact 
so  mysterious  and  tragical  a  character,  that  the 
whole  catastrophe  of  the  Nibelungen  turns.  It 
is  true,  the  "  Scourge  of  God"  plays  but  a  tame 
part  here  ;  however,  his  great  acts,  though  all 
past,  are  still  visible  in  their  fruits:  besides,  it 
is  on  the  Northern  or  German  personages  that 
the  tradition  chiefly  dwells. 

Taking  farther  into  account  the  general 
"Cycle"  or  System  of  Northern  Tradition, 
whereof  this  Nibelungen  is  the  centre  and  key- 
stone, there  is,  as  indeed  we  saw  in  the  Helden- 
buch, a  certain  Kaiser  Ottnit  and  a  Dietrich  of 
Bern ;  to  whom  also  it  seems  unreasonable  to 
deny  historical  existence.  This  Bern,  (Verona,) 
as  well  as  the  Rabenschlacht,  (Battle  of  Ravenna,) 
is  continually  figuring  in  these  Fictions ;  though 
whether  under  Ottnit  we  are  to  understand  Odo- 
acer  the  vanquished,  and  under  Dietrich  of  Bern, 
Theodoricus  Veronensis,  the  victor  both  at  Ve- 
rona and  Ravenna,  is  by  no  means  so  indubita- 
ble. Chronological  difficulties  stand  much  in  the 
way.  For  our  Dietrich  of  Bern,  as  we  saw  in 
the  Nibelungen,  is  represented  as  one  of  Etzel's 
Champions:  now  Attila  died  about  the  year 
450 ;  and  this  Ostrogoth  Theodoric  did  not 
fight  his  great  Battle  at  Verona  till  489 ;  that 
of  Ravenna,  which  was  followed  by  a  three 
years'  siege,  beginning  next  year.  So  that 
before  Dietrich  could  become  Dietrich  of  Bern, 
Etzel  had  been  gone  almost  half  a  century 
from  the  scene.  Startled  by  this  anachronism, 
some  commentators  have  fished  out  another 
Theodoric,  eighty  years  prior  to  him  of  Verona, 
and  who  actually  served  in  Attila's  hosts,  with 
a  retinue  of  Goths  and  Germans  ;  with  which 
New  Theodoric,  however,  the  old  Ottnit,  or 
Odoacer,  of  the  Heldenbuch,  must,  in  his  turn, 
part  company ;  whereby  the  case  is  in  no  whit 
mended.  Certain  it  seems,  in  the  mean  time, 
that  Dietrich,  which  signifies  Bich  m  People,  is 
the  same  name  which  in  Greek  becomes  Theo- 
doricus ;  for,  at  first,  (as  in  Procopius,)  this 
very  Theodoricus  is  always  written  e&jSi^ix, 
which  almost  exactly  corresponds  with  the 
German  sound.  But  such  are  the  inconsis- 
tencies involved  in  both  hypotheses,  that  we 
are  forced  to  conclude  one  of  two  things: 
either  that  the  singers  of  those  old  lays  were 
little  versed  in  the  niceties  of  History,  and  un- 
ambitious of  passing  for  authorities  therein, 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


261 


which  seems  a  remarkably  easy  conclusion ;  I 
or  else,  with  Lessing,  that  they  meant  some 
quite  other  series  of  persons  and  transactions, 
some  Kaiser  Otto,  and  his  two  Anti-Kaisers, 
(in  the  twelfth  century:)  which,  from  what  has 
come  to  light  since  Lessing's  day,  seems  now 
an  untenable  position. 

However,  as  concerns  the  Nibelungen,  the 
most  remarkable  coincidence,  if  genuine,  re- 
mains yet  to  be  mentioned.  "Thwortz,"  a 
Hungarian  Chronicler,  (or  perhaps  chronicle,) 
of  we  know  not  what  authority,  relates,  "  that 
Attila  left  his  kingdom  to  his  two  sons  Chaba 
and  Aladar,  the  former  by  a  Grecian  mother, 
the  latter  by  Kremheilch,  (Chriemhild,)  a 
German  ;  that  Theodoric,  one  of  his  followers, 
sowed  dissension  between  them;  and  along 
with  the  Teutonic  hosts  took  part  with  his 
half-countryman,  the  younger  son ;  whereupon 
rose  a  great  slaughter,  which  lasted  for  fifteen 
days,  and  terminated  in  the  defeat  of  Chaba, 
(the  Greek,)  and  his  flight  into  Asia."*  Could 
we  but  put  faith  in  this  Thwortz,  we  might 
fancy  that  some  vague  rumour  of  that  Krem- 
heilch tragedy,  swoln  by  the  way,  had  reached 
the  German  ear  and  imagination ;  where, 
gathering  round  older  Ideas  and  Mythuses,  as 
Matter  round  its  Spirit,  the  first  rude  form  of 
Chriemhilde's  Revenge  and  the  Wreck  of  the  Nibe- 
lungen bodied  itself  forth  in  Song. 

Thus  any  historical  light,  emitted  by  these 
old  Fictions,  is  little  better  than  darkness  visi- 
ble; sufficient  at  most  to  indicate  that  great 
Northern  Immigrations,  and  wars  and  rumours 
of  wars,  have  been  ;  but  nowise  how  and  what 
they  have  been.  Scarcely  clearer  is  the  special 
history  of  the  Fictions  themselves :  where  they 
were  first  put  together,  who  have  been  their 
successive  redactors  and  new-modellers.  Von 
der  Hagen,  as  we  said,  supposes  that  there 
may  have  been  three  several  series  of  such. 
Two,  at  all  events,  are  clearly  indicated.  In 
their  present  shape,  we  have  internal  evidence 
that  none  of  these  Poems  can  be  older  than  the 
twelfth  century ;  indeed  great  part  of  the  Hero- 
Book  can  be  proved  to  be  considerably  later. 
With  this  last  it  is  understood  that  Wolfram 
von  Eschenbach  and  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen, 
two  singers,  otherwise  noted  in  that  era,  were 
largely  concerned ;  but  neither  is  there  any 
demonstration  of  this  vague  belief:  while 
again,  in  regard  to  the  Author  of  our  actual 
Nibelungen  not  so  much  as  a  plausible  con- 
jecture can  be  formed. 

Some  vote  for  a  certain  Conrad  von  Wiirz- 
burg;  others  for  the  above-named  Eschenbach 
and  Ofterdingen;  others  again  for  Klingsohr 
of  Ungerland,  a  minstrel  who  once  passed  for 
a  magician.  Against  all  and  each  of  which 
hypotheses  there  are  objections ;  and  for  none 
of  them  the  smallest  conclusive  evidence. 
Who  this  gifted  Singer  may  have  been,  only  in 
so  far  as  his  Work  itself  proves  that  there 
was  but  One,  and  the  style  points  to  the  latter 
half  of  the  twelfth  century, — remains  altogether 
dark :  the  unwearied  Von  der  Hagen  himself, 
after  fullest  investigation,  gives  for  verdict, 
"we  know  it  not."  Considering  the  high 
worth  of  the  Nibelungen,  and  how  many  feeble 

•  Weber,  (Illustrations  of  Jforthem  Antiquities,  p.  39,) 
wbo  cites  Gurres  {Zbitungfiir  Einriedler)  as  bis  authority. 


ballad-mongers  of  that  Swabian  Era  have 
transmitted  us  their  names,  so  total  an  oblivion, 
in  this  infinitely  more  important  case,  may 
seem  surprising.  But  those  Minnelieder  (Love- 
songs)  and  Provengal  Madrigals  were  the 
Court  Poetry  of  that  time,  and  gained  honour 
in  high  places ;  while  the  old  National  Tradi- 
tions were  common  property  and  plebeian,  and 
to  sing  them  an  unrewarded  labour. 

Whoever  he  may  be,  let  him  have  our  grati- 
tude, our  love.  Looking  back  with  a  farewell 
glance,  over  that  wondrous  old  Tale,  with  its 
many-coloured  texture  "  of  joyances  and  high-' 
tides,  of  weeping  and  of  wo,"  so  skilfully 
yet  artlessly  knit  up  into  a  whole,  we  cannot 
but  repeat  that  a  true  epic  spirit  lives  in  it ; 
that  in  many  ways,  it  has  meaning  and  charms 
for  us.  Not  only  as  the  oldest  Tradition  of 
Modern  Europe,  does  it  possess  a  high  anti- 
quarian interest ;  but  farther,  and  even  in  the 
shape  we  now  see  it  under,  unless  the  "  Epics 
of  the  Son  of  Fingal"  had  some  sort  of  au- 
thenticity, it  is  our  oldest  Poem  also ;  the  ear- 
liest product  of  these  New  Ages,  which  on  its 
own  merits,  both  in  form  and  essence,  can  be 
named  Poetical.  Considering  its  chivalrous, 
romantic  tone,  it  may  rank  as  a  piece  of  lite- 
rary composition,  perhaps  considerably  higher 
than  the  Spanish  Cid ;  taking  in  its  historical 
significance,  and  deep  ramifications  into  the 
remote  Time,  it  ranks  indubitably  and  greatly 
higher. 

It  has  been  called  a  Northern  Iliad;  but 
except  in  the  fact  that  both  poems  have  a  nar- 
rative character,  and  both  sing  "the  destruc- 
tive rage"  of  men,  the  two  have  scarcely  any 
similarity.  The  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen  is  a 
far  different  person  from  Homer;  far  inferior 
both  in  culture  and  in  genius.  Nothing  of  the 
glowing  imagery,  of  the  fierce  bursting  ener- 
gy, of  the  mingled  fire  and  gloom,  that  dwell 
in  the  old  Greek,  makes  its  appearance  here. 
The  German  Singer  is  comparatively  a  simple 
nature;  has  never  penetrated  deep  into  life; 
never  "questioned  Fate,"  or  struggled  with 
fearful  mysteries ;  of  all  which  we  find  traces 
in  Homer,  still  more  in  Shakspeare ;  but  with 
meek  believing  submission,  has  taken  the  Uni- 
verse as  he  found  it  represented  to  him ;  and 
rejoices  with  a  fine  childlike  gladness  in  the 
mere  outward  shows  of  things.  He  has  little 
power  of  delineating  character ;  perhaps  he 
had  no  decisive  vision  thereof.  His  persons 
are  superficially  distinguished,  and  not  alto- 
gether without  gen  eric  difference  ;  but  the  por- 
traiture is  imperfectly  brought  out ;  there  lay 
no  true  living  original  within  him.  He  has 
little  Fancy ;  we  find  scarcely  one  or  two  simi- 
litudes in  his  whole  Poem ;  and  these  one  or 
two,  which,  moreover,  are  repeated,  betoken 
no  special  faculty  that  way.  He  speaks  of  the 
"  moon  among  stars ;"  says  often,  of  sparks 
struck  from  steel  armour  in  battle,  and  so  forth, 
that  they  were  wie  es  wehie  der  wind,  "  as  if  the 
wind  were  blowing  them."  We  have  men- 
tioned Tasso  along  with  him ;  yet  neither  in 
this  case  is  there  any  close  resemblance ;  the 
light  playful  grace,  still  more,  the  Italian  pomp, 
and  sunny  luxuriance  of  Tasso  are  wanting 
in  the  other.  His  are  humble,  wood-notes 
wild ;  and  no  nightingale's,  but  yet  a  sweet 


862 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sky-hidden  lark's.  In  all  the  rhetorical  gifts, 
to  say  nothing  of  rhetorical  attainments,  we 
should  pronounce  him  even  poor. 

Nevertheless,  a  noble  soul  he  must  have 
been,  and  furnished  with  far  more  essential 
requisites  for  Poetry,  than  these  are  :  namely, 
with  the  heart  and  feeling  of  a  Poet.  He  has 
a  clear  eye  for  the  Beautiful  and  True ;  all 
unites  itself  gracefully  and  compactly  in  his 
imagination  :  it  is  strange  with  what  careless 
felicity  he  winds  his  way  in  that  complex  nar- 
rative, and  be  the  subject  what  it  will,  comes 
through  it  unsullied,  and  with  a  smile.  His 
great  strength  is  an  unconscious  instinctive 
strength ;  wherein  truly  lies  its  highest  merit. 
The  whole  spirit  of  Chivalry,  of  Love,  and 
heroic  Valour,  must  have  lived  in  him,  and  in- 
spired him.  Everywhere  he  shows  a  noble 
Sensibility;  the  sad  accents  of  parting  friends, 
the  lanientings  of  women,  the  high  daring  of 
men,  all  that  is  worthy  and  lovely  prolongs  it- 
self in  melodious  echoes  through  his  heart.  A 
true  old  Singer,  and  taught  of  Nature  herself! 
Neither  let  us  call  him  an  inglorious  Milton, 
smce  now  he  is  no  longer  a  mute  one.  What 
good  were  it  that  the  four  or  five  Letters  com- 
posing his  Name  could  be  printed,  and  pro- 
nounced, with  absolute  certainty!  All  that 
was  mortal  in  him  is  gone  utterly ;  of  his  life, 
and  its  environment,  as  of  the  bodily  taberna- 


cle he  dwelt  in,  the  very  ashes  remain  not  : 
like  a  fair  heavenly  Apparition,  which  indeed 
he  was,  he  has  melted  into  air,  and  only  the 
Voice  he  uttered,  in  virtue  of  its  inspired  gift, 
yet  lives  and  will  live. 

To  the  Germans  this  Nibclungen  Song  is  na- 
turally an  object  of  no  common  love  ;  neither 
if  they  sometimes  overvalue  it,  and  vague  an- 
tiquarian wonder  is  more  common  than  just 
criticism,  should  the  fault  be  too  heavily  visit- 
ed. After  long  ages  of  concealment,  they 
have  found  it  in  the  remote  wilderness,  still 
standing  like  the  trunk  of  some  almost  antedi- 
luvian oak;  nay  with  boughs  on  it  still  green, 
after  all  the  wind  and  weather  of  twelve  hun- 
dred years.  To  many  a  patriotic  feeling,  which 
lingers  fondly  in  solitary  places  of  the  Past,  it 
may  well  be  a  rallying-point,  and  "  Lovers' 
Trysting-Tree." 

For  us  also  it  has  its  worth.  A  creation 
from  the  old  ages,  still  bright  and  balmy,  if  we 
visit  it ;  and  opening  into  the  first  History  of 
Europe,  of  Mankind.  Thus  all  is  not  oblivion; 
but  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss,  that  separates  the 
Old  world  from  the  New,  there  hangs  a  fair 
rainbow-land;  which  also  in  (three)  curious 
repetitions,  as  it  were,  in  a  secondary,  and 
even  a  ternary  reflex,  sheds  some  feeble 
twilight  far  into  the  deeps  of  the  primeval 
Time. 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH 
AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES.* 


[Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  1831.] 


It  is  not  with  Herr  Soltau's  work,  and  its 
merits  or  demerits,  that  we  here  purpose  to 
concern  ourselves.  The  old  Low-German 
Apologue  was  already  familiar  under  many 
shapes  ;  its  versions  into  Latin,  English,  and 
all  modern  tongues :  if  it  now  comes  before 
our  German  friends  under  a  new  shape,  and 
they  can  read  it  not  only  in  Gottsched's  prosaic 
Prose,  and  Goethe's  poetic  Hexameters,  but 
also  "  in  the  metre  of  the  original,"  namely,  in 
Doggerel ;  and  this,  as  would  appear,  not  with- 
out comfort,  for  it  is  "  the  second  edition  ;" — 
doubtless  the  Germans  themselves  will  look  to 
it,  will  direct  Herr  Soltau  aright  in  his  praise- 
worthy labours,  and,  with  all  suitable  speed, 
forward  him  from  his  second  edition  into  a 
third.  To  us  strangers  the  fact  is  chiefly  in- 
teresting, as  another  little  memento  of  the  in^ 
destructible  vitality  there  is  in  worth,  however 
rude ;  and  to  stranger  Reviewers,  as  it  brings 
that  wondrous  old  Fiction,  with  so  much  else 
that  holds  of  it,  once  more  specifically  into 
view. 

The  Apologue  of  Reynard  the  Fox  ranks  un- 


*  Reinecke  der  Fucks,  iibersetzt  von  D.  W.  Soltau.  (Rey- 
nard the  Fox,  translated  by  D.  W.  Soltau.)  2d  edition, 
8vo.  Liineburg,  1830. 


doubtedly  among  the  most  remarkable  Books, 
not  only  as  a  German,  but,  in  all  senses,  as  a 
European  one  ;  and  yet  for  us  perhaps  its  ex- 
trinsic, historical  character,  is  even  more  note- 
worthy than  its  intrinsic.  In  Literary  History 
it  forms,  so  to  speak,  the  culminating  point,  or 
highest  manifestation  of  a  Tendency  which 
had  ruled  the  two  prior  centuries  :  ever  down- 
wards from  the  last  of  the  Hohenstaufien  Em- 
perors, and  the  end  of  their  Swabian  Era,  to 
the  borders  of  the  Reformation,  rudiments  and 
fibres  of  this  singular  Fable  are  seen,  among 
innumerable  kindred  things,  fashioning  them- 
selves together;  and  now,  after  three  other 
centuries  of  actual  existence,  it  still  Stands 
visible  and  entire,  venerable  in  itself,  and  the 
enduring  memorial  of  much  that  has  proved 
more  perishable.  Thus,  naturally  enough,  it 
figures  as  the  representative  of  a  whole  group 
thathistorically  cluster  round  it;  in  studying  its 
significance,  we  study  that  of  a  whole  in- 
tellectual period. 

As  this  section  of  German  Literature  closely 
connects  itself  with  the  corresponding  section 
of  European  Literature,  and  indeed  ofl^ers  an 
expressive,  characteristic  epitome  thereof,  some 
insight  into  it,  were  such  easily  procurablej 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


263 


ftiight  not  be  without  profit.  No  Literary  His-  ] 
torian  that  we  know  of,  least  of  all  any  in 
England,  having  looked  much  in  this  direction, 
either  as  concerned  Germany  or  other  coun- 
tries, whereby  a  long  space  of  time,  once  busy 
enough,  and  full  of  life,  now  lies  barren  and 
void  in  men's  memories, — we  shall  here  en- 
deavour to  present,  in  such  clearness  as  first 
attempts  may  admit,  the  result  of  some  slight 
researches  of  our  own  in  regard  to  it. 

The  Troubadour  Period  in  general  Literature, 
to  which  the  Swabian  Era  in  German  answers, 
has,  especially  within  the  last  generation,  at- 
tracted inquiry  enough  ;  the  French  have  their 
Raynouards,  we  our  Webers,  the  Germans 
their  Haugs,  Graters,  Langs,  and  numerous 
other  Collectors  and  Translators  of  Minnelieder ; 
among  whom  Ludwig  Tieck,  the  foremost  in 
far  other  provinces,  has  not  disdained  to  take 
the  lead.  We  shall  suppose  that  this  Literary 
Period  is  partially  known  to  all  readers.  Let 
each  recall  whatever  he  has  learned  or  figured 
regarding  it;  represent  to  himself  that  brave 
young  heyday  of  Chivalry  and  Minstrelsy, 
when  a  stern  Barbarossa,  a  stern  Lion-hdart, 
sang  sh-ventes,  and  with  the  hand  that  could 
wield  the  sword  and  sceptre  twanged  the  melo- 
dious strings  ;  when  knights-errant  tilted,  and 
ladies'  eyes  rained  bright  influences ;  and 
suddenly,  as  at  some  sunrise,  the  whole  Earth 
had  grown  vocal  and  musical.  Then  truly  was 
the  time  of  singing  come ;  for  princes  and  pre- 
lates, emperors  and  squires,  the  wise  and  the 
simple,  men,  women,  and  children,  all  sang 
and  rhymed,  or  delighted  in  hearing  it  done. 
It  was  a  universal  noise  of  Song ;  as  if  the 
Spring  of  Manhood  had  arrived,  andwarblings 
from  every  spray,  not  indeed  without  infinite 
twitterings  also,  which,  except  their  gladness, 
had  no  music,  were  bidding  it  welcome.  This 
was  the  Swabian  Era;  justly  reckoned  not 
only  superior  to  all  preceding  eras,  but  pro- 
perly the  First  Era  of  German  liiterature. 
Poetry  had  at  length  found  a  home  in  the  life 
of  men  ;  and  every  pure  soul  was  inspired  by 
it;  and  in  words,  or  still  belter,  in  actions, 
strove  to  give  it  utterance. 

"Believers,"  says  Tieck,  "sang  of  Faith; 
Lovers  of  Love;  Knights  described  knightly 
actions  and  battles;  and  loving,  believing 
knights  were  their  chief  audience.  The  Spring, 
Beauty,  Gayety,were  objects  that  could  never 
tire ;  great  duels  and  deeds  of  arms  carried 
away  every  hearer,  the  more  surely  the  stronger 
they  were  painted  ;  and  as  the  pillars  and  dome 
of  the  Church  encircled  the  flock,  so  did  Re- 
ligion, as  the  Highest,  encircle  Poetry  and 
Reality  ;  and  every  heart,  in  equal  love  hum- 
bled itself  before  her."* 

Let  the  reader,  we  say,  fancy  all  this,  and 
moreover  that,  as  earthly  things  do,  it  is  all 
passing  away.  And  now,  from  this  extreme 
verge  of  the  Swabian  Era,  let  us  look  forward 
into  the  inane  of  the  next  two  centuries,  and 
see  whether  there  also  some  shadows  and  dim 
forms,  significant  in  their  kind,  may  not  begin 
to  grow  visible.  Already,  as  above  indicated, 
Jteinecke  de  Fos  rises  clear  in  the  distance,  as 
the  goal  of  our  survey  :  let  us  now,  restricting 


*  Minnelieder  aus  dem  Sckwabischen  Zeiialter. 
rede,x.) 


iVoT- 


ourselves  to  the  German  aspects  of  the  matter, 
examine  what  may  lie  between. 

Conrad  the  Fourth,  who  died  in  1254,  was 
the  last  of  the  Swabian  Emperors  :  and  Con- 
radin  his  son,  grasping  too  early  at  a  Southern 
Crown,  perished  on  the  scaffold  at  Naples  in 
1268  ;  with  which  stripling,  more  fortunate  in 
song  than  in  war,  and  whose  death,  or  murder, 
with  fourteen  years  of  other  cruelty,  the  Sicilian 
Vespers  so   frightfully   avenged,   the   imperial 
line   of  the  Hohenstaufl!en   came   to   an  end. 
Their  House,  as  we  have  seen,  gives  name  to 
a  Literary  Era  ;  and  truly,  if  dales  alone  were 
regarded,  we  might  reckon  it  much  more  than 
a  name.    For  with  this  change  of  dynasty,  a 
great  change  in  German  Literature  begins  to 
indicate  itself;  the  fall  of  the  Hohenstauffen  is 
close  followed  by  the  decay  of  Poetry ;  as  if 
that  fair  flowerage  and  umbrage,  which  blos- 
somed far  and  wide  round  the  Swabian  Family, 
had  in  very  deed  depended  on  it  for  growth 
and  life ;  and  now,  the  stem  being  felled,  the 
leaves   also  were   languishing,   and   soon   to 
wither  and  drop  away.  Conradin,  as  his  father 
and  his  grandfather  had  been,  was  a  singer; 
some  lines  of  his,  though  he  died  in  his  six- 
teenth year,  have  even  come  down  to  us ;  but 
henceforth  no  crowned  poet,  except,  long  after- 
wards, some  few  with  cheap  laurel  crowns,  is 
to  be  met  with :  the  Gay  Science  was  visibly 
declining.    In  such  times  as  now  came,  the 
court  and  the  great  could  no  longer  patronize 
it ;  the  polity  of  the  Empire  was,  by  one  con- 
vulsion after  another,  all  but  utterly  dismem- 
bered; ambitious  nobles,  a  sovereign  without 
power;  contention,  violence,  distress,  every- 
where prevailing.     Richard  of  Cornwall,  who 
could  not  so  much  as  keep  hold  of  his  sceptre, 
not  to  speak  of  swaying  it  wisely ;  or  even  the 
brave  Rudolf  of  Hapsburg,  who  manfully  ac- 
complished both  these  duties,  had  other  work 
to  do  than   sweet  singing.     Gay   Wars  of  the 
Wartburg  were  now  changed  to  stern  Battles  of 
the  Marchfield ;  in  his  leisure  hours,  a  good  Em- 
peror, instead  of  twanging  harps,  must  hammer 
from  his  helmet  the  dints  it  had  got  in  his 
working  and  fighting  hours.*  Amid  such  rude 
tumults  the  Minne-Song  could  not  but  change 
its  scene  and  tone ;  if,  indeed,  it  continued  at 
all,  which, however,  it  scarcely  did;  for  now,  no 
longer  united  in  courtly  choir,  it  seemed  to  lose 
both  its  sweetness  and  its  force,  gradually  be- 
came mute,  or  in  remote  obscure  corners  lived 
on,  feeble  and  inaudible,  till  after  several  cen- 
turies, when,  under  a  new  title,  and  with  far 
inferior  claims,  it  again  solicits  some  notice 
from  us. 

Doubtless,  in  this  posture  of  affairs  political, 
the  progress  of  Literature  could  be  little  for- 
warded from  without;  in  some  directions,  as  in 
that  of  Court-Poetry,  we  may  admit  that  it  was 

*  It  was  on  this  famous  plain  of  the  Marchfield  that 
Ottocar,  King  of  Bohemia,  conquered  Beta  of  Hungary, 
in  1260 ;  and  was  himself,  in  1278,  conquered  and  slain 
bj'  Rudolf  of  Hapsburg,  at  that  time  much  left  to  his  own 
resources  ;  whose  talent  for  mending  helmets,  however, 
is  perhaps  but  a  poetical  tradition.  Curious,  moreover: 
it  was  here  again,  after  more  than  five  centuries,  that 
the  House  of  Hapsburg  received  its  worst  overthrow, 
and  from  a  new  and  greater  Rudolf,  namely,  from  Na- 
poleon, at  Waffram,  which  lies  in  the  middle  of  this 
same  Marchfield. 


364 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


obstructed  or  altogether  stopped.    But  why  not 
only  Court-Poetry,  but  Poetry  of  all  sorts  should 
have  declined,  and  as  it  were  gone  out,  is  quite 
another  question ;  to  which,  indeed,  as   men 
must  have  their  theory  on  every  thing,  answer 
has  often  been  attempted,  but  only  with  par- 
tial success.     To  most  of  the  German  Literary 
Historians  this   so  ungenial  condition  of  the 
Court  and  Government  appears  enough :  by  the 
warlike,  altogether  practical  character  of  Ru- 
dolf, by  the  imbecile  ambition  of  his  success- 
ors, by  the  general  prevalence  of  feuds  and 
lawless  disorder,  the  deathof  Poetry  seems  fully 
accounted  for.     In  which  conclusion  of  theirs, 
allowing  all  force  to  the  grounds  it  rests  on,  we 
cannot  but  perceive  that  there  lurks  some  fal- 
lacy; the  fallacy,  namely,  so  common  in  these 
times,  of  deducing  the  inward  and  spiritual  ex- 
clusively from  the  outward  and  material ;  of 
tacitly,  perhaps    unconsciously,  denying    all 
independent  force,  or  even  life,  to  the  former, 
and  looking  out  for  the  secret  of  its  vicissitudes 
solely  in  some  circumstance  belonging  to  the 
latter.     Now  it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated, 
where  it  continues  still  unknown  or  forgotten, 
that  man  has  a  soul  as  certainly  as  he  has  a 
body ;  nay,  much  more  certainly ;  that  properly 
it  is  the  course  of  his  unseen,  spiritual  life, 
which  informs  and  rules  his  external  visible 
life,  rather  than  receives  rule  from  it ;  in  which 
spiritual  life,  indeed,  and  not  in  any  outward 
action  or  condition  arising  from   it,  the  true 
secret  of  his  history  lies,  and  is  to  be  sought 
after,   and    indefinitely   approached.     Poetry, 
above  all,  we  should  have  known  long  ago,  is 
one  of  those  mysterious  things  whose  origin 
and  developments  never  can  be  what  we  call 
explained;  often  it  seems  to  us  like  the  wind, 
blowing  where  it  lists,  coming  and  departing 
with  little  or  no  regard  to  any  the  most  cunning 
theory  that  has  yet  been  devised  of  it.     Least 
of  all  does  it  seem  to  depend  on  court  patron- 
age, the  form  of  government,  or  any  modifica- 
tion of  politics  or  economics,  catholic  as  these 
influences  have  now  become  in  our  philosophy  : 
it  lives  in  a  snow-clad,  sulphureous  Iceland,  and 
not  in  a  sunny,  wine-growing  France ;  flour- 
ishes under  an  arbitrary  Elizabeth,  and  dies 
out  under  a  constitutional  George ;  Philip  II. 
has  his  Cervantes,  and  in  prison  ;  Washington 
and  Jackson   have   only   their   Coopers    and 
Browns.     Why  did  poetry  appear  so  brightly 
after  the  Battles  of  Thermopylae  and  Salamis, 
and  quite  turn  away  her  face  and  wings  from 
those  of  Lexington  and  Bunker's  Hilll     We 
answer,  the  Greeks  were  a  poetical  people,  the 
Americans  are  not ;  that  is  to  say,  it  appeared 
because  it  did  appear !    On  the  whole,  we  could 
desire  that  one  of  two  things  should  happen  : 
'Either  that  our  theories  and  genetic  histories 
of  Poetry  should  henceforth  cease,  and  man- 
kind rest  satisfied,  once  for  all,  with  Dr.  Ca- 
banis's  theory,  which  seems  to  be  the  simplest, 
that  "  Poetry  is  a  product  of  the  smaller  intes- 
tines," and  must  be  cultivated  medically  by  the 
exhibition  of  castor-oil :  Or  else  that,  in  future 
speculations  of  this  kind,  we  should  endeavour 
to  start  with  some  recognition  of  the  fact,  once 
well  known,  and  still  in  words  admitted,  that 
Poetry  is  Inspiration ;  has  in  it  a  certain  spi- 
rituality and  divinity  which  no  dissecting-knife 


will  discover;  arises  in  the  most  secret  and 
most  sacred  region  of  man's  soul,  as  it  were  in 
our  Holy  of  Holies  ;  and  as  for  external  things, 
depends  only  on  such  as  can  operate  in  that 
region  ;  among  which  it  will  be  found  that  Acts 
of  Parliament,  and  the  state  of  the  Smithfield 
markets,  nowise  play  the  chief  parts. 

With  regard  to  this  change  in  German  Lite- 
rature, especially,  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  the 
phenomenon  was  not  a  German,  but  a  Euro- 
pean one  ;  whereby  we  easily  infer,  so  much  at 
least,  that  the  roots  of  it  must  have  lain  deeper 
than  in  any  change  from  Hohenstaufl^en  Empe- 
rors to  Hapsburg  ones.  For  now  the  Trouba- 
dours and  Trouveres,  as  well  as  the  Minnesin- 
gers, were  sinking  into  silence;  the  world  seemed 
to  have  rhymed  itself  out ;  those  chivalrous 
roundelays,  heroic  tales,mythologies,and  quaint 
love-sicknesses,  had  grown  unprofitable  to  the 
ear.  In  fact.  Chivalry  itself  was  in  the  wane ; 
and  with  it  that  gay  melody,  like  its  other  pomp. 
More  earnest  business,  not  sportfully,  but  with 
harsh  endeavour,  was  now  to  be  done.  The 
graceful  minuet-dance  of  Fancy  must  give 
place  to  the  toilsome  thorny  pilgrimage  of  Un- 
derstanding. Life  and  its  appurtenances  and 
possessions,  which  had  been  so  admired  and 
besung,  now  disclosed,  the  more  they  came  to 
be  investigated,  the  more  contradictions.  The 
Church  no  longer  rose  with  its  pillars  "  like  a 
venerable  dome  over  the  united  flock ;"  but, 
more  accurately  seen  into,  was  a  straight  pri- 
son, full  of  unclean  creeping  things ;  against 
which  thraldom  all  better  spirits  could  not  but 
murmur  and  struggle.  Everywhere  greatness 
and  littleness  seemed  so  inexplicably  blended: 
Nature,  like  the  Sphinx,  her  emblem,  with  her 
fair  woman's  face  and  neck,  showed  also  the 
claws  of  a  Lioness.  Now  too  her  Riddle  had 
been  propounded;  and  thousands  of  subtle, 
disputatious  School-men  were  striving  earnest- 
ly to  read  it,  that  they  might  live,  morally  live, 
that  the  monster  might  not  devour  them.  These, 
like  strong  swimmers,  in  boundless  bottomless, 
vortices  of  Logic,  swam  manfully,  but  could  not 
get  to  land. 

On  a  better  course, yet  with  the  like  aim,  Phy- 
sical Science  was  also  unfolding  itself.  A 
Roger  Bacon,  an  Albert  the  Great,  are  cheer- 
ing appearances  in  this  era:  not  blind  to  the 
greatness  of  Nature,  yet  no  longer  with  poetic 
reverence  of  her,  but  venturing  fearlessly  into 
her  recesses,  and  extorting  from  her  many  a 
secret;  the  first  victories  of  that  long  series 
which  is  to  make  man  more  and  more  her  King. 
Thus  everywhere  we  have  the  image  of  con- 
test, of  efl^ort.  The  spirit  of  man,  which  once, 
in  peaceful,  loving  communion  with  the  Uni- 
verse, had  uttered  forth  its  gladness  in  Song, 
now  feels  hampered  and  hemmed  in,  and  strug- 
gles vehemently  to  make  itself  room.  Power 
is  the  one  thing  needful,  and  that  Knowledge 
which  is  Power:  thus  also  Intellect  becomes 
the  grand  faculty,  in  which  all  the  others  are 
well  nigh  absorbed. 

Poetry,  which  has  been  defined  as  "  the  har- 
monious unison  of  Man  with  Nature,"  could 
not  flourish  in  this  temper  of  the  times.  The 
number  of  poets,  or  rather  versifiers,  hence- 
forth greatly  diminishes  ;  their  style  also,  and 
topics,  are  diflferent  and  less  poetical.    Men 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


265 


wish  to  be  practically  instructed  rather  than 
poetically  amused  :  Poetry  itself  must  assume 
a    preceptorial   character,   and   teach  whole- 
some  saws  and  moral  maxims,  or  it  will  not 
be  listened  to.    Singing  for  the  Song's  sake 
is   now  nowhere  practised  ;  but  in  its  stead 
there  is  everywhere  the  jar  and  bustle  of  ar- 
gument,  investigation,    contentious    activity. 
Such  throughout  the  fourteenth  century  is  the 
general  aspect  of  mind  over  Europe.    In  Italy 
alone  is  there  a  splendid  exception :  the  mys- 
tic song  of  Dante,  with  its  sterne,  indignant 
moral,  is  followed  by  the  light  love-rhymes  of 
Petrarch,  the  Troubadour  of  Italy,  when  this 
class  was  extinct  elsewhere  :  the  master  minds 
of  that  country,  peculiar  in   its    social   and 
moral  condition,  still  more  in  its  relations  to 
classical  Antiquity,  pursue  a  course  of  their 
own.     But  only  the  master  minds  ;  for  Italy  too 
has  its  Dialecticians,  and  projectors,  and  reform- 
ers ;  nay,  after  Petrarch,  these  take  the  lead ;  and 
there,  as  elsewhere,  in  their  discords  and  loud 
assiduous  toil,  the  voice  of  Poetry  dies  away. 
To  search  out  the  causes  of  this  great  revo- 
lution, which  lie  not  in  Politics  nor  Statistics, 
would  lead  us  far  beyond  our  depth.     Mean- 
while let  us  remark  that  the  change  is  nowise 
to  be  considered  as  a  relapse,  or  fall  from  a 
higher  state  of  spiritual  culture  to  a  lower; 
but  rather,  so  far  as  we  have  objects  to  com- 
pare it  with,  as  a  quite  natural  progress  and 
higher  development  of  culture.    In  the  history 
of  the  universal  mind,  there  is  a  certain  ana- 
logy to  that  of  the  individual.     Our  first  self- 
consciousness  is  the  first  revelation  to  us  of  a 
whole  universe,  wondrous  and  altogether  good: 
it  is  a  feeling  of  joy  and  new-found  strength, 
of  mysterious   infinite  hope   and  capability; 
and  in  all  men,  either  by  word  or  act,  ex 
presses  itself  poetically.     The  world  without 
us  and  within  us,  beshone  by  the  young  light 
of  Love,  and  all  instinct  with  a  divinity,  is 
beautiful  and  great :  it  seems  for  us  a  bound- 
less happiness  that  we  are  privileged  to  live. 
This   is   the   season  of  generous   deeds   and 
feelings ;  which  also,  on  the  lips  of  the  gifted, 
form  themselves  into  musical  utterance,  and 
give  spoken  poetry  as  well  as  acted.     Nothing 
is  calculated  and  measured,  but  all  is  loved, 
believed,  appropriated.    All  action  is  sponta- 
neous ;  high  sentiment,  a  sure,  imperishable 
good:  and  thus  the  youth  stands,  like  the  First 
Man,  in  his  fair  Garden,  giving  Names  to  the 
bright  Appearances  of  this  Universe  which  he 
has  inherited,  and  rejoicing  in  it  as  glorious 
and   divine.    Ere    long,    however,    comes   a 
harsher  time.    Under  the  first  beauty  of  man's 
life  appears  an  infinite,  earnest  rigour ;  high 
sentiment  will  not  avail,  unless  it  can  con- 
tinue to  be  translated  into  noble  action  ;  which 
problem,  in   the   destiny   appointed   for  man 
born  to  toil,  is  difficult,  interminable,  capable 
of  only  approximate  solution.    What  flowed 
softly  in  melodious  coherence  when  seen  and 
sung  from  a  distance,  proves  rugged  and  un- 
manageable when   practically  handled.    The 
fervid,  lyrical  gladness  of  past  years   gives 
place  to  a  collected  thoughtfulness  and  energy; 
nay  often — so  painful,  so  unexpected  are  the 
contradictions  everywhere  met  with — to  gloom, 
sadness,  and  anger;  and  not  till  after  long^ 
84 


struggles  and  hard-contested  victories  is  the 
youth  changed  into  a  man. 

Without  pushing  the  comparison  too  far, 
we  may  say  that  in  the  culture  of  the  Euro- 
pean mind,  or  in  Literature,  which  is  the  sym- 
bol and  product  of  this,  a  certain  similarity 
of  progress  is  manifested.  That  tuneful  Chi- 
valry, that  high  cheerful  devotion  to  the  God- 
like in  heaven,  and  to  Women,  its  emblems 
on  earth;  those  Crusades  and  vernal  Love- 
songs  were  the  heroic  doings  of  the  world's 
youth ;  to  which  also  a  corresponding  man- 
hood succeeded.  Poetic  recognition  is  fol- 
lowed by  scientific  examination  :  the  reign  of 
Fancy,  with  its  gay  images,  and  graceful,  ca- 
pricious sports,  has  ended ;  and  now  Under- 
standing, which,  when  reunited  to  Poetry,  will 
one  day  become  Reason  and  a  nobler  Poetry, 
has  to  do  its  part.  Meantime,  while  there  is 
no  such  union,  but  a  more  and  more  widening 
controversy,  prosaic  discord  and  the  unmusi- 
cal sounds  of  labour  and  effort  are  alone  au- 
dible. 

The  era  of  the  Troubadours,  who  in  Ger- 
many are  the  Minnesingers,  gave  place  in 
that  country,  as  in  all  others,  to  a  period  which 
we  might  name  the  Didactic ;  for  Literature 
now  ceased  to  be  a  festal  melody,  and  address 
ing  itself  rather  to  the  intellect  than  to  the 
heart,  became  as  it  were  a  school  lesson.  In- 
stead of  that  cheerful,  warbling  Song  of  Love 
and  Devotion,  wherein  nothing  was  taught, 
but  all  was  believed  and  worshipped,  we  have 
henceforth  only  wise  Apologues,  Fables,  Sa- 
tires, Exhortations,  and  all  manner  of  edifying 
Moralities.  Poetry,  indeed,  continued  still  to 
be  the  form  of  composition  for  all  that  can  be 
named  Literature,  except  Chroniclers,  and 
others  of  that  genus,  valuable  not  as  doers  of 
the  work,  but  as  witnesses  of  the  work  done, 
these  Teachers  all  wrote  in  verse :  neverthe- 
less, in  general  there  are  few  elements  of 
Poetry  in  their  performances :  the  internal 
structure  has  nothing  poetical,  it  is  a  mere 
business-like  prose:  in  the  rhyme  alone,  at 
most  in  the  occasional  graces  of  expression, 
could  we  discover  that  it  reckoned  itself  po- 
etical. In  fact  we  may  say  that  Poetry,  in  the 
old  sense,  had  now  altogether  gone  out  of 
sight:  instead  of  her  heavenly  vesture  and 
Ariel-harp,  she  had  put  on  earthly  weeds,  and 
walked  abroad  with  ferula  and  horn-book.  It 
was  long  before  this  new  guise  would  sit  well 
on  her;  only  in  late  centuries  that  she  could 
f^ashion  it  into  beauty,  and  learn  to  move  with 
it,  and  mount  with  it  gracefully  as  of  old. 

Looking  now  more  specially  to  our  histori- 
cal task,  if  we  inquire  how  far  into  the  subse- 
quent time  this  Didactic  Period  extended,  no 
precise  answer  can  well  be  given.  On  this 
side  there  seem  no  positive  limits  to  it;  with 
many  superficial  modifications,  the  same  fun- 
damental element  pervades  all  spiritual  eflforts 
of  mankind  through  the  following  centuries. 
We  may  say  that  it  is  felt  even  in  the  Poetry 
of  our  own  time ;  nay,  must  be  felt  through 
all  time  ;  inasmuch  as  Inquiry  once  awakened 
cannot  fall  asleep,  or  exhaust  itself;  thus 
Literature  must  continue  to  have  a  didactic 
character;  and  the  Poet  of  these  days  is  he 
who,  not  indeed  by  mechanical  but  by  poetical 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


methods,  can  instruct  us,  can  more  and  more 
evolve  for  us  the  mystery  of  our  Life.  How- 
ever, after  a  certain  space,  this  Didactic  Spirit 
in  Literature  cannot,  as  an  historical  partition 
and  landmark,  be  available  here.  At  the  era 
of  the  Reformation,  it  reaches  its  acme  ;  and, 
in  singular  shapes,  steps  forth  on  the  high 
places  of  Public  Business,  and  amid  storms 
and  lhunder,not  without  brightness  and  true  fire 
from  Heaven,  conclusively  renovates  the  world. 
This  is,  as  it  were,  the  apotheosis  of  the  Didac- 
tic Spirit,  where  it  first  attains  a  really  poetical 
concentration,  and  stimulates  mankind  into  he- 
roism of  word  and  of  action  also.  Of  the  lat- 
ter, indeed,  still  more  than  of  the  former ;  for 
not  till  a  much  more  recent  time,  almost  till  our 
own  time,  has  Inquiry  in  some  measure  again 
reconciled  itself  to  Belief;  and  Poetry,  though 
in  detached  tones,  arisen  on  us,  as  a  true  mu- 
sical Wisdom.  Thus  is  the  deed,  in  certain 
circumstances,  readier  and  greater  than  the 
word :  Action  strikes  fiery  light  from  the 
rocks  it  has  to  hew  through ;  Poetry  reposes 
in  the  skyey  splendour  which  that  rough  pas- 
sage has  led  to.  But  after  Luther's  day,  this 
Didactic  Tendency  again  sinks  to  a  lower 
level;  mingles  with  manifold  other  tenden- 
cies ;  among  which,  admitting  that  it  still 
forms  the  main  stream,  it  is  no  longer  so  pre- 
eminent, positive,  and  universal,  as  properly 
to  characterize  the  whole.  For  minor  Periods 
and  subdivisions  in  Literary  History,  other 
more  superficial  characteristics  must,  from 
time  to  time,  be  fixed  on. 

Neither,  examining  the  other  limit  of  this 
Period,  can  we  say  specially  where  it  begins ; 
for,  as  usual  in  these  things,  it  begins  not  at 
once,  but  by  degrees ;  Kings'  reigns  and 
changes  in  the  form  of  Government  have  their 
day  and  date;  not  so  changes  in  the  spiritual 
condition  of  a  people.  The  Minnesinger  Pe- 
riod and  the  Didactic  may  be  said  to  commin- 
gle, as  it  were,  to  overlap  each  other,  for  above 
a  century:  some  writers  partially  belonging 
to  the  latter  class  occur  even  prior  to  the 
times  of  Friedrich  II.;  and  a  certain  echo  of 
the  Minne-Song  had  continued  down  to  Ma- 
nesse's  day,  under  Ludwig  the  Bavarian. 

Thus  from  the  Minnesingers  to  the  Church 
Reformers,  we  have  a  wide  space  of  between 
two  and  three  centuries;  in  which,  of  course, 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  do  more  than  point 
out  one  or  two  of  the  leading  appearances  ;  a 
minute  survey  and  exposition  being  foreign 
from  our  object. 

Among  the  Minnesingers  themselves,  as  al- 
ready hinted,  there  are  not  wanting  some  with 
an  occasionally  didactic  character ;  Gottfried 
of  Strasburg,  known  also  as  a  translator  of 
Sir  Tristrem,  and  two  other  Singers,  Reinmar 
von  Zweter,  and  Walter  von  der  Vogelweide,  are 
noted  in  this  respect ;  the  last  two  especially, 
for  their  oblique  glances  at  the  Pope  and  his 
Monks,  the  unsound  condition  of  which  body 
could  not  escape  even  a  Love-minstrel's  eye.* 

*  Reinmar  Von  Zweter,  for  example,  says  once  : 
Har  und  hart  naeh  Klostersitten  gesnitten 
Des  vind  ieh  genvog, 

leh  vinde  aher  der  vit  vil  dies  rehte  tragen ; 
Halb  visfh  halb  man  ist  vigch  noch  man, 
Oar  visch  ist  visch,  gar  man  ist  wicn, 
^Is  ieh  erkennen  Kan  t 


But  perhaps  the  special  step  of  transition  may 
be  still  better  marked  in  the  works  of  a  rhymer 
named  the  Strirker,  whose  province  was  the 
epic,  or  narrative;  into  which  he  seems  to 
have  introduced  this  new  character  in  unusual 
measure.  As  the  Strieker  still  retains  some 
shadow  of  a  place  in  Literary  History,  the 
following  notice  of  him  may  be  borrowed  here. 
Of  his  personal  history,  it  may  be  premised, 
nothing  whatever  is  known  ;  not  even  why  he 
bears  this  title ;  unless  it  be,  as  some  have 
fancied,  that  Strieker,  which  now  signifies 
A'm"«er,  in  those  days  meant  Schriber,  (Writer:) 
"In  truth,"  says  Bouterwek,  "this  pains- 
taking man  was  more  a  writer  than  a  Poet,  yet 
not  altogether  without  talent  in  that  latter  way. 
Voluminous  enough,  at  least,  is  his  redaction 
of  an  older  epic  work  on  the  War  of  Charle- 
magne uith  the  Saracens  in  Spam,  ihe  old  German 
original  of  which  is  perhaps  nothing  more 
than  a  translation  from  the  Latin  or  French. 
Of  a  Poet  in  the  Strieker's  day,  when  the  ro- 
mantic Epos  had  attained  such  polish  among 
the  Germans,  one  might  have  expected  that 
this  ancient  Fiction,  since  he  was  pleased  to 
remodel  it,  would  have  served  as  the  material 
to  a  new  poetic  creation ;  or  at  least,  that  he 
would  have  breathed  into  it  some  new  and  more 
poetic  spirit.  But  such  a  development  of  these 
Charlemagne  Fables  was  reserved  for  the 
Italian  Poets.  The  Strieker  has  not  only  left 
the  matter  of  the  old  Tale  almost  unaltered, 
but  has  even  brought  out  its  unpoetical  linea- 
ments in  stronger  light.  The  fanatical  piety 
with  which  it  is  overloaded  probably  appeared 
to  him  its  chief  merit.  To  convert  these  cast- 
away Heathens,  or  failing  this,  to  annihilate 
them,  Charlemagne  takes  the  field.  Next  to 
him,  the  hero  Roland  plays  a  main  part  there. 
Consultations  are  held,  ambassadors  negotiate  ; 
war  breaks  out  with  all  its  terrors  :  the  Hea- 
then fought  stoutly:  at  length  comes  the  well 
known  defeat  of  the  Franks  at  Ronceval,  or 
Roncevaux ;  where,  however,  the  Saracens 
also  lose  so  many  men,  that  their  King  Mar- 
silies  dies  of  grief.  The  Narrative  is  divided 
into  chapters,  each  chapter  again  into  sections, 

Von  hofmunchen  und  von  Klosterrittern 

Kan  ieh  niht  gesagen  : 

Hofmunchen,  Klosterrittern,  diesen  beiden 

Wolt  ieh  reht  ze  rehte  wol  beseheiden, 

Ob  sie  sich  wolten  lassen  vinden. 

Da  sie  ze  rehte  solten  icesen ; 

In  Kloster  munche  solten  genesen. 

So  suln  des  hofs  sieh  ritter  unterwinden. 

Hair  and  beard  cut  in  the  cloister  fashion 

Of  this  find  I  enough, 

But  of  those  that  wear  it  well  I  find  not  many  ; 

Half-fish  half-man  is  neither  fish  nor  man, 

Whole  fish  is  fish,  whole  man  is  man, 

As  I  discover  can  : 

Of  court-monks  and  of  cloister-knights 

Can  1  not  speak  : 

Court-monks,  cloister-knights,  these  both 

Would  I  rightly  put  to  rights, 

Whether  they  would  let  themselves  be  found 

Where  they  by  right  should  be  ; 

In  their  cloister  monks  should  flourish, 

And  knights  obey  at  court. 

See  also  in  Fidget,  (Geschichte  der  Romischen  Littera- 
«Mr,  b.  iii.  s.  11,)  immediately  following  this  Extract,  a 
formidable  dinner-course  of  Lies, — boiled  lies,  roast^ 
lies,  lies  with  safl'ron,  forced-meat  lies,  and  other  va- 
rieties, arranged  by  this  same  artist  j— farther,  (in  page 
9,)  a  rather  gallant  onslaught  from  Walter  von  der  Vo- 
gelweide, on  the  Babest  (Pope,  Pa-pst)  himself.  All 
this  was  before  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


267 


an  epitome  of  which  is  always  given  at  the 
outset.  Miracles  occur  in  the  story,  but  for 
most  part  only  such  as  tend  to  evince  how  God 
himself  inspirited  the  Christians  against  the 
Heathen.  Of  any  thing  like  free,  bold  flights 
of  imagination  there  is  little  to  be  met  with : 
the  higher  features  of  the  genuine  romantic 
epos  are  altogether  wanting.  In  return,  it  has 
a  certain  didactic  temper,  which,  indeed,  an- 
nounces itself  even  in  the  Introduction.  The 
latter,  it  should  be  added,  prepossesses  us  in 
the  Poet's  favour ;  testifying  with  what  warm 
interest  the  noble  and  great  in  man's  life  affect- 
ed him."* 

The  Walsche  Gast  (Italian  Guest)  of  Zirkler 
or  Tirkeler,  who  professes,  truly  or  not,  to  be 
from  Friuli,  and,  as  a  benevolent  stranger,  or 
Guest,  tells  the  Germans  hard  truths  somewhat 
in  the  spirit  of  Juvenal ;  even  the  famous 
Meister  Freidank,  (Master  Freethought,)  with 
his  wise  Book  of  rhymed  Maxims,  entitled 
Die  JBescheidenheit,  (Modesty ;)  still  more  the 
sagacious  Tyro,  King  of  Scots,  quite  omitted  in 
history,  but  who  teaches  Friedebrand,  his  Son, 
with  some  discrimination,  how  to  choose  a 
good  priest ; — all  these,  with  others  of  still 
thinner  substance,  rise  before  us  only  as  faint 
shadows,  and  must  not  linger  in  our  field  of 
vision.  Greatly  the  most  important  figure  in 
the  earlier  part  of  this  era  is  Hugo  von  Trim- 
berg,  to  whom  we  must  now  turn  ;  author  of 
various  poetico-preceptorial  works,  one  of 
which,  named  the  Renner,  (Runner,)  has  long 
been  known  not  only  to  antiquarians,  but,  in 
some  small  degree,  even  to  the  general  reader. 
Of  Hugo's  Biography  he  has  himself  inciden- 
tally communicated  somewhat.  His  surname 
he  derives  from  Trimberg,  his  birth-place,  a 
village  on  the  Saale,  not  far  from  Wurzburg, 
in  Franconia.  By  profession  he  appears  to 
have  been  a  Schoolmaster  :  in  the  conclusion 
of  his  Renner,  he  announces  that  "  he  kept 
school  for  forty  years  at  Thiirstadt,  near  Bam- 
berg ;"  farther,  that  his  Book  was  finished  in 
1300,  which  date  he  confirms  by  other  local 
circumstances. 

Der  dies  Buch  gedichtet  hat, 

Der  pflag  def  schlen  zu  Thiirstat. 

Vieriig  jar  vor  Babenberg, 

Und  heiss  Hugo  von  Trymberg. 

Es  ward  follenbracht  das  ist  wahr, 

Da  tausent  und  dreyhundert  jar 

J^Tach  Christus  Oeburt  vergangen  waren, 

Drithalbs  jar  gleich  vor  den  jaren 

Da  die  Juden  in  Franken  wurden  erschlagen. 

Bey  der  zeit  und  t?i  den  tagcn, 

Da  bisckoff  Leopolt  bischoff  was 

Zu  Babenberg. 

Some  have  supposed  that  the  Schoolmaster 
dignity,  claimed  here,  refers  not  to  actual 
wielding  of  the  birch,  but  to  a  Mastership  and 
practice  of  instructing  in  the  art  of  Poetry, 
which  about  this  time  began  to  have  its  scho- 
lars and  even  guild-brethren,  as  the  feeble  rem- 
nants of  Minne-Song  gradually  took  the  new 


♦Bouterwek,  ix.  245.  Other  versified  Narratives  by 
this  worthy  Strirker  stWl  exist,  but  for  the  most  part  only 
in  manuscript.  Of  these  the  History  of  IVilhelm  von 
Blumethal,  a  Round-table  adventurer,  appears  to  be  the 
principal.  The  Poem  on  Charlemagne  stands  printed  in 
Schilter's  Thesaurus  ;  iti  exact  date  is  matter  only  of 
conjecture. 


shape,  in  which  we  afterwards  see  it,  of  Meister- 
gesang,  (Master-song:)  but  for  this  hypothesis, 
so  plain  are  Hugo's  own  words,  there  seems 
little  foundation.  It  is  uncertain  v/hether  he 
was  a  clerical  personage,  certain  enough  that 
he  was  not  a  monk :  at  all  events,  he  must 
have  been  a  man  of  reading  and  knowledge; 
industrious  in  study,  and  superior  in  literary 
acquirement  to  most  in  that  time.  By  a  col- 
lateral account,  we  find  that  he  had  gathered  a 
library  of  two  hundred  Books  ;  among  which 
were  a  whole  dozen  by  himself,  five  in  Latin, 
seven  in  German,  hoping  that  by  means  of 
these,  and  the  furtherance  they  would  yield  in 
the  pedagogic  craft,  he  might  live  at  ease,  in 
his  old  days  ;  in  which  hope,  however,  he  had 
been  disappointed :  seeing,  as  himself  rather 
feelingly  complains, "  no  one  now  cares  to  study 
knowledge,  (Kunst,)  which,  nevertheless,  de- 
serves honour  and  favour."  What  these  twelve 
Books  of  Hugo's  own  writing  were,  can,  for 
most  part,  only  be  conjectured.  Of  one,  en- 
titled the  Sammler,  (Collector,)  he  himself 
makes  mention  in  the  Renner :  he  had  begun  it 
about  thirty  years  before  this  latter :  but  hav- 
ing by  ill  accident  lost  great  part  of  his  manu- 
script, abandoned  it  in  anger.  Of  another 
work  Flcigel  has  discovered  the  following  notice 
in  Johann  Wolf: 

"About  this  time  (1599)  did  that  virtuous 
and  learned  nobleman,  Conrad  von  Liebenslein, 
present  to  me  a  manuscript  of  Hugo  von  Trjm- 
berg,  who  flourished  about  the  year  1300.  It 
sets  forth  the  short-comings  of  all  ranks,  and 
especially  complains  of  the  clergy.  It  is  en- 
titled Reu  ins  Land,  (Repentance  to  the  Land  ;) 
and  now  lies  with  the  Lord  of  Zillhart."* 

The  other  ten  appear  to  have  vanished  even 
to  the  last  vestige. 

Such  is  the  whole  sum-total  of  information 
which  the  assiduity  of  commentators  has  col- 
lected touching  worthy  Hugo's  life  and  for- 
tunes. Pleasant  it  were  to  see  him  face  to 
face ;  gladly  would  we  penetrate  through  that 
long  vista  of  five  hundred  years,  and  peep  into 
his  book-presses,  his  frugal  fireside,  his  noisy 
mansion  with  its  disobedient  urchins,  now  that 
it  has  all  grown  so  silent;  but  the  distance  is 
too  far,  the  intervening  medium  intercepts  our 
light ;  only  in  uncertain,  fluctuating  dusk,  will 
Hugo  and  his  environment  appear  to  us.  Ne- 
vertheless Hugo,  as  he  had  in  Nature,  has  in 
History,  an  immortal  part;  as  to  his  inward 
man,  we  can  still  see  that  he  was  no  mere  book- 
worm, or  simple  Parson  Adams ;  but  of  most 
observant  eye  ;  shrewd,  inquiring,  considerate, 
who  from  his  Thiirstadt  school-chair,  as  from 
his  sedes  exploratorio,  had  looked  abroad  into  the 
world's  business,  and  formed  his  own  theory 
about  many  things.  A  cheerful,  gentle  heart 
had  been  given  him;  a  quiet,  sly  humour; 
light  to  see  beyond  the  garments  and  outer 
hulls  of  Life  into  Life  itself:  the  long-necked 
purse,  the  threadbare  gabardine,  the  languidly- 
simmering  pot  of  his  pedagogic  household 
establishment  were  a  small  matter  to  him  :  he 
was  a  man  to  look  on  these  things  with  a 
meek   smile;  to  nestle   down  quietly,  as  the 


» F15gel,  (ili.  15,)  who  quotes  for  it,  Wolfii  I.extc«1^ 
JVenorab,  t.  it  p.  1061, 


268 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


lark,  in  the  lowest  furrow ;  nay,  to  mount 
therefrom  singing,  and  soar  above  all  mere 
earthly  heights.  How  many  potentates,  and 
principalities,  and  proud  belligerents  have 
evaporated  into  utter  oblivion,  while  the  poor 
Thiirstadt  Schoolmaster  still  holds  together  ! 

This  Renner,  which  seems  to  be  his  final 
work,  probably  comprises  the  essence  of  all 
those  lost  Volumes  :  and  indeed  a  synopsis  of 
Hugo's  whole  Philosophy  of  Life,  such  as  his 
two  hundred  books  and  long  decades  of  quiet 
observation  and  reflection  had  taught  him. 
Why  it  has  been  named  the  Renner,  whether 
by  Hugo  himself,  or  by  some  witty  editor  and 
Transcriber,  there  are  two  guesses  forthcom- 
ing, and  no  certain  reason.  One  guess  is  that 
this  Book  was  to  run  after  the  lost  Tomes,  and 
make  good  to  mankind  the  deficiency  occa- 
sioned by  want  of  them  ;  which  happy  thought, 
hidebound  though  it  be,  might  have  seemed 
sprightly  enough  to  Hugo  and  that  age.  The  se- 
cond guess  is  that  our  author,  in  the  same  style 
of  easy  wit,  meant  to  say  this  book  must 
hasten  and  run  out  into  the  world,  and  do  him 
a  good  turn  quickly,  while  it  was  yet  time,  he 
being  so  very  old.  But  leaving  this,  we  may 
Remark,  with  certainty  enough,  that  what  we 
have  left  of  Hugo  was  first  printed  under  this 
title  of  Renner,  at  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  in 
1549  ;  and  quite  incorrectly,  being  modernized 
to  all  lengths,  and  often  without  understanding 
of  the  sense;  the  Edition  moreover  is  now 
rare,  and  Lessing's  project  of  a  new  one  did 
not  take  effect;  so  that,  except  in  Manuscripts, 
of  which  there  are  many,  and  in  printed  Ex- 
tracts, which  also  are  numerous,  the  Renner 
is  to  most  readers  a  sealed  book. 

In  regard  to  its  literary  merit  opinions  seem 
to  be  nearly  unanimous.  The  highest  merit, 
that  of  poetical  unity,  or  even  the  lower  merit 
of  logical  unity,  is  not  ascribed  to  it  by  the 
warmest  panegyrist.  Apparently  this  work 
had  been  a  kind  of  store-chest,  wherein  the 
good  Hugo  had,  from  time  to  time,  deposited 
the  fruits  of  his  meditation  as  they  chanced 
to  ripen  for  him ;  here  a  little,  and  there  a  little, 
in  all  varieties  of  kind;  till  the  chest  being 
filled,  or  the  fruits  nearly  exhausted,  it  was 
sent  forth  and  published  to  the  world,  by  the 
easy  process  of  turning  up  the  bottom. 

"  No  theme,"  says  Bouterwek,  "  leads  with 
certainty  to  the  other;  satirical  descriptions, 
proverbs,  fables,  jests,  and  other  narratives  all 
huddled  together  at  random,  to  teach  us  in  a 
poetical  way  a  series  of  moral  lessons.  A 
strained  and  frosty  Allegory  opens  the  work  : 
then  follows  the  chapter  of  Meyden,  (Maids  ;) 
of  Wicked  Masters ;  of  Pages ;  of  Priests, 
Monks,  and  Friars,  with  great  minuteness  : 
then  of  a  young  Minx  with  an  Old  Man ;  then 
of  Bad  Landlords,  and  of  Robbers.  Next  come 
divers  Virtues  and  Vices,  all  painted  out,  and 
judged  of.  Towards  the  end,  there  follows  a 
sort  of  Moral  Natural  History  ;  Considerations 
on  the  dispositions  of  various  Animals  ;  a  little 
Botany  and  Physiology  ;  then  again  all  manner 
of  didactic  Narratives ;  and  finally  a  Medita- 
tion on  the  Last  Day." 

Whereby  it  would  appear  clearly,  as  hinted, 
that  Hugo's  Runner  pursues  no  straight  course ; 
and  only  through  the  most  labyriuthic  mazes, 


here  wandering  in  deep  thickets,  or  even 
sinking  in  moist  bogs,  there  panting  over 
mountain-tops  by  narrow  sheep  tracks ;  but 
for  most  part  jigging  lightly  on  sunny  greens, 
accomplishes  his  wonderful  journey. 

Nevertheless,  as  we  ourselves  can  testify, 
there  is  a  certain  charm  in  the  worthy  man ; 
his  work,  such  as  it  is,  seems  to  flow  direct 
from  the  heart,  in  natural,  spontaneous  abun- 
dance;  is  at  once  cheerful  and  earnest;  his 
own  simple,  honest,  mildly-decided  character 
is  everywhere  visible.  Besides,  Hugo,  as  we 
said,  is  a  person  of  understanding;  has  looked 
over  many  provinces  of  Life,  not  without  in- 
sight ;  in  his  quiet,  sly  way,  can  speak  forth  a 
shrewd  word  on  occasion.  There  is  a  genuine 
though  slender  vein  of  Humour  in  him;  nor 
in  his  satire  does  he  ever  lose  temper,  but  re- 
bukes sportfully;  not  indeed  laughing  aloud, 
scarcely  even  sardonically  smiling,  yet  with  a 
certain  subdued  roguery,  and  patriarchal  know- 
ingness.  His  fancy  too,  if  not  brilliant,  is 
copious  almost  beyond  measure  ;  no  end  to  his 
crotchets,  suppositions,  minute  specifications. 
Withal  he  is  original ;  his  maxims,  even  when 
professedly  borrowed,  have  passed  through  the 
test  of  his  own  experience ;  all  carries  in  it 
some  stamp  of  his  personality.  Thus  the 
Renner,  though  in  its  whole  extent  perhaps  too 
boundless  and  planless  for  ordinary  nerves, 
makes,  in  the  fragmentary  state,  no  unpleasant 
reading :  that  old  doggerel  is  not  without  sig- 
nificance ;  often  in  its  straggling,  broken,  en- 
tangled strokes  some  vivid  antique  picture  is 
strangely  brought  out  for  us. 

As  a  specimen  of  Hugo's  general  manner, 
we  select  a  small  portion  of  his  Chapter  on 
The  Maidens;  that  passage  where  he  treats  of 
the  highest  enterprise  a  maiden  can  engage  in, 
the  choosing  of  a  husband.  It  will  be  seen  at 
once  that  Hugo  is  no  Minnesinger,  glozing  his 
fair  audience  with  madrigals  and  hypocritical 
gallantry ;  but  a  quiet  Natural  Historian,  re- 
porting such  facts  as  he  finds,  in  perfect  good 
nature,  it  is  true,  yet  not  without  an  under-cur- 
rent of  satirical  humour.  His  quaint  style  of 
thought,  his  garrulous  minuteness  of  detail,  are 
partly  apparent  here.  The  first  few  lines  we 
may  give  in  the  original  also;  not  as  they 
stand  in  the  Frankfort  edition,but  as  professing 
to  derive  themselves  from  a  genuine  ancient 
source : 

Korttyn  mut  und  lange  haar 

han  die  meyde  sunderbar 

dy  zu  yrenjaren  kommen  synt 

dy  loal  machen  yn  dai  hertze  blynt 

dy  auchgn  icyren  yn  den  weg 

von  den  auchgn  get  eyn  steg 

tzu  dem  hertzen  nit  gar  lang 

vff  deme  stege  ist  vyl  mannig  gedang 

wen  sy  woln  memen  oder  nit.* 

Short  of  sense  and  long  of  hair, 
Strange  enough  the  maidens  are  j 
Once  they  to  their  teens  have  got, 
Such  a  clioosing,  this  or  that : 
Eyes  they  have  that  ever  spy. 
From  the  Eyes  a  Path  doth  lie 
To  the  Heart,  and  is  not  long, 
Hereon  travel  thoughts  a  throng, 
Whomso  they  will  have  or  not, 

♦  Horn,  Oeschichte,  und  Kritik  der  deutschen  Poesie^ 
8,  44. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


"Wo*s  me,"  continues  Hugo,  "how  often 
this  same  is  repeated ;  till  they  grow  all  con- 
fused how  to  choose,  from  so  many,  whom 
they  have  brought  in  without  number.  First 
they  bethink  them  so :  This  one  is  short,  that 
one  is  long;  he  is  courtly  and  old,  the  other 
young  and  ill-favoured :  this  is  lean,  that  is 
bald,  here  is  one  fat,  there  one  thin ;  this  is 
noble,  that  is  weak  ;  he  never  yet  broke  a 
spear:  one  is  white,  another  black ;  that  other  is 
named  Master  Hack,  (hartz ;)  this  is  pale,  that 
again  is  red ;  he  seldom  eateth  cheerful  bread ;" 
and  so  on,  through  endless  other  varieties,  in 
new  streams  of  soft-murmuring  doggerel, 
whereon,  as  on  the  Path  it  would  represent,  do 
travel  thoughts  a  throng,  whomso  these  fair 
irresolutes  will  have  or  not. 

Thus,  for  Hugo,  the  age  of  Minstrelsy  is 
gone:  not  soft  Love-ditties,  and  Hymns  of 
Lady-worship,  but  a  skeptical  criticism,  im- 
portunate animadversion,  not  without  a  shade 
of  mockery,  will  he  indite.  The  age  of  Chivalry 
is  gone  also.  To  a  Schoolmaster,  with  empty 
larder,  the  pomp  of  tournaments  could  never 
have  been  specially  interesting;  but  now  such 
passages  of  arms,  how  free  and  gallant  soever, 
appear  to  him  no  other  than  the  probable  pro- 
duct of  delirium.  "God  might  well  laugh, 
could  it  be,"  says  he,  "  to  see  his  mannikins 
live  so  wondrously  on  this  Earth:  two  of 
them  will  take  to  fighting,  and  nowise  let  it 
alone  ;  nothing  serves  but  with  two  long  spears 
they  must  ride  and  stick  at  one  another 
greatly  to  their  hurt;  when  one  is  by  the  other 
skewered  through  the  bowels  or  through  the 
weasand,  he  hath  small  profit  thereby.  But 
who  forced  them  to  such  straits "?"  The  an- 
swer is  too  plain:  some  modification  of  In- 
sanity. Nay,  so  contemptuous  is  Hugo  of  all 
chivalrous  things,  that  he  openly  grudges 
any  time  spent  in  reading  of  them.  In  Don 
Quixote's  Library  he  would  have  made  short 
work : 

How  Master  Dietrich  fought  with  Ecken, 
And  how  of  old  the  Stalwart  Recken 
Were  all  by  women's  craft  betrayed : 
Such  things  you  oft  hear  sung  and  said, 
And  wept  at,  like  a  case  of  sorrow  ;— 
Of  our  own  sins  we'll  think  to-morrow. 

This  last  is  one  of  Hugo's  darker  strokes ; 
for  commonly,  though  moral  perfection  is 
ever  the  one  thing  needful  with  him,  he 
preaches  in  a  quite  cheerful  tone ;  nay,  ever 
and  anon,  enlivens  us  with  some  timely  joke. 
Considerable  part,  and  apparently  much  the 
best  part,  of  his  work  is  occupied  with  satirical 
Fables,  and  Schwdnke  (jests,  comic  tales ;)  of 
which  latter  classes  we  have  seen  some  pos- 
sessing true  humour,  and  the  simplicity  which 
is  their  next  merit.  These,  however,  we  must 
wholly  omit ;  and  indeed,  without  farther  par- 
leying, here  part  company  with  Hugo.  We 
leave  him,  not  without  esteem,  and  a  touch  of 
affection  due  to  one  so  true-hearted,  and,  under 
that  old  humble  guise,  so  gifted  with  intellectual 
talent.  Safely  enough  may  be  conceded  him 
the  dignity  of  chief  moral  Poet  of  his  time ; 
nay,  perhaps,  for  his  solid  character,  and 
modest  manly  ways,  a  much  higher  dignity. 
Though  his  Book  can  no  longer  be  considered, 


what  the  Frankfort  Editor  describes  it  in  his 
interminable  title-page,  as  a  universal  vade- 
mecum  for  mankind,  it  is  still  so  adorned  with 
many  fine  sayings,  and  in  itself  of  so  curious 
a  texture,  that  it  seems  well  worth  preserving. 
A  proper  Edition  of  the  Renner  will  one  day- 
doubtless  make  its  appearance  among  the 
Germans.  Hugo  is  further  remarkable  as  the 
precursor  and  prototype  of  Sebastian  Brandt, 
whose  Narrenschiff  (Ship  of  Fools)  has,  with 
perhaps  less  merit,  had  infinitely  better  fortune 
than  the  Renner. 

Some  half  century  later  in  date,  and  no  less 
didactic  in  character  than  Hugo's  Renner, 
another  work,  still  rising  visible  above  the 
level  of  those  times,  demands  some  notice 
from  us.  This  is  the  Edelstein  (Gem)  of  Bone- 
rius,  or  Boner,  which  at  one  time,  to  judge 
by  the  number  of  Manuscripts,  whereof  four- 
teen are  still  in  existence,  must  have  enjoyed 
great  popularity;  and  indeed,  after  long  years 
of  oblivion,  it  has,  by  recent  critics  and  redac- 
tors, been  again  brought  into  some  circulation. 
Boner's  Gem  is  a  collection  of  a  Hundred 
Fables  done  into  German  rhyme ;  and  derives 
its  proud  designation  not  more  perhaps  from 
the  supposed  excellence  of  the  work,  than 
from  a  witty  allusion  to  the  title  of  Fable  First, 
which,  in  the  chief  Manuscript,  chances  to  be 
that  well-known  one  of  the  Cock  scraping  for 
Barleycorns,  and  finding  instead  there  a  pre- 
cious stone  {Edelstein)  or  Gem:  Von  einem 
Hanen  vmd  dem  Edelen  steine;  whereupon  the 
author,  or  some  kind  friend,  remarks  in  a  sort 
of  Prologue : 

Dies  Buchlein  mag  der  Edelstein 

Wol  heiszen  wand  es  in  treit  (in  sick  trSgt) 

Bischaft  (Beispiel)  manger  kluogheit. 

"This  Bookling  may  well  be  called  the 
Gem,  sith  it  includes  examples  of  many  a  pru- 
dence:"— which  name,  accordingly,  as  we  see, 
it  bears  even  to  thi^  day. 

Boner  and  his  Fables  have  given  rise  to 
much  discussion  among  the  Germans:  scat- 
tered at  short  distances  throughout  the  last 
hundred  years,  there  is  a  series  of  Selections, 
Editions,  Translations,  Critical  Disquisitions, 
some  of  them  in  the  shape  of  Academic  Pro- 
gram ;  among  the  labourers  in  which  enter- 
prise we  find  such  men  as  Gellert  and  Les- 
sing.  A  Bonerii  Gemma,  or  Latin  version  of  the 
work,  was  published  by  Oberlin,  in  1782  ;  Es- 
chenburg  sent  forth  an  Edition  in  modern 
German,  in  1810;  Benecke  a  reprint  of  the 
antique  original,  in  1816.  So  that  now  a 
faithful  duty  has  been  done  to  Boner;  and 
what  with  Bibliographical  Inquiries,  what 
with  vocabularies  and  learned  collations  of 
Texts,  he  that  runs  may  read  whatever  stands 
written  in  the  Gem, 

Of  these  diligent  lucubrations,  with  which 
we  strangers  are  only  in  a  remote  degree  con- 
cerned, it  will  be  sufficient  here  to  report  in 
few  words  the  main  results, — not  indeed  very 
difficult  to  report.  First  then,  with  regard  to 
Boner  himself,  we  have  to  say  that  nothing 
whatever  has  been  discovered  :  who,  when,  or 
what  that  worthy  moralist  was,  remains,  and 
may  always  remain,  entirely  imcertaio.  It  is 
z  2 


S70 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


merely  conjectured,  from  the  dialect,  and  other 
more  minute  indications,  that  his  place  of 
abode  was  the  north-west  quarter  of  Switzer- 
land ;  with  still  higher  probability  that  he 
lived  about  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury; from  his  learning  and  devout  pacific 
temper,  some  have  inferred  that  he  was  a 
monk  or  priest ;  however,  in  one  Manuscript 
of  his  Gem^  he  is  designated,  apparently  by 
some  ignorant  Transcriber,  a  knight,  ein  Ritter 
gotz  alsus :  from  all  which,  as  above  said,  our 
only  conclusion  is,  that  nothing  can  be  con- 
cluded. 

Johann  Scherz,  about  the  year  1710,  in 
what  he  called  Philosophic^  moralis  German- 
orurn  medii  cevi  Specimen,  sent  forth  certain  of 
these  Fables,  with  expositions,  but  appa- 
rently without  naming  the  Author;  to  which 
Specimen  Gellert  in  his  Dissertalio  de  poesi  apolo- 
gorum  had  again,  some  forty  years  afterwards, 
invited  attention.  Nevertheless,  so  total  was 
the  obscurity  which  Boner  had  fallen  into,  that 
Bodmer,  already  known  as  the  resuscitator  of 
the  NibeluMgen  Lied,  in  printing  the  Edelstein 
from  an  old  Manuscript,  in  1752,  mistook  its 
probable  date  by  about  a  century,  and  gave 
his  work  the  title  of  Fables  from  the  Minne- 
singer Period,*  without  naming  the  Fabulist,  or 
guessing  whether  there  were  one  or  many. 
In  this  condition  stood  the  matter,  when  se- 
veral years  afterwards,  Lessing,  pursuing  an- 
other inquiry,  came  across  the  track  of  this 
Boner;  was  allured  into  it;  proceeded  to  clear 
it ;  and  moving  briskly  forward  with  a  sure 
eye,  and  sharp  critical  axe,  hewed  away  innu- 
merable entanglements  ;  and  so  opened  out  a 
free  avenue  and  vista,  where  strangely,  in  re- 
mote depth  of  antiquarian  woods,  the  whole 
ancient  Fable-manufactory,  with  Boner  and 
many  others  working  in  it,  becomes  visible, 
in  all  the  light  which  probably  will  ever  be 
admitted  to  it.  He  who  has  perplexed  him- 
self with  Romulus  and  Rimicius,  and  Nevelet's 
Anonymus,  and  Avianus,  and  still  more,  with 
the  false  guidance  of  their  many  commenta- 
tors, will  find  help  and  deliverance  in  this 
light,  thorough-going  Inquiry  of  Lessing's.f 

Now,  therefore,  it  became  apparent:  first, 
that  those  supposed  Fables  from  the  Minnesinger 
Period,  of  Bodmer,  were  in  truth  written  by 
one  Boner,  in  quite  another  Period ;  secondly, 
that  Boner  was  not  properly  the  author  of 
them,  but  the  borrower  and  free  versifier  from 
certain  Latin  originals ;  farther,  that  the  real 
title  was  Edelstein;  and  strangest  of  all,  that 
the  work  had  been  printed  three  centuries  be- 
fore Bodmer's  time,  namely,  at  Bamberg,  in 
1461  ;  of  which  Edition,  indeed,  a  tattered 
copy,  typographically  curious,  lay,  and  pro- 
bably lies,  in  the  Wolfenbiittel  Library,  where 
Lessing  then  waited  and  wrote.  The  other 
discoveries,  touching  Boner's  personality,  and 
locality,  are  but  conjectures,  due  also  to  Les- 
sing, and  have  been  stated  already. 

As  to  the  Gem  itself,  about  which  there  has 
been  such  scrambling,  we  may  say,  now  when 


♦  Koch  also,  with  a  strange  deviation  from  his  ugual 
accuracy,  dates  Boner,  in  one  place,  1220;  and  in  an- 
other, ''towards  the  latter  half  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury"    See  his  Compendium,  p.  28,  and  p.  200,  vol.  1. 

i&anmUkb*  SchrifUn,  B.  8. 


it  is  cleaned  and  laid  out  before  us,  that 
though  but  a  small  seed-pearl,  it  has  a  genu- 
ine value.  To  us  Boner  is  interesting  by  his 
antiquity,  as  the  speaking  witness  of  many 
long-past  things  ;  to  his  contemporaries  again 
he  must  have  been  slill  more  interesting  as 
the  reporter  of  so  many  new  things.  These 
Fables  of  his,  then  for  the  first  time  rendered 
out  of  inaccessible  Latin*  into  German  metre, 
contain  no  little  edifying  matter,  had  we  not 
known  it  before :  our  old  friends,  the  Fox 
with  the  musical  Raven ;  the  Man  and  Boy 
taking  their  Ass  to  market,  and  so  inadequate 
to  please  the  public  in  their  method  of  trans- 
porting him  :  the  Bishop  that  gave  his  Ne- 
phew a  Cure  of  Souls,,  but  durst  not  trust  him 
with  a  Basket  of  Pears ;  all  these  and  many 
more  figure  here.  But  apart  from  the  mate- 
rial of  his  Fables,  Boner's  style  and  manner 
has  an  abiding  merit.  He  is  not  so  much  a 
Translator  as  a  free  Imitator :  he  tells  the 
story  in  his  own  way;  appends  his  own  moral, 
and  except  that  in  the  latter  department  he  is 
apt  to  be  a  little  prolix,  acquits  himself  to  high 
satisfaction.  His  narrative,  in  those  old  limp- 
ing rhymes,  is  cunningly  enough  brought  out: 
artless,  lively,  graphic,  with  a  spicing  of  inno- 
cent humour,  a  certain  childlike  archness, 
which  is  the  chief  merit  of  a  Fable.  Such  is 
the  German  ^sop ;  a  character  whom,  in  the 
North-west  district  of  Switzerland,  at  that 
time  of  day,  we  should  hardly  have  looked 
for. 

Could  we  hope  that  to  many  of  our  readers 
the  old  rough  dialect  of  Boner  would  be  intel- 
ligible, it  were  easy  to  vindicate  these  praises. 
As  matters  stand,  we  can  only  venture  on  one 
translated  specimen,  which  in  this  shape 
claims  much  allowance;  the  Fable,  also,  is 
nowise  the  best,  or  perhaps  the  worst,  but 
simply  one  of  the  shortest.  For  the  rest,  we 
have  rendered  the  old  doggerel  into  new,  with 
all  possible  fidelity  : 

THE    PROG    ATfl)    THE    STEEH. 

Of  him  Hhat  striveth  after  more  honour  than  he 
should, 

A  Frog  with  Frogling  by  his  side 
Came  hopping  through  the  plain,  one  tide : 
There  he  an  Ox  at  grass  did  spy, 
Much  anger'd  was  the  Frog  thereby  ; 
He  said :  "  Lord  God,  what  was  my  sin 
Thou  madest  me  so  small  and  thin  1 
Likewise  I  have  no  handsome  feature, 
And  all  dishonoured  is  my  nature, 

♦  The  two  originals  to  whom  Lessing  has  traced  all 
his  Fables  are  Avianns  and  Nevelet's  Jlnonymus ;  con- 
cerning which  personages  the  following  brief  notice  by 
Jorden  (Lexicon,  i.  161)  may  be  inserted  here:  "Fla- 
vins Avianus  (who  must  not  be  confounded  with  an- 
other Latin  Poet,  Avienus)  lived,  as  is  believed,  under 
the  two  Antonines  in  the  second  century  :  he  has  left  us 
forty-two  Fables  in  elegiac  measure,  the  best  Editions 
of  which  are  that  by  Kannegiesser,  (Amsterdam,  1731,) 
that  by,"  &c.,  &c.  With  respect  to  the  Anonymus 
again  :  "under  this  designation  is  understood  the  half- 
barbarous  Latin  Poet,  whose  sixty  Fables,  in  elegiac 
measure,  stand  in  the  collection,  which  Nevelet,  under 
the  title  Mythqloffia  .Msopica,  published  at  Frankfort  in 
1610,  and  which  directly  follow  those  of  Avianus  in  that 
work.  They  are  nothing  else  than  versified  transla- 
tions of  the  Fables  written  in  prose  by  Romulus,  a  noted 
Fabulist,  whose  era  cannot  be  fixed,  nor  even  his  name 
made  out  to  complete  satisfaction." — The  reader  who 
wants  deeper  insight  into  these  matters  may  consult 
Lessing,  as  cited  above. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


fi7h 


To  other  creatures  far  and  near, 
For  instance,  this  same  grazing  Steer." 
The  Frog  would  fain  with  Bullock  cope, 
"Gan  brisk  oiilblow  himself  in  hope. 
Then  spake  his  Frogling  :    "  Father  o'  me, 
It  boots  not,  let  thy  blowing  be  ; 
Thy  nature  liath  forbid  this  battle, 
Thou  canst  not  vie  with  the  black-cattle." 
Nathless  let  be  the  Frog  would  not, 
Such  prideful  notion  had  he  got ; 
Again  to  blow  right  sore  'gan  he, 
And  said :    "  Like  Ox  could  I  but  be 
In  size,  within  this  world  there  were 
No  Frog  so  glad,  to  thee  I  swear." 
The  Son  spake :    "Father,  me  is  wo 
Thou  should'st  torment  thy  body  so, 
I  fear  thou  art  to  lose  thy  life, 
Come  follow  me  and  leave  this  strife  ; 
Good  father,  take  advice  of  me 
And  let  thy  boastful  blowing  be." 
Frog  said  :    "  Thou  need'st  not  beck  and  nod, 
,  I  will  not  do  't,  so  help  me  God ; 
Big  as  this  Ox  is,  I  must  turn, 
Mine  honour  now  it  doth  concern." 
He  blew  himself,  and  burst  in  twain, 
Such  of  that  blowing  was  his  gain. 

The  like  hath  oft  been  seen  of  such 
Who  grasp  at  honour  overmuch  ; 
They  must  with  none  at  all  be  doing, 
But  sink  full  soon  and  come  to  ruin. 
He  that,  with  wind  of  Pride  accursed. 
Much  puffs  himself,  will  surely  burst; 
He  men  miswishes  and  misjudges, 
Inferiors  scorns,  superiors  grudges, 
Of  all  his  equals  is  a  hater. 
Much  grieved  he  is  at  any  better ; 
Wherefore  it  were  a  sentence  wise 
Were  his  whole  body  set  with  eyes, 
Who  envy  hath,  to  see  so  well 
What  lucky  hap  each  man  befel. 
That  so  he  filled  were  with  fury, 
And  burst  asunder  in  a  hurry  ; 
And  so  full  soon  betid  him  this 
Which  to  the  Frog  betided  is. 

Readers  to  whom  such  stinted  twanging  of 
the  true  Poetic  Lyre,  such  cheerful  fingering, 
though  only  of  one  and  its  lowest  string,  has 
any  melody,  may  find  enough  of  it  in  Benecke's 
Boner,  a  reproduction,  as  above  stated,  of  the 
original  Edelstein;  which  Edition  we  are  au- 
thorized to  recommend  as  furnished  with  all 
helps  for  such  a  study:  less  adventurous 
readers  may  still,  from  Eschenburg's  half- 
modernized  Edition,  derive  some  contentment 
and  insight. 

Hugo  von  Trimberg  and  Boner,  who  stand 
out  here  as  our  chief  Literary  representatives 
of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  could  play  no  such 
part  in  their  own  day,  when  the  great  men, 
who  shone  in  the  world's  eye,  were  Theologians 
and  Jurists,  Politicians  at  the  Imperial  Diet; 
at  best,  Professors  in  the  new  Universities ;  of 
whom  all  memory  has  long  since  perished. 
So  different  is  universal  from  temporary  im- 
portance, and  worth  belonging  to  our  manhood 
from  that  merely  of  our  station  or  calling. 
Nevertheless,  as  every  writer,  of  any  true  gifts, 
is  "  citizen  both  of  his  time  and  of  his  country," 
and  the  more  completely  the  greater  his  gifts ; 
so  in  the  works  of  these  two  secluded  in- 
dividuals, the  characteristic  tendencies  and 
spirit  of  their  age  may  best  be  discerned. 

Accordingly, in  studying  their  commentators, 
one  fact,  that  cannot  but  strike  us,  is  the  great 
prevalence  and  currency  which  this  species 


of  Literature,  cultivated  by  them,  had  obtained 
in  that  era.  Of  Fable  Literature,  especially, 
this  was  the  summer  tide  and  highest  efflores- 
cence. The  Latin  originals  which  Boner  partly 
(drew  from,  descending,  with  manifold  trans- 
formations and  additions,  out  of  classical  times, 
were  in  the  hands  of  the  learned;  in  the  living 
memories  of  the  people,  were  numerous  frag- 
ments of  primeval  Oriental  Fable,  derived 
perhaps  through  Palestine;  from  which  two 
sources,  curiously  intermingled,  a  whole  stream 
of  Fables  evolved  itself;  whereat  the  morally 
athirst,  such  was  the  genius  of  that  time,  were 
not  slow  to  drink.  Boner,  as  we  have  seen, 
worked  in  a  field  then  zealously  cultivated: 
nay  was  not  .^sop  himself,  what  we  have  for 
-iEsop,  a  contemporary  of  his ;  the  Greek  Monk 
Planudes  and  the  Swiss  Monk  Boner  might  be 
chanting  their  Psalter  at  one  and  the  same 
hour! 

Fable,  indeed,  may  be  regarded  as  the  earli- 
est and  simplest  product  of  Didactic  Poetry, 
the  first  attempt  of  Instruction  clothing  itself 
in  Fancy:  hence  the  antiquity  of  Fables,  their 
universal  diffusion  in  the  childhood  of  nations, 
so  that  they  have  become  a  common  property 
of  all :  hence  also  their  acceptance  and  diligent 
culture  among  the  Germans,  among  the  Eu- 
ropeans, in  this  the  first  stage  of  an  era  when 
the  whole  bent  of  Literature  was  Didactic.  But 
the  Fourteenth  Century  was  the  age  of  Fable 
in  a  still  wider  sense :  it  was  the  age  when 
whatever  Poetry  there  remained  took  the  shape 
of  Apologue  and  moral  Fiction :  the  higher 
spirit  of  Imagination  had  died  away,  or  with- 
drawn itself  into  Religion;  the  lower  and 
feebler  not  only  took  continual  counsel  of  Un- 
derstanding, but  was  content  to  walk  in  its 
leading-strings.  Now  was  the  time  when  hu- 
man life  and  its  relations  were  looked  at  with 
an  earnest  practical  eye  ;  and  the  moral  per- 
plexities that  occur  there,  when  man,  hemmed 
in  between  the  Would  and  the  Should,  or  the 
Must,  painfully  hesitates,  or  altogether  sinks 
in  that  collision,  were  not  only  set  forth  in  the 
way  of  precept,  but  imbodied,  for  still  clearer 
instruction,  in  Examples  and  edifying  Fictions. 
The  Monks  themselves,  such  of  them  as  had 
any  talent,  meditated  and  taught  in  this  fashion : 
witness  that  strange  Gesta  Romanorum,  still 
extant,  and  once  familiar  over  all  Europe  ; — a 
Collection  of  Moral  Tales,  expressly  devised 
for  the  use  of  Preachers,  though  only  the 
Shakspeares,  and  in  subsequent  times,  turned 
it  to  right  purpose.*  These  and  the  like  old 
Gesfs,  with  most  of  which  the  Romans  had  so 
little  to  do,  were  the  staple  Literature  of  that 
period :  cultivated  with  great  assiduity,  and  so 
far  as  mere  invention,  or  compilation,  of  in- 
cident goes,  with  no  little  merit;  for  already 
almost  all  the  grand  destitiies,  and  funda- 
mental, ever-recurring  entanglements  of  hu- 
man life,  are  laid  hold  of  and  depicted  here ; 
so  that,  from  the  first,  our  modern  Novelists 
and  Dramatists  could  find  nothing  new  under 
I  the  sun,  but  everywhere,  in  contrivance  of  their 
!  Story,  saw  themselves  forestalled.  The  bound- 
j  less  abundance  of  Narratives  then  current, 
!  the  singular  derivations  and  transmigrations 

I  *  See  an  account  of  this  curious  Book  in  Douce's 
.  learned  and  ingenious  Illustrations  of  Shakapeare. 


872 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  these,  surprise  antiquarian  commentators: 
but,  indeed,  it  was  in  this  same  century  that 
Boccaccio,  refining  the  gold  from  that  so  copi- 
ous dross,  produced  his  Decamerone,  which  still 
indicates  the  same  fact  in  more  pleasant  fash- 
ion, to  all  readers.  That  in  these  universal 
tendencies  of  the  time  the  Germans  participated 
and  co-operated.  Boner's  Fables,  and  Hugo's 
many  Narrations,  serious  and  comic,  may, 
like  two  specimens  from  a  great  multitude, 
point  out  to  us.  The  Madrigal  had  passed  into 
the  Apologue;  the  Heroic  Poem,  with  its  super- 
natural machinery  and  sentiment,  into  the  Fic- 
tion of  practical  Life  :  in  which  latter  species 
a  prophetic  eye  might  have  discerned  the 
coming  Tom  Joneses  and  Wilhelm  Meisters ;  and 
with  still  more  astonishment,  the  Minerva  Presses 
of  all  nations,  and  this  their  huge  transit-trade 
in  Rags,  all  lifted  from  the  dunghill,  printed  on, 
and  returned  thither,  to  the  comfort  of  parties 
interested. 

The  Drama,  as  is  well  known,  had  an  equally 
Didactic  origin ;  namely,  in  those  Mysteries 
contrived  by  the  clergy  for  bringing  home 
religious  truth,  with  new  force,  to  the  univer- 
sal comprehension.  That  this  cunning  device 
had  already  found  its  way  into  Germany,  we 
have  proof  in  a  document  too  curious  to  be 
omitted  here : 

"  In  the  year  1322,  there  was  a  play  shown 
at  Eisenach,  which  had  a  tragical  enough 
effect.  Markgraf  Friedrich  of  Misnia,  Land- 
graf  also  of  Thuringia,  having  brought  his 
tedious  warfares  to  a  conclusion,  and  the 
country  beginning  now  to  revive  under  peace, 
his  subjects  were  busy  repaying  themselves 
for  the  past  distresses  by  all  manner  of  diver- 
sions ;  to  which  end,  apparently  by  the  Sove- 
reign's order,  a  dramatic  representation  of  the 
Ten  Virgins  was  schemed,  and  at  Eisenach,  in 
his  presence,  duly  executed.  This  happened 
fifteen  days  after  Easter,  by  indulgence  of  the 
Preaching  Friars.  In  the  Chronicon  Sanrpetrinum, 
stands  recorded  that  the  play  was  enacted  in 
the  Bear-garden,  (in  horto  ferarum,)  by  the  Clergy 
and  their  Scholars.  But  now,  when  it  came  to 
pass  that  the  Wise  Virgins  would  give  the 
Foolish  no  oil,  and  these  latter  were  shut  out 
from  the  Bridegroom,  they  began  to  weep  bit- 
terly, and  called  on  the  Saints  to  intercede  for 
them ;  who,  however,  even  with  Mary  at  their 
head,  could  effect  nothing  from  God ;  but  the 
Foolish  Virgins  were  all  sentenced  to  damna- 
tion. Which  things  the  Landgraf  seeing  and 
hearing,  he  fell  into  a  doubt,  and  was  very 
angry ;  and  said,  *  What  then  is  the  Christian 
Faith,  if  God  will  not  lake  pity  on  us,  for  in- 
tercession of  Mary  and  all  the  Saints?'  In 
this  anger  he  continued  five  days ;  and  the 
learned  men  could  hardly  enlighten  him  to  un- 
derstand the  Gospel.  Thereupon  he  was  struck 
with  apoplexy,  and  became  speechless  and 
powerless ;  in  which  sad  state  he  continued, 
bedrid,  two  years  and  seven  months,  and  so 
died,  being  then  fifty-five."* 

Surely  a  serious  warning,  would  they  but 
take  it,  to  Dramatic  Critics,  not  to  venture  be- 
yond their  depth !     Had  this  fiery  old  Land- 

*  Flogel,  (OGSchichfe  dcr  Romischen  Literatur,  iv.  287,) 
who  founds  on  that  old  Chronicon  Sampetrinum  Erfur- 
tense,  contained  in  Menke's  Collection. 


graf  given  up  the  reins  of  his  imagination  into 
his  author's  hands,  he  might  have  been  pleased 
he  knew  not  why;  whereas  the  meshes  of 
Theology,  in  which  he  kicks  and  struggles, 
here  strangle  the  life  out  of  him ;  and  the  Ten 
Virgins  at  Eisenach  are  more  fatal  to  warlike 
men,  than  ^schylus'  Furies  at  Athens  were  to 
weak  women. 

Neither  were  the  unlearned  People  without 
their  Literature,  their  Narrative  Poetry;  though 
how,  in  an  age  without  printing  and  bookstalls, 
it  was  circulated  among  them;  whether  by 
strolling  Fiedelers,  (Minstrels,)  who  might  re- 
cite as  well  as  fiddle,  or  by  other  methods,  we 
have  not  learned.  However,  its  existence  and 
abundance  in  this  era  is  sufficiently  evinced 
by  the  multitude  of  Volksbiicher  (People's- 
Books)  which  issued  from  the  Press,  next 
century,  almost  as  soon  as  there  was  a  Press. 
Several  of  these,  which  still  languidly  survive 
among  the  people,  or  at  least  the  children,  of 
all  countries,  were  of  German  composition ;  of 
most,  so  strangely  had  they  been  sifted  and 
winnowed  to  and  fro,  it  was  impossible  to  fix 
the  origin.  But  borrowed  or  domestic,  they 
nowhere  wanted  admirers  in  Germany:  the 
Patient  Helena,  the  Fair  Magelone,  Blue-Beard, 
Fortunatus;  these,  and  afterwards  the  Seven 
Wise  Masters,  with  other  more  directly  jEsopic 
ware,  to  which  the  introduction  of  the  old  In- 
dian Stock,  or  Book  of  Wisdom,  translated  from 
John  of  Capua's  Latin,*  one  day  formed  a 
rich  accession,  were  in  all  memories,  and  on 
all  tongues. 

Beautiful  traits  of  Imagination  and  a  pure 
genuine  feeling,  though  under  the  rudest  forms, 
shine  forth  in  some  of  these  old  Tales  :  for  in- 
stance, in  Magelone  and  Fortunatus ;  which  two, 
indeed,  with  others  of  a  different  stamp,  Lud- 
wig  Tieck  has,  with  singular  talent,  ventured, 
not  unsuccessfully,  to  reproduce  in  our  own 
time  and  dialect.  A  second  class  distinguish 
themselves  by  a  homely,  honest-hearted  Wis- 
dom, full  of  character  and  quaint  devices ;  of 
which  class  the  Seven  Wise  Masters,  extracted 
chiefly  from  that  Gesta  Romanorum  above  men- 
tioned, and  containing  "proverb-philosophy, 
anecdotes,  fables,  and  jests,  the  seeds  of  which, 
on  the  fertile  German  soil,  spread  luxuriantly 
through  several  generations,"  is  perhaps  the 
best  example.  Lastly,  in  a  third  class,  we  find 
in  full  play  that  spirit  of  broad  drollery,  of 
rough,  saturnine  Humour,  which  the  Germans 
claim  as  a  special  characteristic ;  among  these, 
we  must  not  omit  to  mention  the  Schiltbilrger, 
correspondent  to  our  own  Wise  Men  of  Gotham; 
still  less,  the  far-famed  Tyll  Eulenspiegel,  (Tyll 
Owlglass,)  whose  rogueries  and  waggeries 
belong,  in  the  fullest  sense,  to  this  era. 

This  last  is  a  true  German  work ;  for  both 
the  man  Tyll  Eulenspiegel,  and  the  Book 
which  is  his  history,  were  produced  there. 
Nevertheless,  Tyll's  fame  has  gone  abroad 
into  all  lands :  this,  the  narrative  of  his  ex- 
ploits, has  been  published  in  innumerable 
editions,  even  with  all  manner  of  learned 
glosses,  and  translated  into  Latin,  English, 
French,  Dutch,  Polish;   nay,  in  several  lan- 

*  In  1483,  by  command  of  a  certain  Eberhard,  Duke  of 
Wiirtemberg.  What  relation  this  old  Book  of  Wisdom 
bears  to  our  actual  Pilpay,  we  have  not  learned. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


273 


guages,  as  in  his  own,  an  Eulenspiegelerei,  an 
Espieglerie,  or  dog's  trick,  so  named  after  him, 
still,  by  consent  of  lexicographers,  keeps  his 
memory  alive.  We  may  say,  that  to  few  mor- 
tals has  it  been  granted  to  earn  such  a  place 
in  Universal  History  as  Tyll :  for  now  after 
five  centuries,  when  Wallace's  birth-place  is 
unknown  even  to  the  Scots  ;  and  the  admirable 
Crichton  still  more  rapidly  is  grown  a  shadow; 
and  Edward  Longshanks  sleeps  unregarded 
save  by  a  few  Antiquarian  English, — Tyll's 
native  village  is  pointed  out  with  pride  to  the 
traveller,  and  his  tombstone,  with  a  sculptured 
pun  on  his  name,  an  Owl,  namely,  and  a  Glass 
still  stands,  or  pretends  to  stand,  "  at  Mollen, 
near  Lubeck,"  where,  since  1350,  his  once 
nimble  bones  have  been  at  rest.  Tyll,  in  the 
calling  he  had  chosen,  naturally  led  a  wan- 
dering life,  as  place  after  place  became  too 
hot  for  him;  by  which  means  he  saw  into 
many  things  with  his  own  eyes :  having  been 
not  only  over  all  Westphalia  and  Saxony,  but 
even  in  Poland,  and  as  far  as  Rome.  That  in 
his  old  days,  like  other  great  men,  he  became 
an  Autobiographer,  and  in  trustful  winter 
evening,  not  on  paper,  but  on  air,  and  to  the 
laughter-lovers  of  Mollen,  composed  this  work 
himself,  is  purely  an  hypothesis ;  certain  only 
that  it  came  forth  originally  in  the  dialect  of 
this  region,  namely,  the  Platt-Deutsch ;  and  was 
therefrom  translated,  probably  about  a  century 
afterwards,  into  its  present  High  German,  as 
Lessing  conjectures,  by  one  Thomas  Miirner, 
who  on  other  grounds  is  not  unknown  to  anti- 
quarians. For  the  rest,  write  it  who  might, 
the  Book  is  here,  "abounding,"  as  a  wise 
Critic  remarks,  "  in  inventive  humour,  in 
rough  merriment  and  broad  drollery,  not  with- 
out a  keen  rugged  shrewdness  of  insight; 
which  properties  must  have  made  it  irresistibly 
captivating  to  the  popular  sense ;  and,  with 
all  its  fantastic  extravagancies  and  roguish 
crotchets,  in  many  points  instructive." 

From  Tyll's  so  captivating  achievements, 
we  shall  here  select  one  to  insert  some  account 
of;  the  rather  as  the  tale  is  soon  told,  and  by 
means  of  it,  we  catch  a  little  trait  of  manners, 
and,  through  Tyll's  spectacles,  may  peep  into 
the  interior  of  a  Household,  even  of  a  Parson- 
age, in  those  old  days. 

"  It  chanced  after  so  many  adventures,  that 
Eulenspiegel  came  to  a  Parson,  who  promoted 
him  to  be  his  Sacristan,  or  as  we  now  say. 
Sexton.  Of  this  Parson  it  is  recorded  that  he 
kept  a  Concubine,  who  had  but  one  eye ;  she 
also  had  a  spite  at  Tyll,  and  was  wont  to  speak 
evil  of  him  to  his  master,  and  report  his 
rogueries.  Now  while  Eulenspiegel  held  this 
Sextoncy,  the  Easter-season  came,  and  there 
was  to  be  a  play  set  forth  of  the  Resurrection 
of  Our  Lord.  And  as  the  people  were  not 
learned,  and  could  not  read,  the  Parson  took 
his  Concubine  and  stationed  her  in  the  holy 
Sepulchre  by  way  of  Angel.  Which  thing 
Eulenspiegel  seeing,  he  took  to  him  three  of 
the  simplest  persons  that  could  be  found  there, 
to  enact  the  Three  Marys;  and  the  Parson 
himself,  with  a  flag  in  his  hand,  represented 
Christ.  Thereupon  spake  Eulenspiegel  to  the 
simple  persons:  'When  the  Angel  asks  you, 
whom  ye  seek,  ye  must  answer,  The  Parson's 
35 


one-eyed  Concubine.'  Now  it  came  to  pass 
that  the  time  arrived  when  they  were  to  act, 
and  the  Angel  asked  them :  '  Whom  seek  ye 
here?'  and  they  answered,  as  Eulenspiegel 
had  taught  and  bidden  them,  and  said :  *  We 
seek  the  Parson's  one-eyed  Concubine.' 
Whereby  did  the  Parson  observe  that  he  was 
made  a  mock  of.  And  when  the  Parson's 
Concubine  heard  the  same,  she  started  out  of 
the  Grave,  and  aimed  a  box  at  Eulenspiegel's 
face,  but  missed  him,  and  hit  one  of  the  simple 
persons,  who  were  representing  the  Three 
Marys.  This  latter  then  returned  her  a  slap 
on  the  mouth,  whereupon  she  caught  him  by 
the  hair.  But  his  wife  seeing  this,  came  run- 
ning thither,  and  fell  upon  the  Parson's  Harlot. 
Which  thing  the  Parson  discerning,  he  threw 
down  his  flag,  and  sprang  forward  to  his  Har- 
lot's assistance.  Thus  gave  they  one  another 
hearty  thwacking  and  basting,  and  there  was 
great  uproar  in  the  Church.  But  when  Eulen- 
spiegel perceived  that  they  all  had  one  another 
by  the  ears  in  the  Church,  he  went  his  ways, 
and  came  no  more  back,"* 

These  and  the  like  pleasant  narratives  were 
the  People's  Comedy  in  those  days.  Neither 
was  their  Tragedy  wanting;  as  indeed  both 
spring  up  spontaneously  in  all  regions  of  hu- 
man Life ;  however,  their  chief  work  of  this 
latter  class,  the  wild,  deep,  and  now  world-re- 
nowned. Legend  of  Faust,  belongs  to  a  somewhat 
later  date.f 

Thus,  though  the  Poetry  which  spoke  in 
rhyme  was  feeble  enough,  the  spirit  of  Poetry 
could  nowise  be  regarded  as  extinct ;  while 
Fancy,  Imagination,  and  all  the  intellectual 
faculties  necessary  for  that  art,  were  in  active 
exercise.      Neither   had   the   Enthusiasm   of 


*  Flogel,  iv.  290.     For   more  of  Eulenspiegel,  se& 
GOrres's  Ueber  die  Volhshucher. 

f  To  the  fifteenth  century,  say  some  who  fix  it  on 
.lohann  Faust,  the  Goldsmith  and  partial  Inventor  of 
Printing:  to  thesixteenthcentury,  say  others, referring  it  to 
Johann  Faust,  Doctor  in  Philosophy;  which  individual 
did  actually,  as  the  Tradition  also  bears,  study  first  at 
Wittenberg  (where  he  might  be  one  of  Luther's  pupils,) 
then  at  Ingolstadt,  where  alap  he  taught,  and  had  a  Famu- 
lus named  Wagner,  son  of  a  clergyman  at  Wasserberg. 
Melancthon,  Tritheim,  and  other  credible  witnesses, 
some  of  whom  had  seen  the  man,  vouch  sufliciently  for 
these  facts.  The  rest  of  the  Doctor's  history  is  much  more 
obscure.  He  seems  to  have  been  of  a  vehement,  unquiet 
temper;  skilled  in  Natural  Philosophy,  and  perhaps  in 
the  occult  science  of  Conjuring,  by  aid  of  which  two 
gifts,  a  much  shallower  man,  wandering  in  Need  and 
Pride  over  the  world  in  those  days,  might,  without  any 
Mephistopheles,  have  worked  wonders  enough.  Never- 
theless, that  he  rode  off  through  the  air  on  a  wine-cask,, 
from  Auerbach's  Keller  at  Leipzig,  in  1523,  seems  ques- 
tionable ;  though  an  old  carving,  in  that  venerable  Ta- 
vern, still  mutely  asserts  it  to  the  toper  of  this  day. 
About  1560,  his  term  of  Thaumaturgy  being  over,  he 
disappeared  :  whether,  under  feigned  name,  by  the  rope- 
of  some  hangman  ;  or  "frightfully  torn  in  pieces  by  the 
Devil,  near  the  village  of  Rimlich,  between  Twelve 
and  One  in  the  morning,"  let  each  reader  judge  for 
himself  The  latter  was  clearly  George  Rudolf 
Weidman's  opinion,  whose  rentable  History  of  the 
abominable  Sins  of  Dr.  Johann  Faust  came  out  at  Ham- 
burg in  1599;  and  is  no  less  circumstantially  announced 
in  the  old  "People's-Book,  That  eve ryv here-infamous 
^rch- Black- Artist  and  Conjurer,  Dr.  Faust's  Compact 
with  the  Devil,  IVonderful- ^Valk  and  Conversation,  and 
terrible  End,  printed,  seemingly  without  date,  at  Koln 
(Cologne)  and  Nurnberg  ;  read  by  every  one  ;  written 
by  we  know  not  whom."  See  again,  for  farther  insisrht, 
Gorres's  Ueber  die  deutschen  Vulksbilcher.  Another 
Work,  (Liepzig,  1624,)  expressly  "On  Faust  and  the 
Wandering  Jew,"  which  latter,  in  those  times,  wander- 
ed much  in  Germany,  is  also  referred  to.— Co»».  Lex*' 
con,  $  Faust. 


274 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


heart,  on  which  it  still  more  intimately  de- 
pends, died  out ;  but  only  taken  another  form. 
In  lower  degrees  it  expressed  itself  as  an  ardent 
zeal  for  Knowledge,and  Improvement;  for  spiri- 
tual excellence  such  as  the  time  held  out  and 
prescribed.  This  was  no  languid,  low-minded 
age,  but  of  earnest  busy  effort;  in  all  pro- 
vinces of  culture,  resolutely  struggling  for- 
ward. Classical  Literature,  after  long  hin- 
drances, had  now  found  its  way  into  Germany 
also :  old  Rome  was  open,  with  all  its  wealth, 
to  the  intelligent  eye;  scholars  of  Chrysoloras 
were  fast  unfolding  the  treasures  of  Greece. 
School  Philosophy,  which  had  never  obtained 
firm  footing  among  the  Germans,  was  in  all 
countries  drawing  to  a  close;  but  the  subtile, 
piercing  vision,  which  it  had  fostered  and 
called  into  activity,  was  henceforth  to  employ 
itself  with  new  profit  on  more  substantial  in- 
terests. In  such  manifold  praiseworthy  en- 
deavours the  most  ardent  mind  had  ample 
arena. 

A  higher,  purer  enthusiasm,  again,  which  no 
longer  found  its  place  in  chivalrous  Minstrel- 
sy, might  still  retire  to  meditate  and  worship 
in  religious  Cloisters,  where,  amid  all  the  cor- 
ruption of  monkish  manners,  there  were  not 
wanting  men  who  aimed  at,  and  accomplish- 
ed, the  highest  problem  of  manhood,  a  life  of 
spiritual  Truth.  Among  the  Germans,  espe- 
cially, that  deep-feehng,  deep-thinking,  devout 
temper,  now  degenerating  into  abstruse  theoso- 
phy,  now  purifying  itself  into  holy  eloquence, 
and  clear  apostolic  light,  was  awake  in  this 
era;  a  temper  which  had  long  dwelt,  and  still 
dwells  there;  which  ere  long  was  to  render 
that  people  worthy  the  honour  of  giving  Eu- 
rope a  new  Reformation,  a  new  Religion.  As 
an  example  of  monkish  diligence  and  zeal,  if 
of  nothing  more,  we  here  mention  the  German 
Bible  of  Mathias  von  Behaim,  which,  in  his 
Hermitage  at  Halle,  he  rendered  from  the  Vul- 
gate, in  1343;  the  Manuscript  of  which  is  still 
to  be  seen  in  Leipzig.  Much  more  conspicu- 
ous stand  two  other  German  Priests  of  this 
Period  ;  to  whom,  as  connected  with  Literature 
also,  a  few  words  must  now  be  devoted. 

Johann  Tauler  is  a  name  which  fails  in  no 
Literary  History  of  Germany :  he  was  a  man 
famous  in  his  own  day  as  the  most  eloquent  of 
preachers ;  is  still  noted  by  critics  for  his  in- 
tellectual deserts ;  by  pious  persons,  especially 
of  the  class  called  Mystics,  is  still  studied  as  a 
practical  instructor ;  and  by  all  true  inquirers 
prized  as  a  person  of  high  talent  and  moral 
worth.  Tauler  was  a  Dominican  Monk ; 
seems  to  have  lived  and  preached  at  Stras- 
burg ;  where,  as  his  grave-stone  still  testifies, 
he  died  in  136L  His  devotional  works  have 
been  often  edited  :  one  of  his  modern  admirers 
has  written  his  biography ;  wherein  perhaps 
this  is  the  strangest  fact,  if  it  be  one,  that  once 
in  the  pulpit  "he  grew  suddenly  dumb,  and 
did  nothing  but  weep ;  in  which  despondent 
state  he  continued  for  two  whole  years."  Then, 
however,  he  again  lifted  up  his  voice,  with 
new  energy  and  new  potency.  We  learn  far- 
ther, that  he  "renounced  the  dialect  of  Philo- 
sophy, and  spoke  direct  to  the  heart  in  language 
of  the  heart."  His  Sermons,  composed  in 
Latin  and  delivered  in  German,  in  which  lan- 


guage, after  repeated  renovations  and  changes 
of  dialect,  they  are  still  read,  have,  with 
his  other  writings,  been  characterized,  by 
a  native  critic  worthy  of  confidence,  in  these 
terms : 

"  They  contain  a  treasure  of  meditations, 
hints,  indications  full  of  heartfelt  piety,  which 
still  speak  to  the  inmost  longings  and  noblest 
wants  of  man's  Mind.  His  style  is  abrupt, 
compressed,  significant  in  its  conciseness  ;  the 
nameless  depth  of  feelings  struggles  with  the 
phraseology.  He  was  the  first  that  wrested 
from  our  German  speech  the  fit  expression  for 
ideas  of  moral  Reason  and  Emotion,  and  has 
left  us  riches  in  that  kind,  such  as  the  zeal  for 
purity  and  fulness  of  language  in  our  own 
days  cannot  leave  unheeded." — Tauler,  it  is 
added,  "  was  a  man  who,  imbued  with  genu- 
ine Devotedness,  as  it  springs  from  the  depths 
of  a  soul  strengthened  in  self-contemplation, 
and,  free  and  all-powerful,  rules  over  Life  and 
Effort, — attempted  to  train  and  win  the  people 
for  a  duty  which  had  hitherto  been  considered 
as  that  of  the  learned  class  alone:  to  raise  the 
Lay-world  into  moral  study  of  Religion  for 
themselves,  that  so,  enfranchised  from  the 
bonds  of  unreflecting  custom,  they  might  regu- 
late Creed  and  Conduct  by  strength  self-ac- 
quired. He  taught  men  to  look  within;  by 
spiritual  contemplation  to  feel  the  secret  of 
their  higher  Destiny ;  to  seek  in  their  own 
souls  what  from  without  is  never,  or  too  scan- 
lily  afforded ;  self-believing,  to  create  what,  by 
the  dead  letter  of  foreign  Tradition,  can  never 
be  brought  forth."* 

Known  to  all  Europe,  as  Tauler  is  to  Germany, 
and  of  a  class  with  him,  as  a  man  of  antique 
Christian  walk,  of  warm,  devoutly-feeling,  poetic 
spirit,  and  insight  and  experience  in  the  deepest 
regions  of  man's  heart  and  life,  follows,  in  the 
next  generation,  Thomas  Hamerken,  or  Ham- 
mei'leixi,  (Malleolus  :)  usually  named  Thomas  a 
Kcmpis,  that  is,  Thomas  of  Kempen,  a  village 
near  Cologne,  where  he  was  born  in  1388. 
Others  contend  that  Kampen  in  Overyssel  was 
his  birthplace  ;  however,  in  either  case,  at  that 
era,  more  especially,  considering  what  he  did, 
we  can  here  regard  him  as  a  Deulscher,  a  Ger- 
man. For  his  spiritual  and  intellectual  cha- 
racter we  may  refer  to  his  works,  written  in 
the  Latin  tongue,  and  still  known ;  above  all, 
to  his  far-famed  work  De  Imitatione  Christi, 
which  has  been  praised  by  such  men  as 
Luther,  Leibnitz,  Haller;  and,  what  is  more, 
has  been  read,  and  continues  to  be  read,  with 
moral  profit,  in  all  Christian  languages  and 
communions,  having  passed  through  upwards 
of  a  thousand  editions,  which  number  is  yet 
daily  increasing.  A  new  English  Thomas  d 
Kcmpis  was  published  only  the  other  year. 
But  the  venerable  man  deserves  a  word  from 
us,  not  only  as  a  high,  spotless  Priest,  and 
father  of  the  Church,  at  a  time  when  such 
were  rare,  but  as  a  zealous  promotor  of  learn- 
ing, which,  in  his  own  country,  he  accomplished 
much  to  forward.  Hammerlein,  the  son  of 
poor  parents,  had  been  educated  at  the  famous 
school  of  Deventer;  he   himself  instituted  a 


*  Wachler,  VorUsuTigen  iiber  die  Oeschickte  der  deut- 
schen  JVafional-literatur  (Lectures  onthe  History  of  Ger- 
man National  Literature,)  b.  i.  s.  131. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


275 


similar  one  at  ZwoU,  which  long  continued  the 
grand  classical  seminary  of  the  North.  Among 
his  own  pupils  we  find  enumerated  Mori tz  von 
Spiegelberg,  Rudolf  von  Lange,  Rudolf  Agri- 
cola,  Antonius  Liber,  Ludwig  Dringenberg, 
Alexander  Hegius ;  of  whom  Agricola,  with 
other  two,  by  advice  of  their  teacher,  visited 
Italy  to  study  Greek ;  the  whole  six,  united 
through  manhood  and  life,  as  they  had  been  in 
youth  and  at  school,  are  regarded  as  the  found- 
ers of  true  classical  literature  among  the 
Germans.  Their  scholastico-monasiic  estab- 
lishments at  Derventer,  with  Zwoll  and  its 
other  numerous  offspring,  which  rapidly  ex- 
tended themselves  over  the  Northwest  of 
Europe  from  Artois  to  Silesia,  and  operated 
powerfully  both  in  a  moral  and  intellectual 
view,  are  among  the  characteristic  redeeming 
features  of  that  time ;  but  the  details  of  them 
fall  not  within  our  present  limits.* 

If  now,  quitting  the  Cloister  and  Library,  we 
look  abroad  over  active  Life,  and  the  general 
state  of  culture  and  spiritual  endeavour  as 
manifested  there,  we  have  on  all  hands  the 
cheering  prospect  of  a  society  in  full  progress. 
The  Practical  Spirit,  which  had  pressed  for- 
ward into  Poetry  itself,  could  not  but  be  busy 
and  successful  in  those  provinces  where  its 
home  specially  lies.  Among  the  Germans,  it 
is  true,  so  far  as  political  condition  was  con- 
cerned, the  aspect  of  affairs  had  not  changed 
for  the  better.  The  Imperial  Constitution  was 
weakened  and  loosened  into  the  mere  sem- 
blance of  a  Government;  the  head  of  which 
had  still  the  title,  but  no  longer  the  reality  of 
sovereign  power  ;  so  that  Germany,  ever  since 
the  times  of  Rudolf,  had,  as  it  were,  ceased  to 
be  one  great  nation,  and  become  a  disunited, 
often  conflicting  aggregate  of  small  nations. 
Nay,  we  may  almost  say,  of  petty  districts,  or 
even  of  households :  for  now,  when  every 
pitiful  Baron  claimed  to  be  an  independent  po- 
tentate, and  exercised  his  divine  right  of  peace 
and  war,  too  often  in  plundering  the  industrious 
Burgher,  public  Law  could  no  longer  vindicate 
the  weak  against  the  strong:  except  the  vene- 
rable unwritten  code  of  J^aws/re'c/i^  (Club-Law,) 
there  was  no  other  valid.  On  every  steep  rock, 
or  difficult  fastness,  these  dread  sovereigns 
perched  themselves  ;  studding  the  country  with 
innumerable  RaubschWsscr,  (Robber-Towers,) 
which  now  in  the  eye  of  the  picturesque 
tourist  look  interesting  enough,  but  in  those 
days  were  interesting  on  far  other  grounds. 
Herein  dwelt  a  race  of  persons,  proud,  igno- 
rant, hungry;  who,  boasting  of  an  endless 
pedigree,  talked  familiarly  of  living  on  the 
produce  of  their  "Saddles,"  (vnm  Sattel  zu 
leben,)  that  is  to  say,  by  the  profession  of  high- 
waymen, for  which,  unluckily,  as  mentioned, 
there  was  then  no  effectual  gallows.  Some, 
indeed,  might  plunder  as  the  eagle,  others  as 
the  vulture  and  crow;  but,  in  general,  from 
men  cultivating  that  walk  of  life,  no  profit  in 
any  other  was  to  be  looked  for.  Vain  was  it, 
however,  for  the  Kaiser  to  publish  edict  on 
edict  against  them ;  nay,  if  he  destroyed  their 
Robber-Towers,  new  ones  were  built;  was  the 
old  wolf  hunted  down,  the  cub  had  escaped, 

•  See  Eichhorn's  Oeschichte  der  Literatur,  b.  ii.  s.  134. 


who  re-appeared  when  his  teeth  were  grown. 
Not  till  industry  and  social  cultivation  had 
everywhere  spread,  and  risen  supreme,  could 
that  brood,  in  detail,  be  extirpated  or  tamed. 

Neither  was  this  miserable  defect  of  police 
the  only  misery  in  such  a  state  of  things.  For 
the  Saddle-eating  Baron,  even  in  pacific  cir- 
cumstances, naturally  looked  down  on  the 
fruit-producing  Burgher;  who,  again,  feeling 
himself  a  wiser,  wealthier,  better,  and,  in  time, 
a  stronger  man, ill  brooked  this  procedure,  and 
retaliated,  or,  by  quite  declining  such  commu- 
nications, avoided  it.  Thus,  throughout  long 
centuries,  and  after  that  old  code  of  Club-Law 
had  been  well-nigh  abolished,  the  effort  of  the 
nation  was  still  divided  into  two  courses ;  the 
Noble  and  the  Citizen  would  not  work  together, 
freely  imparting  and  receiving  their  several 
gifts  ;  but  the  culture  of  the  polite  arts,  and 
that  of  the  useful  arts,  had  to  proceed  with 
mutual  disadvantage,  each  on  its  separate 
footing.  Indeed  that  supercilious  and  too 
marked  distinction  of  ranks,  which  so  ridicu- 
lously characterized  the  Germans,  has  only  in 
very  recent  times  disappeared. 

Nevertheless  here,  as  it  ever  does,  the 
strength  of  the  country  lay  in  the  middle 
classes;  which  were  sound  and  active,  and,  in 
spite  of  all  these  hindrances,  daily  advancing. 
The  Free  towns,  which,  in  Germany  as  else- 
where, the  sovereign  favoured,  held  within  their 
walls  a  race  of  men  as  brave  as  they  of  the 
Robber-Tower,  but  exercising  their  bravery  on 
fitter  objects ;  who,  by  degrees,  too,  ventured 
into  the  field  against  even  the  greatest  of  these 
kinglets,  and  in  many  a  stout  fight  taught  them 
a  juristic  doctrine,  which  no  head,  with  all  its 
helmets,  was  too  thick  for  taking  in.  The  Four 
Forest  Cantons  had  already  testified  in  this 
way  ;  their  Tells  and  Stauffachers  preaching, 
with  apostolic  blows  and  knocks,  like  so  many 
Luthers  ;  whereby,  from  their  remote  Alpine 
glens,  all  lands  and  all  times  have  heard  them, 
and  believed  them.  By  dint  of  such  logic  it 
began  to  be  understood  everywhere,  that  a 
Man,  whether  clothed  in  purple  cloaks  or  in 
tanned  sheep-skins,  wielding  the  sceptre  or  the 
ox-goad,  is  neither  Deity  nor  Beast,  but  simply 
a  Man,  and  must  comport  himself  accordingly. 
But  commerce  of  itself  was  pouring  new 
strength  into  every  peaceable  community;  the 
Hanse  League,  now  in  full  vigour,  secured  the 
fruits  of  industry  over  all  the  North.  The 
havens  of  the  Netherlands,  thronged  witli 
ships  from  every  sea,  transmitted  or  collected 
their  wide-borne  freight  over  Germany;  where, 
far  inland,  flourished  market-cities,  with  their 
cunning  workmen,  their  spacious  warehouses, 
and  merchants  who  in  opulence  vied  with  the 
richest.  Except  perhaps  in  the  close  vicinity 
of  Robber-Towers,  and  even  there  not  always 
nor  altogether,  Diligence,  good  Order,  peaceful 
abundance  were  everywhere  conspicuous  in 
Germany.  Petrarch  has  celebrated,  in  warm 
terms,  the  beauties  of  the  Rhine,  as  he  wit- 
I  nessed  them  ;  the  rich,  embellished,  cultivated 
aspect  of  land  and  people :  ^neas  Sylvius, 
I  afterwards  Pope  Pius  the  Second,  expresses 
'  himself,  in  the  next  century,  with  still  greater 
I  emphasis ;  he  says,  and  he  could  judge,  having 
!  seen  both,  "  that  the  King  of  Scotland  did  not 


276 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


live  so  handsomely  as  a  moderate  Citizen  of 
Niirnberg :"  indeed  Conrad  Celtes,  another 
contemporary  witness,  informs  us,  touching 
these  same  citizens,  that  their  wives  went 
abroad  loaded  with  the  richest  jewels,  that 
"most  of  their  household  utensils  were  of 
silver  and  gold."  For,  as  JGneas  Sylvius  adds, 
"their  mercantile  activity  is  astonishing;  the 
greater  part  of  the  German  nation  consists  of 
merchants."  Thus,  too,  in  Augsburg,  the  Fug- 
ger  family,  which  sprang,  like  that  of  the 
Medici,  from  smallest  beginnings,  were  fast 
rising  into  that  height  of  commercial  great- 
ness, such  that  Charles  V.,  in  viewing  the 
Royal  Treasury  at  Paris,  could  say,  "I  have  a 
weaver  in  Augsburg  able  to  buy  it  all  with  his 
own  gold."*  With  less  satisfaction,  the  same 
haughty  Monarch  had  to  see  his  own  Nephew 
wedded  to  the  fair  Philippine  Welser, daughter 
of  another  merchant  in  that  city,  and  for 
wisdom  and  beauty  the  paragon  of  her  time.f 
In  this  state  of  economical  prosperity,  Litera- 
ture and  Art,  such  kinds  of  them  at  least  as 
had  a  practical  application,  could  not  want 
encouragement.  It  is  mentioned  as  one  of  the 
furtherances  to  Classical  Learning  among  the 


*  Charles  had  his  reasons  for  such  a  speech.  This 
same  Auton  Fugger,  to  whom  he  alluded  here,  had 
often  stood  by  him  in  straits,  showing  a  munificence  and 
even  generosity  worthy  of  the  proudest  princes.  Dur- 
ing the  celebrated  Diet  of  Augsburg,  in  1530,  the  Em- 
peror lodged  for  a  whole  year  in  Anton's  house  ;  and 
Auton  was  a  man  to  warm  his  Emperor  "at  a  fire  of  cin- 
namon wood,''  and  to  burn  therein  "the  bonds  for  large 
sums  owing  him  by  his  majesty."  For  all  which,  Auton 
and  his  kindred  had  countships  and  princeships  in 
abundance  ;  also  the  right  to  coin  money,  but  no  solid 
bullion  to  exercise  such  right  on  ;  which,  however,  they 
repeatedly  did  on  bullion  of  their  own.  This  Auton  left 
six  millions  of  gold-crowns  in  cash  :  "besides  precious 
articles,  jewels,  properties  in  all  countries  of  Europe, 
and  both  the  Indies."  The  Fuggers  had  ships  on  every 
sea,  wagons  on  every  highway;  they  worked  the  Ca- 
rinthian  Mines  ;  even  Albrecht  Diirer's  Pictures  must 

Eass  through  their  warehouses  to  the  Italian  market, 
[owever,  this  family  had  other  merits  than  their  moun- 
tains of  metal,  their  kindness  to  needy  sovereigns,  and 
even  their  all-embracing  spirit  of  commercial  enter- 
prise. They  were  famed  for  acts  of  general  beneficence, 
and  did  much  charity  where  no  imperial  thanks  were  to 
be  looked  for.  To  found  Hospitals  and  Schools,  on  the 
most  liberal  scale,  was  a  common  thing  with  them.  In 
the  si.xteenth  century,  three  benevolent  brothers  of  the 
House  purchased  a  suburb  of  Augsburg;  rebuilt  it  with 
small  conmiodious  houses,  to  be  let  to  indigent  indus- 
trious burghers  for  a  trifling  rent:  this  is  the  well- 
known  Fuggerei,  which,  still  existing,  with  its  own  walls 
and  gate,  maintains  their  name  in  daily  currency  there. 
— The  founder  of  this  remarkable  family  did  actually 
drive  the  shuttle  in  the  village  of  Goggingen,  near  Augs- 
burg, about  the  middle  of  the  Fourteenth  century;  "but 
in  1619,"  says  the  Spiegel  der  Ehren,  (Mirror  of  Honour*) 
"the  noble  stem  had  so  branched  out  that  there  were 
forty-seven  Counts  and  Countesses  belonging  to  it,  and 
of  young  descendants  as  many  as  there  are  days  in  the 
year."  Four  stout  boughs  of  the  same  noble  stem,  In 
the  rank  of  Princes,  still  subsist  and  flourish.  "  Thus  in 
the  generous  Fuggers,"  says  that  above-named  Mirror, 
"was  fulfilled  our  Saviour's  promise:  'Give,  and  it 
shall  be  given  you.'  " — Conv.  Lexicon,  $  Fugger-Qe- 
schlccht. 

tThe  Welsers  were  of  patrician  descent,  and  had  for 
many  centuries  followed  commerce  at  Augsburg,  where, 
next  only  to  the  Fuggers,  they  played  a  high  part.  It 
was  they,  for  example  that,  at  their  own  charges,  first 
colonized  Venezuela  ;  that  equipped  the  first  German 
ship  to  India,  "the  Journal  of  which  still  exists  ;"  they 
united  with  the  Fuggers  to  lend  Charles  V.  twelve 
Tonnen  Gold,  1,200,000  Florins.  The  fair  Philippine,  by 
her  pure  charms  and  honest  wiles,  worked  out  a  recon- 
ciliation with  Kaiser  Ferdinand  the  First,  her  Father-in 
law  ;  lived  thirty  happy  years  with  her  husband  ;  and 
had  medals  struck  by  him,  Divm  Philippin(B,  in  honour  of 
her,  when  (at  Innspruck  in  1580)  he  became  a  widower. 
—  Conv.  Lexicon,  $  tVelser. 


Germans,  that  these  Free  Towns,  as  well  as 
numerous  petty  Courts  of  Princes,  exercising 
a  sovereign  power,  required  individuals  of 
some  culture  to  conduct  their  Diplomacy;  one 
man  able  at  least  to  write  a  handsome  Latin 
style  was  an  indispensable  requisite.  For  a 
long  while  even  this  small  accomplishment 
was  not  to  be  acquired  in  Germany ;  where, 
such  had  been  the  troublous  condition  of  the 
Governments,  there  were  yet,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  no  Universities : 
however,  a  better  temper  and  better  fortune 
began  at  length  to  prevail  among  the  German 
Sovereigns  ;  the  demands  of  the  time  insisted 
on  fulfilment.  The  University  of  Prague  was 
founded  in  1348,  that  of  Vienna  in  1364;*  and 
now,  as  if  to  make  up  for  the  delay,  princes 
and  communities  on  all  hands  made  haste  to 
establish  similar  Institutions;  so  that  before 
the  end  of  the  century  we  find  three  others, 
Heidelberg,  Cologne,  Erfurt ;  in  the  course  of 
the  next  no  fewer  than  eight  more,  of  which 
Leipzig  (in  1404)  is  the  most  remarkable. 
Neither  did  this  honourable  zeal  grow  cool  in 
the  sixteenth  century,  or  even  down  to  our 
own,  when  Germany,  boasting  of  some  forty 
great  Schools  and  twenty-two  Universities, 
four  of  which  date  within  the  last  thirty  years, 
may  fairly  reckon  itself  the  best  school-pro- 
vided country  in  Europe;  as,  indeed,  those 
who  in  any  measure  know  it  are  aware  that  it 
is  also  indisputably  the  best  educated. 

Still  more  decisive  are  the  proofs  of  national 
activity,  of  progressive  culture  among  the 
Germans,  if  we  glance  at  what  concerns  the 
practical  Arts.  Apart  from  Universities  and 
learned  show,  there  has  dwelt,  in  those  same 
Niirnbergs  and  Augsburgs,  a  solid,  quietly- 
perseverant  spirit,  full  of  old  Teutonic  charac- 
ter and  old  Teutonic  sense;  whereby,  ever 
and  anon,  from  under  the  bonnet  of  some 
rugged  German  artisan  or  staid  Burgher,  this 
and  the  other  World's  Invention  has  been 
starting  forth,  where  such  was  least  of  all 
looked  for.  Indeed  with  regard  to  practical 
Knowledge  in  General,  if  we  consider  the  pre- 
sent history  and  daily  life  of  mankind,  it  must 
be  owned  that  while  each  nation  has  contri- 
buted a  share, — the  largest  share,  at  least  of 
such  shares  as  can  be  appropriated  and  fixed 
on  any  special  contributor,  belongs  to  Ger- 
many. Copernic,  Hevel,  Kepler,  Otto  Guericke, 
are  of  other  times  ;  but  in  this  era  also  the 
spirit  of  Inquiry,  of  Invention,  was  especially 
busy.  Gunpowder,  (of  the  thirteenth  century,) 
though  Milton  gives  the  credit  of  it  to  Satan, 
has  helped  mightily  to  lessen  the  horrors  of 
war:  thus  much  at  least  must  be  admitted  in 
its   favour,  that  it   secures   the  dominion  of 


*  There  seems  to  be  some  controversy  about  the  pre- 
cedence here  :  Bouterwek  gives  Vienna,  with  a  date 
1333,  as  the  earliest;  Koch  again  puts  Heidelberg,  1346, 
in  front ;  the  dates  in  the  Text  profess  to  be  taken  from 
Meiner's  Oeschichte  der  Enstehung  und  Entwickelung 
der  Hohen  Schulen  unsers  Erdtheils,  (History  of  the 
Origin  and  Development  of  High  Schools  in  Europe,) 
Giktingen,  1802.  The  last  established  University  is  that 
of  Miinchen,  (Munich,)  in  1826.  Prussia  alone  has 
21,000  Public  Schoolmasters,  specially  trained  to  their 
profession,  sometimes  even  sent  to  travel  for  improve- 
ment at  the  cost  of  Government.  What  says  "the 
most  enlightened  nation  in  the  world"  to  this  1 — Eats 
its  pudding,  and  says  little  or  nothing. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


277 


civilized  over  savage  man :  nay,  hereby,  in 
personal  contests,  not  brute  Strength,  but 
Courage  and  Ingenuity,  can  avail;  for  the 
Dwarf  and  the  Giant  are  alike  strong  with 
pistols  between  them.  Neither  can  Valour 
now  find  its  best  arena  in  War,  in  Battle, 
which  is  henceforth  a  matter  of  calculation 
and  strategy,  and  the  soldier  a  chess-pawn  to 
shoot  and  be  shot  at :  whereby  that  noble 
quality  may  at  length  come  to  reserve  itself 
for  other  more  legitimate  occasions,  of  which, 
in  this  our  Life-Battle  with  Destiny,  there  are 
enough.  And  thus  Gunpowder,  if  it  spread  the 
havoc  of  War,  mitigates  it  in  a  still  higher 
degree  ;  like  some  Inoculation, — to  which  may 
an  extirpating  Vaccination  one  day  succeed  ! 
It  ought  to  be  stated,  however,  that  the  claim 
of  Schwartz  to  the  original  invention  is  du- 
bious ;  to  the  sole  invention  altogether  un- 
founded :  the  recipe  stands  under  disguise  in 
the  writings  of  Roger  Bacon  ;  the  article  itself 
was  previously  known  in  the  East. 

Far  more  indisputable  are  the  advantages 
of  Printing  :  and  if  the  story  of  Brother 
Schwartz's  mortar  giving  fire  and  driving  his 
pestle  through  the  ceiling,  in  the  city  of  Mentz, 
as  the  painful  Monk  and  Alchymist  was  acci- 
dentally pounding  the  ingredients  of  our  first 
Gunpowder,  is  but  a  fable, — that  of  our  first 
Book  being  printed  there  is  much  better  ascer- 
tained. Johann  Gutenberg  was  a  native  of 
Mentz;  and  there,  in  company  with  Faust  and 
SchofFer,  appears  to  have  completed  his  inven- 
tion, between  the  years  1440  and  1449 :  the 
famous  "  Forty-two  line  Bible"  was  printed 
there  in  1455.*  Of  this  noble  art,  which  is 
like  an  infinitely  intensated  organ  of  Speech, 
whereby  the  Voice  of  a  small  transitory  man 
may  reach  not  only  through  all  earthly  Space, 
but  through  all  earthly  Time,  it  were  needless 
to  repeat  the  often-repeated  praises  ;  or  specu- 
late on  the  practical  effects,  the  most  moment- 
ous of  which  are,  perhaps,  but  now  becoming 
visible.  On  this  subject  of  the  Press,  and  its 
German  origin,  a  far  humbler  remark  may  be 
in  place  here  ;  namely,  that  Rag-paper,  the 
material  on  which  Printing  works  and  lives, 
was  also  invented  in  Germany  some  hundred 
and  fifty  years  before.  "  The  oldest  specimens 
of  this  article  yet  known  to  exist,"  says  Eich- 
horn,  "are  some  Documents,  of  the  year  1318, 
in  the  Archives  of  the  Hospital  at  Kaufbeuern. 
Breitkopf( Fom  Ursprung  der  Spxdkarten,  On  the 
Origin  of  Cards)  has  demonstrated  our  claim 
to  the  invention  ;  and  that  France  and  Eng- 
land borrowed  it  from  Germany,  and  Spain 
from  Italy."f 

On  the  invention  of  Printing  there  followed 
naturally  a  multiplication  of  Books,  and  a  new 
activity,  which  has  ever  since  proceeded  at  an 
accelerating  rate,  in  the  business  of  Literature ; 
but  for  the  present,  no  change  in  its  character 
or  objects.  Those  Universities,  and  other 
Establishments  and  Improvements,  were  so 
many  tools  which  the  spirit  of  the  lime  had 

♦  As  to  the  Dutch  claim,  it  rests  only  on  vague  local 
traditions,  which  were  never  heard  of  publicly  till  their 
Lorenz  Coster  had  been  dead  almost  a  Inuidred  and  fifty 
years  ;  so  that,  out  of  Holland,  it  finds  few  partisans. 

T  B.  ii.  s.  91.— "The  first  German  Paper-mill  we  have 
sure  account  of,"  says  Kocb,  "  worked  at  Nurnberg  in 
1390,"— Vol.  i,  p.  35, 


devised,  not  for  working  out  new  paths,  which 
was  their  ulterior  issue,  but,  in  the  mean  while, 
for  proceeding  more  commodiously  on  the  old 
path.  In  the  Prague  University,  it  is  true, 
whither  Wicklifie's  writings  had  found  their 
way,  a  teacher  of  more  earnest  tone  had  risen, 
in  the  person  of  John  Huss,  Rector  there; 
whose  Books,  Of  the  Six  Errors  and  Of  the 
Church,  still  more  his  energetic,  zealously 
polemical  Discourses  to  the  people,  were  yet 
unexampled  on  the  Continent.  The  shameful 
murder  of  this  man,  who  lived  and  died  as  be- 
seemed a  Martyr;  and  the  stern  vengeance 
which  his  countrymen  took  for  it,  unhappily 
not  on  the  Constance  Cardinals,  but  on  less 
offensive  Bohemian  Catholics,  kept  up  during 
twenty  years,  on  the  Eastern  Border  of  Ger- 
many, an  agitating  tumult,  not  only  of  opinion, 
but  of  action :  however,  the  fierce,  indomitable 
Zisca  being  called  away,  and  the  pusillanimous 
Emperor  offering  terms,  which,  indeed,  he  did 
not  keep,  this  uproar  subsided,  and  the  national 
activity  proceeded  in  its  former  course. 

In  German  Literature,  during  those  years, 
nothing  presents  itself  as  worthy  of  notice 
here.  Chronicles  were  written ;  Class-books 
for  the  studious,  edifying  Homilies,  in  varied 
guise,  for  the  busy,  were  compiled:  a  few 
Books  of  Travels  made  their  appearance, 
among  which  Translations  from  our  too  fabu- 
lous countryman,  Mandeville,  are  perhaps  the 
most  remarkable.  For  the  rest.  Life  continued 
to  be  looked  at  less  with  poetic  admiration, 
than  in  a  spirit  of  observation  and  comparison : 
not  without  many  a  protest  against  clerical 
and  secular  error ;  such,  however,  seldom 
rising  into  the  style  of  grave  hate  and  hostility, 
but  playfully  expressing  themselves  in  satire. 
The  old  eflfort  towards  the  Useful ;  in  Litera- 
ture, the  old  prevalence  of  the  Didactic,  espe- 
cially of  the  ^sopic,  is  everywhere  manifest. 
Of  this  ^sopic  spirit,  what  phases  it  succes- 
sively assumed,  and  its  significance  in  these, 
there  were  much  to  be  said.  However,  in 
place  of  multiplying  smaller  instances  and 
aspects,  let  us  now  take  up  the  highest ;  and 
with  the  best  of  all  Apologues,  Reynard  the  Fox, 
terminates  our  survey  of  that  Fable-loving 
time. 

The  story  of  Rcinecke  Fucks,  or,  to  give  it  the 
original  Low-German  name,  Reineke  de  Fos,  is, 
more  than  any  other,  a  truly  European  per- 
formance :  for  some  centuries,  a  universal 
household  possession  and  secular  Bible,  read 
everywhere,  in  the  palace  and  the  hut;  it  still 
interests  us,  moreover,  by  its  intrinsic  worth, 
being  on  the  whole  the  most  poetical  and  me- 
ritorious production  of  our  Western  World  in 
that  kind;  or  perhaps  of  the  whole  World, 
though  in  such  matters,  the  West  has  gene- 
rally yielded  to,  and  learned  from,  the  East. 

Touching  the  origin  of  this  Book,  as  often 
happens  in  like  cases,  there  is  a  controversy, 
perplexed  not  only  by  inevitable  ignorance, 
but  also  by  anger  and  false  patriotism.  Into 
this  vexed  sea  we  have  happily  no  call  to  ven- 
ture; and  shall  merely  glance  for  a  moment, 
from  the  firm  land,  where  all  that  can  specially 
concern  us  in  the  matter  stands  secured  and 
safe.  The  oldest  printed  Edition  of  our  actual 
2A 


278 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Reynard  is  that  of  Liibeck,  in  1498  ;  of  which 
there  is  a  copy,  understood  to  be  the  only  one, 
still  extant  in  the  Wolfenbuttel  Library.  This 
oldest  Edition  is  in  the  Low-German  or  Saxon 
tongue,  and  appears  to  have  been  produced  by 
Hinrek  van  Alkmer,  who  in  the  Preface  calls 
himself  "  Schoolmaster  and  Tutor  of  that  noble 
virtuous  Prince  and  Lord,  the  Duke  of  Lor- 
raine ;"  and  says  farther,  that  by  order  of  this 
same  worthy  sovereign,  he  "  sought  out  and 
rendered  the  present  Book  from  the  Walloon  and 
French  tongue  into  German,  to  the  praise  and 
honour  of  God,  and  wholesome  edification  of 
whoso  readeth  therein."  Which  candid  and 
business-like  statement  would  doubtless  have 
continued  to  yield  entire  satisfaction ;  had  it 
not  been  that,  in  modern  days,  and  while  this 
first  Liibeck  Edition  was  still  lying  in  its  dusty 
recess  unknown  to  Bibliomaniacs,  another 
account,  dated  some  hundred  years  later,  and 
supported  by  a  little  subsequent  hearsay,  had 
been  raked  up :  how  the  real  Author  was 
Nicholas  Baumann,  Professor  at  Rostock ; 
how  he  had  been  Secretary  to  the  Duke  of 
Juliers,  but  was  driven  from  his  service  by 
wicked  cabals ;  and  so  in  revenge  composed 
this  satirical  adumbration  of  the  Juliers  Court; 
putting  on  the  title-page,  to  avoid  conse- 
quences, the  feigned  tale  of  its  being  rendered 
from  the  French  and  Walloon  tongue,  and  the 
feigned  name  of  Hinrek  van  Alkmer,  who,  for 
the  rest,  was  never  Schoolmaster  and  Tutor  at 
Lorraine,  or  anywhere  else,  but  a  mere  man 
of  straw,  created  for  the  nonce,  out  of  so  many 
Letters  of  the  Alphabet.  Hereupon  excessive 
debate,  and  a  learned  sharp-shooting,  with  vic- 
tory-shouts on  both  sides  ;  into  which  we 
nowise  enter.  Some  touch  of  human  sym- 
pathy does  draw  us  towards  Hinrek,  whom,  if 
he  was  once  a  real  man,  with  bones  and 
sinews,  stomach  and  provender-scrip,  it  is 
mournful  to  see  evaporated  away  into  mere 
vowels  and  consonants:  however,  beyond  a 
kind  wish,  we  can  give  him  no  help.  In  Lite- 
rary History,  except  on  this  one  occasion,  as 
seems  indisputable  enough,  he  is  nowhere  men- 
tioned or  hinted  at. 

Leaving  Hinrek  and  Nicolaus,  then,  to  fight 
out  their  quarrel  as  they  may,  we  remark  that 
the  clearest  issue  of  it  would  throw  little  light 
on  the  origin  of  Reinecke.  The  victor  could  at 
most  claim  to  be  the  first  German  redactor  of 
this  Fable,  and  the  happiest;  whose  work  had 
superseded  and  obliterated  all  preceding  ones 
whatsoever;  but  nowise  to  be  the  inventor 
thereof,  who  must  be  sought  for  in  a  much  re- 
moter period.  There  are  even  two  printed 
versions  of  the  Tale,  prior  in  date  to  this  of 
Liibeck:  a  Dutch  one,  at  Delft  in  1484;  and 
one  by  Caxton  in  English,  in  1481,  which 
seems  to  be  the  earliest  of  all.*     These  two 


*  Caxton's  Edition,  a  copy  of  which  is  in  the  British 
Museum,  bears  title  :  Hystorye  of  Reynart  the  Foxe:  and 
begins  thus  : — "  It  was  aboute  the  tyine  of  Pentecoste  or 
Whytsontyde  that  the  wodes  comynly  be  lusty  and 
gladsome,  and  the  trees  clad  with  levys  and  blossoms, 
and  the  grounds  with  herbes  and  flowers  sweete  smell- 
yng  ;" — where,  as  in  many  other  passages,  the  fact  that 
Caxton  and  Alkmer  had  the  same  original  before  them 
is  manifest  enough.  Our  venerable  Printer  says  in  con- 
clusion :  "  I  have  not  added  ne  mynnsshed  but  have 
followed  as  nyghe  as  I  can  my  copye  whych  was  in 
dutcbe ;  and  by  me  WiUm  Caxton  translated  in  to  this 


differ  essentially  from  Hinrek's  ;  still  more  so 
does  the  French  Roman  du  nouveau  Renard, 
composed  "  by  Jacquemars  Gieli^e  at  Lisle, 
about  the  year  1290,"  which  yet  exists  in 
manuscript:  however,  they  sufficiently  verify 
that  statement,  by  some  supposed  to  be  feigned, 
of  the  German  redactor's  having  "  sought  and 
rendered"  his  work  from  the  Walloon  and 
French;  in  which  latter  tongue,  as  we  shall 
soon  see,  some  shadow  of  it  had  been  known 
and  popular,  long  centuries  before  that  time. 
For  besides  Gielee's  work,  we  have  a  Renard 
Couronne  of  still  earlier,  a  Renard  Contrefait  of 
somewhat  later  date :  and  Chroniclers  inform 
us  that,  at  the  noted  Festival  given  by  Philip 
the  Fair,  in  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  among  the  dramatic  entertainments, 
was  a  whole  Life  of  Reynard  ;  wherein  it  must 
not  surprise  us  that  he  "  ended  by  becoming 
Pope,  and  still,  under  the  Tiara,  continued  to 
eat  poultry."  Nay,  curious  inquirers  have 
discovered  on  the  French  and  German  borders, 
some  vestige  of  the  Story  even  in  Carlovingiau 
times,  which,  indeed,  again  makes  it  a  German 
original :  they  will  have  it  that  a  certain  Rein- 
hard,  or  Reinecke,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  who,  in 
the  ninth  century,  by  his  craft  and  exhaustless 
stratagems  worked  strange  mischief  in  that 
region,  many  times  overreaching  King  Zwenti- 
bald  himself,  and  at  last,  in  his  stronghold  of 
Durfos,  proving  impregnable  to  him, — had  in 
satirical  songs  of  that  period  been  celebrated 
as  a  fox,  as  Reinhard  the  Fox,  and  so  given  rise 
afar  off  to  this  Apologue,  at  least  to  the  title  of 
it.  The  name  Isegrim,  as  applied  to  the  Wolf, 
these  same  speculators  deduce  from  an  Aus- 
trian Count  Isengrin,  who,  in  those  old  days, 
had  revolted  against  Kaiser  Arnulph,  and 
otherwise  exhibited  too  wolfish  a  disposition. 
Certain  it  is,  at  least,  that  both  designations 
were  in  universal  use  during  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury ;  they  occur,  for  example,  in  one  of  the 
two  sirventes  which  our  CoBur-de-Lion  has  left 
us  :  "  ye  have  promised  me  fidelity,"  says  he, 
"but  ye  have  kept  it  as  the  Wolf  did  to  the 
Fox,"  as  Isangrin  did  to  Reinhart.*  Nay,  per- 
haps the  ancient  circulation  of  some  such 
Song,  or  Tale,  among  the  French,  is  best  of  all 
evinced  by  the  fact  that  this  same  Reinhart,  or 
Renard,  is  still  the  only  word  in  their  language 
for  Fox;  and  thus,  strangely  enough,  the  Pro- 
per may  have  become  an  Appellative ;  and  sly 
Duke  Reinhart,  at  an  era  when  the  French 
tongue  was  first  evolving  itself  from  the  rub- 
bish of  Latin  and  German,  have  insinuated 
his  name  into  Natural  as  well  as  Political 
History. 

From  all  which,  so  much  at  least  would  ap- 
pear :  That  the  Fable  of  Reynard  the  Fox,  which 
in  the  German  version  we  behold  completed, 
nowise  derived  its  completeness  from  the  indi- 
vidual there  named  Hinrek  van  Alkmer,  or 
from  any  other  individual,  or  people :  but 
rather,  that  being  in  old  times  universally  cur- 
rent, it  was  taken  up  by  poets  and  satirists  of 
all  countries;  from  each  received  some  acces- 


rude  and  symple  englyssh  in  thabbey  of  Westminster, 
and  fynnyshed  the  vi  daye  of  Juyn  the  yere  of  our  lord 
1481,  the  21  yere  of  the  regne  of  Kynge  Edward  the 
iiijth." 

*  Flogel,  (iii.  31,)  who  quotes  the  Histoire  LitUratre 
des  Troubadours,  I.  i.  p.  63, 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


279 


slon  or  improvement;  and  properly  has  no 
single  author.  We  must  observe,  however, 
that  as  yet  it  had  attained  no  fixation  or  con- 
sistency ;  no  version  was  decidedly  preferred 
to  every  other.  Caxton's  and  the  Dutch  ap- 
pear, at  best,  but  as  the  skeleton  of  what  after- 
wards became  a  body ;  of  the  old  Walloon 
version,  said  to  have  been  discovered  lately, 
we  are  taught  to  entertain  a  similar  opinion  :* 
in  the  existing  French  versions,  which  are  all 
older,  either  in  Gielee's,  or  in  the  others,  there 
is  even  less  analogy.  Loosely  conjoined,  there- 
fore, and  only  in  the  state  of  dry  bones,  was  it 
that  Hinrek,  or  Nicola  us,  or  some  Lower-Saxon 
whoever  he  might  be,  found  the  story;  and 
blowing  on  it  with  the  breath  of  genius,  raised 
it  up  into  a  consistent  Fable.  Many  additions 
and  some  exclusions  he  must  have  made  ;  was 
probably  enough  assisted  by  personal  experi- 
ence of  a  Court,  whether  that  of  Juliers  or 
some  other;  perhaps  also  he  admitted  personal 
allusions,  and  doubtless  many  an  oblique 
glance  at  existing  things :  and  thus  was  pro- 
duced the  Low-German  Reineke  de  Fos,  which 
version,  shortly  after  its  appearance,  had  ex- 
tinguished all  the  rest,  and  come  to  be,  what  it 
still  is,  the  sole  veritable  representative  of 
Reynard,  inasmuch  as  all  subsequent  transla- 
tions and  editions  have  derived  themselves 
from  it. 

The  farther  history  of  Reinecke  is  easily 
traced.  In  this  new  guise,  it  spread  abroad 
over  all  the  world,  with  a  scarcely  exampled 
rapidity;  fixing  itself  also  as  a  firm  possession 
in  most  countries,  where,  indeed,  in  this  cha- 
racter, we  still  find  it.  It  was  printed  and 
rendered,  innumerable  times :  in  the  original 
dialect  alone,  the  last  Editor  has  reckoned  up 
more  than  twenty  Editions ;  on  one  of  which, 
for  example,  we  find  such  a  name  as  that  of 
Heinrich  Voss.  It  was  first  translated  into 
High-German  in  1545;  into  Latin  in  1567,  by 
Hartmann  Schopper,  whose  smooth  style  and 
rough  fortune  keep  him  in  memory  with 
Scholars  :-j-  a  new  version  into  short  German 
verse  appeared  next  century;  in  our  own 
times,  Goethe  has  not  disdained  to  re-produce 
it,  by  means  of  his  own,  in  a  third  shape  :  Of 
Soltau's  version,  into  literal  doggerel,  we  have 
already  testified.  Long  generations  before,  it 
had  been  manufactured  into  Prose,  for  the  use 
of  the  people,  and  was  sold  on  stalls  ;  where 
still,  with  the  needful  changes  in  spelling,  and 
printed  on  grayest  paper,  it  tempts  the  specu- 
lative eye. 

*  See  Scheller ;  (Reineke  de  Fos,  To  Brunswyk,  1825 ;) 
Vorrede. 

t  While  engaged  in  this  Translation,  at  Freiburg  in 
Baden,  he  was  impressed  as  a  soldier,  and  carried,  ap- 
parently in  fetters,  to  Vienna,  having  given  his  work  to 
another  to  finish.  At  Vienna  he  stood  not  long  in  the 
ranks ;  having  fallen  violently  sick,  and  being  thrown 
out  into  the  streets  to  recover  there.  He  says,  "he  was 
without  bed,  and  had  to  seek  quarters  on  the  muddy 
pavement,  in  a  Barrel."  Here  too,  in  the  night,  some 
excessively  straitened  individual  stole  from  him  his 
cloak  and  sabre.  However,  men  were  not  all  hyenas  ; 
one  Josias  Hufnagel,  unknown  to  him,  but  to  whom  by 
his  writings  he  was  known,  took  him  under  roof,  pro- 
cured medical  assistance,  equipped  him  anew  ;  so  that 
"in  the  harvest  season,  being  half-cured,  he  could  re- 
turn or  rather  re-crawl  to  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn." 
There  too  "a  Magister  Johann  Cuipius.  Christian  Egen- 
olph's  son-in-law,  kindly  received  him,"  and  encouraged 
biiu  to  finish  bis  Trauslation;  as  accordingly  he  did. 


Thus  has  our  old  Fable,  rising  like  some 
River  in  the  remote  distance,  from  obscure 
rivulets,  gathered  strength  out  of  every  valley, 
out  of  every  country,  as  it  rolled  on.  It  is  Eu- 
ropean in  two  senses;  for  as  all  Europe  con- 
tributed to  it,  so  all  Europe  has  enjoyed  it. 
Among  the  Germans,  Reinecke  Fuchs  was  long 
a  House-book  and  universal  Best-companion: 
it  has  been  lectured  on  in  Universities,  quoted 
in  Imperial  Council-halls;  it  lay  on  the  toilette 
of  Princesses,  and  was  thumbed  to  pieces  on 
the  bench  of  the  Artisan  ;  we  hear  of  grave 
men  ranking  it  only  next  to  the  Bible.  Neither, 
as  we  said,  was  its  popularity  confined  to 
home;  Translations  ere  long  appeared  in 
French,  Italian,  Danish,  Swedish,  Dutch,  Eng- 
lish :*  nor  was  that  same  stall-honour,  which 
has  been  reckoned  the  truest  literary  celebrity, 
refused  it  here ;  perhaps  many  a  reader  of 
these  pages  may,  like  the  writer  of  them,  re- 
collect the  hours,  when,  hidden  from  unfeeling 
gaze  of  pedagogue,  he  swallowed  The  most 
pleasant  and  delightful  History  of  Renard  the  Fox, 
like  stolen  waters,  with  a  timorous  joy. 

So  much  for  the  outward  fortunes  of  this 
remarkable  Book.  It  comes  before  us  with 
a  character  such  as  can  belong  only  to  a  very 
few  ;  that  of  being  a  true  world's-Book,  which, 
through  centuries  was  everywhere  at  home, 
the  spirit  of  which  diffused  itself  into  all  lan- 
guages and  all  minds.  These  quaint  ^sopic 
figures  have  painted  themselves  in  innumera- 
ble heads ;  that  rough,  deep-lying  humour  has 
been  the  laughter  of  many  generations.  So 
that,  at  worst,  we  must  regard  this  Reinecke  as 
an  ancient  Idol,  once  worshipped,  and  still  in- 
teresting for  that  circumstance,  were  the  sculp- 
ture never  so  rude.  We  can  love  it,  moreover, 
as  being  indigenous,  wholly  of  our  own  crea- 
tion :  it  sprang  up  from  European  sense  and 
character,  and  was  a  faithful  type  and  organ 
of  these. 

But  independently  of  all  extrinsic  considera- 
tions, this  Fable  of  Reinecke  may  challenge  a 
judgment  on  its  own  merits.  Cunningly  con- 
structed, and  not  without  a  true  poetic  life,  we 
must  admit  it  to  be :  great  power  of  concep- 
tion and  invention,  great  pictorial  fidelity,  a 
warm,  sunny  tone  of  colouring,  are  manifest 
enough.  It  is  full  of  broad,  rustic  mirth  ;  in- 
exhaustible in  comic  devices  ;  a  World-Satur- 
nalia, where  Wolves  tonsured  into  Monks,  and 


dedicating  it  to  the  Emperor,  with  doleful  complaints, 
fruitless  or  not  is  unknown.  For  now  poor  Hartmann, 
no  longer  an  Autobiographer,  quite  vanishes,  and  we 
can  understand  only  that  he  laid  his  wearied  back  one 
day  in  a  most  still  bed,  where  the  blanket  of  the  Night 

softly  enwrapped  him  and  all  his  woes. His  Book  is 

entitled  Opus  pneticum  de  admirabUi  Fallacia  et  ^stutiA 
Fulpeculm  Reivekes,  <fcc.  &c. ;  and  in  the  Dedication  and 
Preface  contains  all  these  details. 

*  Besides  Caxton's  original,  of  which  little  is  known 
amonc  us  but  the  name,  we  have  two  versions  ;  one  in 
1667,  "with  excellent  Morals  and  Expositions,"  which 
was  reprinted  in  1681,  and  fnilovved  in  1684  by  a  con- 
tinuation, called  the  Shifts  of  Reynardine  the  Son  of  Rey^ 
nard,  of  English  growth;  another  in  1708,  slightly  alter- 
ed from  the  former,  explaining  what  appears  doubtful  or 
allegorical;  "it  being  originally  written,"  says  the 
brave  editor  elsewhere,  "by  an  eminent  Statesman  of 
the  German  Empire,  to  show  some  Men  their  Follies, 
and  correct  the  Vices  of  the  Times  he  lived  in."  Not 
only  Reynardinehut  a  second  Appendix,  Catcood  the  Rooky 
appears  here  ;  also  there  are  "curious  Devices,  or  Pic- 
tures."—Of  editions  "printed  for  the  Flying-Station- 
ers," we  say  nothing. 


280 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


nigh  starved  b}^  short  commons,  Foxes  pilgrim- 
ing  to  Rome  for  absolution,  Cocks  pleading 
at  the  judgment-bar,  make  strange  mummery. 
Nor  is  this  wild  Parody  of  Human  Life  with- 
out its  meaning  and  moral:  it  is  an  Air-pa- 
-geant  from  Fancy's  Dream-grotto,  yet  Wis- 
dom lurks  in  it;  as  we  gaze,  the  vision  be- 
comes poetic  and  prophetic.  A  true  Irony 
must  have  dwelt  in  the  Poet's  heart  and  head  ; 
here,  under  grotesque  shadows,  he  gives  us 
the  saddest  picture  of  Reality ;  yet  for  us  with- 
out sadness ;  his  figures  mask  themselves  in 
uncouth,  bestial  vizards,  and  enact,  gambol- 
ing: their  Tragedy  dissolves  into  sardonic 
grins.  He  has  a  deep,  heartfelt  Humour, 
sporting  with  the  world  and  its  evils  in  kind 
mockery :  this  is  the  poetic  soul,  round  which 
the  outward  material  has  fashioned  itself  into 
living  coherence.  And  so,  in  that  rude  old 
Apologue,  we  have  still  a  mirror,  though  now 
tarnished  and  time-worn,  of  true  magic  reality ; 
and  can  discern  there,  in  cunning  reflex,  some 
image  both  of  our  destiny  and  of  our  duty: 
for  now,  as  then,  "  Prudence  is  the  only  virtue 
sure  of  its  reward,"  and  cunning  triumphs 
where  Honesty  is  worsted;  and  now,  as  then, 
it  is  the  wise  man's  part  to  know  this,  and 
cheerfully  look  for  it,  and  cheerfully  defy  it : 

Vt  vulpis  adulatio 

Here  through  his  own  world  moveth. 
Sic  hominis  et  ratio 

Most  like  to  Reynard's  proveth.* 

If  licinccke  is  nowise  a  perfect  Comic  Epos,  it 
has  various  features  of  such,  and,  above  all,  a 
genuine  Epic  spirit,  which  is  the  rarest  fea- 
ture. 

Of  the  Fable,  and  its  incidents  and  struc- 
ture, it  is  perhaps  superfluous  to  offer  any 
sketch ;  to  most  readers  the  whole  may  be  al- 
ready familiar.  How  Noble,  King  of  the 
Beasts,  holding  a  solemn  Court,  one  Whitsun- 
tide, is  deafened  on  all  hands  with  complaints 
against  Reinecke ;  Hinze  the  Cat,  Lampe  the 
Hare,  Isegrim  the  Wolf,  with  innumerable 
others,  having  suffered  from  his  villany,  Ise- 
grim especially,  in  a  point  which  most  keenly 
touches  honour;  nay.  Chanticleer  the  Cock, 
(Henningde  Hane,)  amid  bitterest  wail,  appear- 
ing even  with  the  corpus  delicti,  the  body  of  one 
of  his  children,  whom  that  arch-knave  has  fe- 
loniously murdered  with  intent  to  eat.  How 
his  indignant  Majesty  thereupon  despatches 
Bruin  the  Bear  to  cite  the  delinquent  in  the 
King's  name  ;  how  Bruin,  inveigled  into  a  Ho- 
ney-Expedition, returns  without  his  errand, 
without  his  ears,  almost  without  his  life ;  Hinze 
the  Cat,  in  a  subsequent  expedition,  faring  no 
belter.  How  at  last  Reinecke,  that  he  may 
not  have  to  stand  actual  siege  in  his  fortress 
of  Malapertus,  does  appear  for  trial,  and  is 
about  to  be  hanged,  but  on  the  gallows-ladder 
makes  a  speech  unrivalled  in  forensic  elo- 
quence, and  saves  his  life;  nay,  having  inci- 
dentally hinted  at  some  Treasures,  the  hiding, 
place  of  which  is  well  known  to  him,  rises 
into  high  favour;  is  permitted  to  depart  on 
that  pious  pilgrimage  to  Rome  he  has  so  much 


*  Ut  vulpis  adulatio 
J^Tu  in  de  loerlde  blikket  : 

Sic  hominis  et  ratio 
Oelyk  dem  Fas  sik  shikket. 


-Motto  to  Reinecke. 


at  heart,  and  furnished  even  with  shoes,  cut 
from  the  living  hides  of  Isegrim  and  Isegrim's 
much-injured  spouse,  his  worst  enemies.  How, 
the  Treasures  not  making  their  appearance, 
but  only  new  misdeeds,  he  is  again  haled  to 
judgment;  again  glozes  the  general  ear  with 
sweetest  speeches;  at  length,  being  challenged 
to  it,  fights  Isegrim  in  knightly  tourney,  and  by 
the  cunningest,  though  the  most  unchivalrous 
method,  not  to  be  farther  specified  in  polite 
writing,  carries  off'  a  complete  victory;  and 
having  thus,  by  wager  of  battle,  manifested  his 
innocence,  is  overloaded  with  royal  favour; 
created  Chancellor,  and  Pilot  to  weather  the 
Storm  ;  and  so,  in  universal  honour  and  au- 
thority, reaps  the  fair  fruit  of  his  gifts  and  la- 
bours. 

Whereby  shall  each  to  wisdom  turn, 
Evil  eschew,  and  virtue  learn, 
Therefore  was  this  same  story  wrote, 
That  is  its  aim,  and  other  not. 
This  Book  for  liule  price  is  sold, 
But  image  clear  of  world  doth  hold  ; 
Whoso  into  the  worW  would  look, 
My  counsel  is,— he  buy  this  book. 
So  endeth  Reynard's  Fox's  story  : 
God  help  us  all  to  heavenly  glory ! 

It  has  been  objected  that  the  animals  in  Rie' 
necke  are  not  Animals,  but  Men  disguised ;  to 
which  objection,  except  in  so  far  as  grounded 
on  the  necessary  indubitable  fact  that  this  is 
an   Apologue  or   emblematic  Fable,  and   no 
Chapter  of  Natural  History,  we  cannot  in  any 
considerable  degree  accede.     Nay,  that  very 
contrast  between  Object  and  Effort,  where  the 
Passions  of  men  develope  themselves  on  the 
Interests  of  animals,  and  the  whole  is   hud- 
dled together  in  chaotic  mockery,  is  a  main 
charm  of  the  picture.     For  the  rest,  we  should 
rather  say,  these  bestial  characters  were  mo- 
derately well  sustained :  the  vehement,  futile 
vociferation   of    Chanticleer  ;    the   hysterical 
promptitude,  and  earnest  profession  and  pro- 
testation of  poor  Lampe  the  Hare;  the  thick- 
headed ferocity  of  Isegrim  ;  the  sluggish,  glut- 
tonous opacity  of  Bruin;  above  all,  the  craft, 
the  tact,  and  inexhaustible  knavish  adroitness 
of  Reinecke  himself,  are  in  strict  accuracy  of 
costume.     Often  also  their  situations  and  oc- 
cupations are  bestial    enough.     What    quan- 
tities of  bacon  and  other  provant  do  Isegrim 
and  Reinecke  forage;   Reinecke  contributing 
the  scheme, — for  the  two  were  then  in  partner- 
ship,— and  Isegrim  paying  the  shot  in  broken 
bones !     What  more  characteristic   than   the 
fate  of  Bruin,  when,  ill-counselled,  he  intro- 
duces his  stupid  head  into  Rustefill's  half-split 
log,  has  the  wedges  whisked  away,  and  stands 
clutched   there,  as    in    a   vice,  and  uselessly 
roaring,  disappointed  of  honey,  sure  only  of  a 
beating  without  parallel !     Not  to  forget   the 
Mare,   whom,  addressing  her  by  the  title  of 
Good-wife,  with  all  politeness,  Isegrim,  sore- 
pinched  with   hunger,  asks   whether  she   will 
sell  her  foal :  she  answers,  that  the  price  is 
written  on  her  hinder  hoof;. which  document 
the   intending    purchaser,    being  "  an  Erfurt 
graduate,"  declares   his   full  ability  to  read; 
but  finds  there  no  writing,  or  print,  save  only 
the  print  of  six  horsenails  on  his  own  mauled 
visage.    And  abundance  of  the  like ;  sufficient 


EARLY  GERM.\N  LITERATURE. 


281 


to  excuse  our  old  Epos  on  this  head,  or  altoge- 
ther justify  it.  Another  objection,  that,  namely, 
which  points  to  the  great,  and  excessive  coarse- 
ness of  the  work,  here  and  there,  it  cannot  so 
readily  turn  aside ;  being  indeed  rude,  old- 
fashioned,  and  homespun,  apt  even  to  draggle 
in  the  mire :  neither  are  its  occasional  dulness 
and  tediousness  to  be  denied ;  but  only  to  be 
set  against  its  frequent  terseness  and  strength, 
and  pardoned  as  the  product  of  poor  huma- 
nity, from  whose  hands  nothing,  not  even  a 
Reineke  de  Fos,  comes  perfect. 

He  who  would  read,  and  still  understand 
this  old  Apologue,  must  apply  to  Goethe, 
whose  version,  for  poetical  use,  we  have 
found  infinitely  the  best ;  like  some  copy  of 
an  ancient,  bedimmed,  half-obliterated  wood- 
cut, but  new-done  on  steel,  on  India-paper, 
and  with  all  manner  of  graceful,  yet  appro- 
priate appendages.  Nevertheless,  the  old 
Low-German  original  has  also  a  certain 
charm,  and,  simply  as  the  original,  would 
claim  some  notice.  It  is  reckoned  greatly  the 
best  performance  that  was  ever  brought  out 
in  that  dialect;  interesting,  moreover,  in  a 
philological  point  of  view,  especially  to  us 
English ;  being  properly  the  language  of  our 
old  Saxon  Fatherland  ;  and  still  curiously  like 
our  own,  though  the  two,  for  some  twelve  cen- 
turies, have  had  no  brotherly  communication. 
One  short  specimen,  with  the  most  verbal 
translation,  we  shall  here  insert,  and  then 
have  done  with  Reinecke : 

"  Ue  Greving  was  Reinken  broder's  sone, 
The  Badger  was  Reinke's  brother^ s  son, 
De  sprak  do,  un  was  s6r  kone. 
He  spake  there,  and  was  (sore)  very  (keen)  bold. 
He  forantworde  in  dem  Hove  den  Fos, 
He  (for-answered)  defended  in  the  Court  the  fox, 
De  dog  was  ser  falsh  un  16s. 
That  (though)  yet  was  very  false  and  loose. 
He  sprak  to  deme  Wulve  also  fSrd : 
He  spake  to  the  Wolf  so  forth  : 
Here  Isegrim,  it  is  ein  dldsprSken  w3rd, 
Master  Isegrim,  it  is  an  old-spoken  word, 
Des  fyendes  mund  shaffe,  selden  fr6m  ! 
The   (fiends)  enemy's  mouth  (shapeth)  bringeth  sel- 
dom advantage ! 
So  do  ji  6k  by  Reinken,  mlmen  6ni. 
So  do  ye  (eke)  too  by  Reinke,  mine  (erne)  uncle. 
Were  he  so  wol  alse  ji  byte  to  Hove, 
Were  he  as  well  as  ye  here  at  Court, 
Un  stunde  he  also  in  des  Koninge's  love, 
.^nd  stood  he  so  in  the  King' s  favour. 
Here  Isegrim,  alse  ji  d6t. 
Master  Isegrim,  as  ye  do, 
It  sholde  ju  nigt  diinken  g6d. 
It  should  you  not  (think)  seem  good, 
Dat  ji  en  hyr  alsus  forsprSken 
That  ye  him  here  so  forspake 
Un  de  6lden  stiikke  hyr  f^rrSken. 
.Bnd  the  old  tricks  here  forth-raked. 
Men  dat  kwerde,  dat  ji  Reinken  havven  gedftn, 
'        But  the  ill  that  ye  Reinke  have  done, 
Dat  late  ji  al  agter  stan. 
That  let  ye  all  (after  stand)  stand  by. 
It  is  nog  etliken  heren  wol  kund, 
It  is  yet  to  some  gentlemen  well  known, 
Wo  ji  mid  Reinken  maken  den  ferbund, 
How  ye  with  Rienke  made  (bond)  alliance, 
Tin  wolden  wa.ren  twe  like  gesellen  ; 
.^nd  would  be  two  (like)  equal  partners  ; 
Dat  mok  ik  dirren  heren  fortailen. 
That  mote  I  these  gentlemen  forth-tell. 
Wentp  Reinke,  myn  6m,  in  wintersndd, 
Reinke,  mine  uncle,  in  winter' s-need, 
36 


Umme  Tsegrim's  willen,  fylna  was  dfld. 

For  Isegrim's  (will)  sake,  full-nigh  was  dead. 

Wente  it  geshang  dat  ein  kwam  gefaren, 

For  it  chanced  that  one  came  (faring)  driving, 

De  hadde  grotte  (ishe  up  ener  karen: 

Who  had  many  fishes  upon  a  car: 

Isegrim  hadde  geren  der  fishe  gehaled, 

Isegrim  had  fain  the  fishes  (have  haled)  have  got. 

Men  he  hadde  nigt,  darmid  se  worden  betaled. 

But  he  had  not  wherewith  they  should  be  (betold)  paid.' 

He  bragte  minen  6m  in  de  grote  n6d. 

He  brought  mine  uncle  into  great  (need)  straits, 

Um  sinen  willen  ging  he  liggen  for  ddd, 

For  his  sake  went  he  to  (lig)  Ue  for  dead, 

Regt  in  den  wig,  un  stand  aventur. 

Right  in  the  way,  and  stood  (adventure)  chance. 

Market,  worden  em  6k  de  fishe  sArl 

Mark,  were  him  eke  the  fishes  (sour)  dear-bought  ? 

Do  jeniie  mid  der  kare  gefaren  kwam 

When  (yonder)  he  with  the  car  driving  came 

Un  minen  6m  darsiilvest  fnrnem, 

.^nd  mine  uncle  (there-self)  even  there  perceived, 

Hastieen  t6?  he  syn  swSrd  un  snel, 

Hastily  (took)  drew  he  his  sword  and  (snell)  quick, 

Un  wolde  mineme  ome  torriiken  en  fel. 

Jlnd  would  my  uncle  (tatter  in  fell)  tear  in  pieces. 

Men  he  roeede  sik  nigt  kl6n  nog  gr6t : 

But  he  stirred  himself  not  (little  nor  great)  more  vr 

less ; 
Do  nifende  he  dat  he  were  d6d ; 
Then  (meaned)  thought  he  that  he  was  dead  ; 
He  lade  on  up  de  kar,  und  dayte  on  to  fillen, 
He  laid  him  upon  the  car,  and  thought  him  to  skin, 
Dat  waeede  he  all  dorg  Isegrim's  willen  ! 
That  risked  he  all  through  Isegrim's  will  I 
Do  he  fordan  begunde  to  faren, 
When  he  forth-on  began  to  fare, 
warp  Reinke  etlike  fishe  fan  der  karen. 
Cast  Reinke  some  fishes  from  the  car. 
Isegrim  fan  feme  agteona  kwam 
Isegrim  from  afar  after  came 
Un  derre  fishe  al  to  sik  nam. 
.Snd  these  fishes  all  to  himself  took. 
Reinke  sprang  wedder  fan  der  karen  ; 
Reinke  sprang  again  from  the  car  ; 
Em  liistede  to  nigt  langer  to  faren, 
Him  listed  not  longer  to  fare. 
He  hadde  6k  g6rne  der  fishe  begerd, 
He  (had)  would  have  also  fain  of  the  fishes  requvrtd. 
Men  Isegrim  hadde  se  alle  fortfird. 
But  Isegrim  had  them  all  consumed. 
He  hadde  getan  dat  he  wolde  barsten, 
He  had  eaten  so  that  he  would  burst, 
Un  moste  darumme  gen  torn  arsten. 
Jind  must  thereby  go  to  the  doctor. 
Do  Isegrim  der  graden  nigt  en  mogte, 
.Ss  Isegrim  the  fish-bones  not  liked, 
Der  sulven  he  em  ein  weinig  brogte. 
Of  these  same  he  him  a  little  brought. 

Whereby  it  would  appear,  if  we  are  to  be- 
lieve Grimbart  the  Badger,  that  Reinecke  was 
not  only  the  cheater  in  this  case,  but  also  the 
cheatee ;  however,  he  makes  matters  straight 
again  in  that  other  noted  fish  expedition,  where 
Isegrim  minded  not  to  steal  but  to  catch  fish, 
and  having  no  fishing-tackle,  by  Reinecke's 
advice,  inserts  his  tail  into  the  lake,  in  winter- 
season  ;  but  before  the  promised  string  of 
trouts,  all  hooked  to  one  another,  and  to  him, 
will  bite,  is  frozen  in,  and  left  there  to  his  own 
bitter  meditations. 


We  here  take  leave  of  Reineke  de  Fos,  and 
of  the  whole  ^sopic  genus,  of  which  it  is  al- 
most the  last,  and  by  far  the  most  remarkable 
example.  The  Age  of  Apologue,  like  that  of 
Chivalry  and  Love-singing,  is  gone;  for  no- 
thing in  this  Earth  has  continuance.  If  we 
2  a2 


383 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ask,  where  are  now  our  People's  Books?  the 
answer  might  give  room  for  reflections.  Hin- 
rek  van  Alkmer  has  passed  away,  and  Dr. 
Birkbeck  has  risen  in  his  room.  What  good 
and  evil  lie  in  that  little  sentence  ! — But  doubt- 
less the  day  is  coming  when  what  is  wanting 
here  will  be  supplied  ;  when  as  the  Logical, 
so  likewise  the  Poetical  susceptibility  and  fa- 
culty of  the  people, — their  Fancy,  Humour, 
Imagination,  wherein  lie  the  main  elements 
of  spiritual  life, — will  no  longer  be  left  uncul- 
tivated, barren,  or  bearing  only  spontaneous 
thistles,  but  in  new  and  finer  harmony,  with 
an  improved  Understanding,  will  flourish  in 
new  vigour ;  and  in  our  inward  world  there 


will  again  be  a  sunny  Firmament  and  verdant 
Earth,  as  well  as  a  Pantry  and  culinary  Fire; 
and  men  will  learn  not  only  to  recapitulate 
and  compute,  but  to  worship,  to  love  ;  in  tears 
or  in  laughter,  hold  mystical  as  well  as  logical 
communion  with  the  high  and  the  low  of  this 
wondrous  Universe  ;  and  read,  as  they  should 
live,  with  their  whole  being.  Of  which  glorious 
consummation  there  is  at  all  times,  seeing 
these  endowments  are  indestructible,  nay,  es- 
sentially supreme,  in  man,  the  firmest  ulterior 
certainty,  but,  for  the  present,  only  faint  pros- 
pects and  far-off"  indications.  Time  brings 
Roses  ! 


TAYLOR'S  HISTORIC  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN 

POETRY.* 


[Edinburgh  Review,  1831,] 


Gehmait  Literature  has  now  for  upwards 
of  half  a  century  been  making  some  way  in 
England;  yet  by  no  means  at  a  constant  rate, 
rather  in  capricious  flux  and  reflux, — deluge 
alternating  with  desiccation :  never  would  it 
assume  such  moderate,  reasonable  currency, 
as  promised  to  be  useful  and  lasting.  The 
history  of  its  progress  here  would  illustrate 
the  progress  of  more  important  things  ;  would 
again  exemplify  what  obstacles  a  new  spiritual 
object,  with  its  mixture  of  truth  and  of  false- 
hood, has  to  encounter  from  unwise  enemies, 
still  more  from  unwise  friends ;  how  dross  is 
mistaken  for  metal,  and  common  ashes  are  so- 
lemnly labelled  as  fell  poison  ;  how  long,  in 
such  cases,  blind  Passion  must  vociferate  be- 
fore she  can  awaken  Judgment ;  in  short,  with 
what  tumult,  vicissitude,  and  protracted  diffi- 
culty, a  foreign  doctrine  adjusts  and  locates 
itself  among  the  homeborn.  Perfect  ignorance 
is  quiet,  perfect  knowledge  is  quiet;  not  so  the 
transition  from  the  former  to  the  latter.  In  a 
vague,  all-exaggerating  twilight  of  wonder, 
the  new  has  to  fight  its  battle  with  the  old  ; 
Hope  has  to  settle  accounts  with  Fear :  thus 
the  scales  strangely  waver;  public  opinion, 
which  is  as  yet  baseless,  fluctuates  without 
limit;  periods  of  foolish  admiration  and  fool- 
ish execration  must  elapse,  before  that  of  true 
inquiry  and  zeal  according  to  knowledge  can 
begin. 

Thirty  years  ago,  for  example,  a  person  of 
influence  and  understanding  thought  good  to 
emit  such  a  proclamation  as  the  following : 
"Those  ladies,  who  take  the  lead  in  society, 
are  loudly  called  upon  to  act  as  guardians  of 
the  public  taste  as  well  as  of  the  public  virtue. 
They  are  called  upon,  therefore,  to  oppose, 
with  the  whole  weight  of  their  influence,  the 


♦  Historic  Survey  of  German  Toetry,  interspersed 
with  various  Translations.  By  W.  Taylor,  of  Norwich. 
3  vojs.  8vo,  London,  1830. 


irruption  of  those  swarms  of  Publications 
now  daily  issuing  from  the  banks  of  the  Da- 
nube, which,  like  their  ravaging  predecessors 
of  the  darker  ages,  though  with  far  other  and 
more  fatal  arms,  are  overrunning  civilized  so- 
ciety. Those  readers,  whose  purer  taste  has 
been  formed  on  the  correct  models  of  the  old 
classic  school,  see  with  indignation  and  asto- 
nishment the  Huns  and  Vandals  once  more 
overpowering  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  They 
behold  our  minds,  with  a  retrograde  but  rapid 
motion,  hurried  back  to  the  reign  of  Chaos 
and  old  Night,  by  distorted  and  unprincipled 
Compositions,  which,  in  spite  of  strong  flashes 
of  genius,  unite  the  taste  of  the  Goths  with 
the  morals  of  Bagshot." — "The  newspapers 
announce  that  Schiller's  Tragedy  of  the  Robbers, 
which  inflamed  the  young  nobility  of  Ger- 
many to  enlist  themselves  into  a  band  of  high- 
waymen, to  rob  in  the  forests  of  Bohemia,  is 
now  acting  in  England  by  persons  of  qua- 
lity!"* 

Whether  our  fair  Amazons,  at  sound  of  this 
alarm-trumpet,  drew  up  in  array  of  war  to  dis- 
comfit those  invading  Compositions,  and  snuff" 
out  the  lights  of  that  questionable  private 
theatre,  we  have  not  learned;  and  see  only 
that,  if  so,  their  campaign  was  fruitless  and 
needless.  Like  the  old  Northern  Immigrators, 
those  new  Paper  Goths  marched  on  resistless 
whither  they  were  bound ;  some  to  honour, 
some  to  dishonour,  the  most  to  oblivion  and 
the  impalpable  inane ;  and  no  weapon  or 
artillery,  not  even  the  glances  of  bright  eyes, 
but  only  the  omnipotence  of  Time,  could  tame 
and  assort  them.  Thus,  Kotzebue's  truculent 
armaments,  once  so  threatening,  all  turned 
out  to  be  mere  Fantasms  and  Night  appari- 
tions ;  and  so  rushed  onwards,  like  some 
Spectre   Hunt,  with   loud   howls   indeed,  yet 

*  Strictures  on  the  Modern  System  of  Female  Education, 
By  Hannah  More.    The  Eighth  Edition,  p.  41. 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


hurrying  nothing  into  chaos  but  themselves. 
While  again,  Schiller's  Tragedy  of  the  Robbers, 
which  did  not  inflame  either  the  young  or  the 
old  nobility  of  Germany  to  rob  in  the  forests  of 
Bohemia,  or  indeed  to  do  any  thing,  except  per- 
haps yawn  a  little  less,  proved  equally  innocu- 
ous in  England,  and  might  still  be  acted  without 
offence,  could  living  individuals,  idle  enough 
for  that  end,  be  met  with  here.  Nay,  this  same 
Schiller,  not  indeed  by  Robbers,  yet  by  Wallen- 
stdns,  by  Maids  of  Orleans,  and  Wilhelm  Tells, 
has  actually  conquered  for  himself  a  fixed 
dominion  among  us,  which  is  yearly  widening; 
round  which  other  German  kings,  of  less  in- 
trinsic prowess,  and  of  greater,  are  likewise 
erecting  thrones.  And  yet,  as  we  perceive, 
civilized  society  still  stands  in  its  place ;  and 
the  public  taste,  as  well  as  the  public  virtue, 
live  on,  though  languidly,  as  before.  For,  in 
fine,  it  has  become  manifest  that  the  old  Cim- 
merian forest  is  now  quite  felled  and  tilled; 
that  the  true  Children  of  Night,  whom  we  have 
to  dread,  dwell  not  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube, 
but  nearer  hand. 

Could  we  take  our  progress  in  knowledge 
of  German  Literature  since  that  diatribe  was 
written,  as  any  measure  of  our  progress  in  the 
science  of  Criticism,  above  all  in  the  grand 
science  of  national  Tolerance,  there  were  some 
reason  for  satisfaction.  With  regard  to  Ger- 
many itself,  whether  we  yet  stand  on  the  right 
fooling,  and  know  at  last  how  we  are  to  live 
in  profitable  neighbourhood  and  intercourse 
with  that  country ;  or  whether  the  present  is 
but  one  of  those  capricious  tides,  which  also 
will  have  its  reflux,  may  seem  doubtful: 
meanwhile,  clearly  enough,  a  rapidly  growing 
favour  for  German  Literature  comes  to  light ; 
which  favour  too  is  the  more  hopeful,  as  it 
now  grounds  itself  on  better  knowledge,  on 
direct  study  and  judgment.  Our  knowledge  is 
better,  if  only  because  more  general.  Within 
the  last  ten  years,  independent  readers  of  Ger- 
man have  multiplied  perhaps  a  hundred  fold; 
so  that  now  this  acquirement  is  almost  ex- 
pected as  a  natural  item  in  liberal  education. 
Hence,  in  a  great  number  of  minds,  some  im- 
mediate personal  insight  into  the  deeper  sig- 
nificance of  German  Intellect  and  Art; — 
everywhere,  at  least  a  feeling  that  it  has  some 
such  significance.  With  independent  readers, 
moreover,  the  writer  ceases  to  be  independent, 
which  of  itself  is  a  considerable  step.  Our 
British  Translators,  for  instance,  have  long 
been  unparalleled  in  modern  literature,  and, 
like  their  country,  "the  envy  of  surrounding 
nations:"  but  now  there  are  symptoms  that, 
even  in  the  remote  German  province,  they 
must  no  longer  range  quite  at  will;  that  the 
butchering  of  a  Faust  will  henceforth  be 
accounted  literary  homicide,  and  practitioners 
of  that  quality  must  operate  on  the  dead  sub- 
ject only.  While  there  are  Klingemanns  and 
Claurens  in  such  abundance,  let  no  merely 
ambitious,  or  merely  hungry  Interpreter,  fasten 
on  Goethes  and  Schiller^.  Remark,  too,  with 
satisfaction,  how  the  old  established  British 
Critic  now  feels  that  it  has  become  unsafe 
to  speak  delirium  on  this  subject;  wherefore 
he  prudently  restricts  himself  to  one  of  two 
courses  :  either  to  acquire  some  understanding 


of  it,  or,  which  is  the  still  surer  course,  alto- 
gether to  hold  his  peace.  Hence  freedom  from 
much  babble  that  was  wont  to  be  oppressive: 
probably  no  watchhorn  with  such  a  note  as 
that  of  Mrs.  More's  can  again  be  sounded,  by 
male  or  female  Dogberry,  in  these  Islands. 
Again,  there  is  no  one  of  our  younger,  more 
vigorous  Periodicals,  but  has  its  German 
craftsman,  gleaning  what  he  can :  we  have 
seen  Jean  Paul  quoted  in  English  Newspapers. 
Nor,  among  the  signs  of  improvement,  at  least 
of  extended  curiosity,  let  us  omit  our  British 
Foreign  Reviews,  a  sort  of  merchantmen  that 
regularly  visit  the  Continental,  especially  the 
German  ports,  and  bring  back  such  ware  as 
luck  yields  them,  with  the  hope  of  better. 
Last,  not  least  among  our  evidences  of  Philo- 
Germanism,  here  is  a  whole  Historic  Survey  of 
German  Poetry,  in  three  sufficient  octavos ;  and 
this  not  merely  in  the  eulogistic  and  recom- 
mendatory vein,  but  proceeding  in  the  way  of 
criticism,  and  indifferent,  impartial  narrative  : 
a  man  of  known  character,  of  talent,  experience, 
penetration,  judges  that  the  English  public  is 
prepared  for  such  a  service,  and  likely  to  re- 
ward it. 

These  are  appearances,  which,  as  advocates 
for  the  friendly  approximation  of  all  men  and 
all  peoples,  and  the  readiest  possible  inter- 
change of  whatever  each  produces  of  advan- 
tage to  the  others,  we  must  witness  gladly. 
Free  Literary  intercourse  with  other  nations, 
what  is  it  but  an  extended  Freedom  of  the 
Press  ;  a  liberty  to  read  (in  spite  of  Ignorance, 
of  Prejudice,  which  is  the  worst  of  Censors) 
what  our  foreign  teachers  also  have  printed  for 
us  ? — ultimately,  therefore,  a  liberty  to  speak 
and  to  hear,  were  it  with  men  of  all  countries 
and  of  all  times ;  to  use,  in  utmost  compass, 
those  precious  natural  organs,  by  which  not 
Knowledge  only  but  mutual  Affection  is  chiefly 
generated  among  mankind!  It  is  a  natural 
wish  in  man  to  know  his  fellow-passengers  in 
this  Strange  Ship,  or  Planet,  on  this  strange 
Life-voyage :  neither  need  his  curiosity  re- 
strict itself  to  the  cabin  where  he  himself 
chances  to  lodge  ;  but  may  extend  to  all  acces- 
sible departments  of  the  vessel.  In  all  he 
will  find  mysterious  beings,  of  Wants  and 
Endeavours  like  his  own ;  in  all  he  will  find 
Men  ;  with  these  let  him  comfort  and  mani- 
foldly instruct  himself.  As  to  German  Litera- 
ture, in  particular,  which  professes  to  be  not 
only  new,  but  original,  and  rich  in  curious  in- 
formation for  us ;  which  claims,  moreover, 
nothing  that  we  have  not  granted  to  the  French, 
Italian,  Spanish,  and  in  a  less  degree  to  far 
meaner  literatures,  we  are  gratified  to  see  that 
such  claims  can  no  longer  be  resisted.  In  the 
present  fallow  state  of  our  English  Literature, 
when  no  Poet  cultivates  his  own  poetic  field, 
but  all  are  harnessed  into  Editorial  teams,  and 
ploughing  in  concert,  for  Useful  Knowledge, 
or  Bibliopolic  Profit,  we  regard  this  renewal 
of  our  intercourse  with  poetic  Germany,  after 
twenty  years  of  languor  or  suspension,  as 
among  the  most  remarkable  and  even  promis- 
ing features  of  our  recent  intellectual  history. 
In  the  absence  of  better  tendencies,  let  this, 
which  is  no  idle,  but,  in  some  points  of  view, 
a  deep  and  earnest  one,  be  encouraged.    For 


284 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ourselves,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  louder  and 
more  exciting  interests,  we  feel  it  a  kind  of 
duty  to  cast  some  glances  now  and  then  on 
this  little  stiller  interest;  since  the  matter  is 
once  for  all  to  be  inquired  into,  sound  notions 
on  it  should  be  furthered,  unsound  ones  can- 
not be  too  speedily  corrected.  It  is  on  such 
grounds  that  we  have  taken  up  this  Historic 
Survey. 

Mr.  Taylor  is  so  considerable  a  person,  that 
no  Book  deliberately  published  by  him,  on  any 
subject,  can  be  without  weight.  On  German 
Poetry,  such  is  the  actual  state  of  public  in- 
formation and  curiosity,  his  guidance  will  be 
sure  to  lead  or  mislead  a  numerous  class  of 
inquirers.  We  are  therefore  called  on  to  ex- 
amine him  with  more  than  usual  strictness 
and  minuteness.  The  Press,  in  these  times, 
has  become  so  active;  Literature — what  is  still 
called  Literature-r-has  so  dilated  in  volume, 
and  diminished  in  density,  that  the  very  Re- 
viewer feels  at  a  nonplus,  and  has  ceased  to 
review.  Why  thoughtfully  examine  what  was 
written  without  thought;  or  note  faults  and 
merits,  where  there  is  neither  fault  nor  merit] 
From  a  Nonentity,  imbodied,  with  innocent 
deception,  into  foolscap  and  printer's  ink,  and 
named  Book;  from  the  common  wind  of  Talk, 
even  when  it  is  conserved  by  such  mechanism, 
for  days,  in  the  shape  of  Froth, — how  shall 
the  hapless  Reviewer  filter  aught  in  that  once 
so  profitable  colander  of  his  ]  He  has  ceased, 
as  we  said,  to  attempt  the  impossible, — cannot 
review,  but  only  discourse ;  he  dismisses  his 
too  unproductive  Author,  generally  with  civil 
words,  not  to  quarrel  needlessly  with  a  fellow- 
creature  ;  and  must  try,  as  he  best  may,  to  grind 
from  his  own  poor  garner.  Authors  long 
looked  with  an  evil,  envious  eye  on  the  Re- 
viewer, strove  often  to  blow  out  his  light, 
which  only  burnt  the  clearer  for  such  blasts; 
but  now,  cunningly  altering  their  tactics,  they 
have  extinguished  it  by  want  of  oil.  Unless 
for  some  unforeseen  change  of  affairs,  or  some 
new-contrived  machinery,  of  which  there  is 
yet  no  trace,  the  trade  of  Reviewer  is  well  nigh 
done. 

The  happier  are  we  that  Mr.  Taylor's  Book 
is  of  the  old  stamp,  and  has  substance  in  it  for 
our  uses.  If  no  honour,  there  will  be  no  dis- 
grace, in  having  carefully  examined  it;  which 
service,  indeed,  is  due  to  our  readers,  not  with- 
out curiosity  in  this  matter,  as  well  as  to  the 
Author.  In  so  far  as  he  seems  a  safe  guide, 
and  brings  true  tidings  from  the  promised  land, 
let  us  proclaim  that  fact,  and  recommend  him 
to  all  pilgrims :  if,  on  the  other  hand,  his  tidings 
are  false,  let  us  hasten  to  make  this  also  known  ; 
that  the  German  Canaan  suffer  not,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  fainthearted,  by  spurious  samples  of  its 
produce  and  reports  of  bloodthirsty  sons  of 
Anak  dwelling  there,  which  this  harbinger  and 
spy  brings  out  of  it.  In  either  case,  we  may 
hope,  our  Author,  who  loves  the  Germans  in 
his  way,  and  would  have  his  countrymen 
brought  into  closer  acquaintance  with  them, 
will  feel  that,  in  purpose  at  least,  we  are  co- 
operating with  him. 

First,  then,  be  it  admitted  without  hesitation, 
that  Mr.  Taylor,  in  respect  of  general  talent 
and  acquirement,  takes  his  place  above  all  our 


expositors  of  German  things  ;  that  his  book  is 
greatly  the  most  important  we  yet  have  on  this 
subject.  Here  are  upwards  of  fourteen  hun- 
dred solid  pages  of  commentary,  narrative,  and 
translation,  submitted  to  the  English  reader; 
numerous  statements  and  personages,  hitherto 
unheard  of,  or  vaguely  heard  of,  stand  here  in 
fixed  shape  ;  there  is,  if  no  map  of  intellectual 
Germany,  some  first  attempt  at  such.  Farther, 
we  are  to  state  that  our  author  is  a  zealous, 
earnest  man;  no  hollow  dilettante  hunting 
after  shadows,  and  prating  he  knows  not  what ; 
but  a  substantial,  distinct,  remarkably  decisive 
man;  has  his  own  opinion  on  many  subjects, 
and  can  express  it  adequately.  We  should  say, 
precision  of  idea  was  a  striking  quality  of  his  : 
no  vague  transcendentalism,  or  mysticism  of 
any  kind  ;  nothing  but  what  is  measurable  and 
tangible,  and  has  a  meaning  which  he  that 
runs  may  read,  is  to  be  apprehended  here.  He 
is  a  man  of  much  classical  and  other  reading; 
of  much  singular  reflection  ;  stands  on  his  own 
basis,  quiescent  yet  immovable :  a  certain 
rugged  vigour  of  natural  power,  interesting 
even  in  its  distortions,  is  everywhere  manifest. 
Lastly,  we  venture  to  assign  him  the  rare  merit 
of  honesty:  he  speaks  out  in  plain  English 
what  is  in  him  ;  seems  heartily  convinced  of 
his  own  doctrines,  and  preaches  them  because 
they  are  his  own ;  not  for  the  sake  of  sale,  but 
of  truth;  at  worst,  for  the  sake  of  making 
proselytes. 

On  the  strength  of  which  properties,  we 
reckon  that  this  Historic  Survey  may,  under 
certain  conditions,  be  useful  and  acceptable  to 
two  classes.  First,  to  incipient  students  of 
German  Literature  in  the  original ;  who  in  any 
History  of  their  subject,  even  in  a  bare  cata- 
logue, will  find  help ;  though  for  that  class, 
unfortunately,  Mr.  Taylor's  help  is  much  di- 
minished in  value  by  several  circumstances  ; 
by  this  one,  were  there  no  other,  that  he  no- 
where cites  any  authority :  the  path  he  has 
opened  may  be  the  true  or  the  false  one ;  for 
farther  researches  and  lateral  surveys  there  is 
no  direction  or  indication.  But,  secondly,  we 
reckon  that  this  Book  may  be  welcome  to  many 
of  the  much  larger  miscellaneous  class,  who 
read  less  for  any  specific  object  than  for  the 
sake  of  reading  ;  to  whom  any  book,  that  will, 
either  in  the  way  of  contradiction  or  of  con- 
firmation, by  new  wisdom,  or  new  perversion 
of  wisdom,  stir  up  the  stagnant  inner  man,  is 
a  windfall ;  the  rather  if  it  bring  some  historic 
tidings  also,  fit  for  remembering,  and  repeat- 
ing; above  all,  if,  as  in  this  case,  the  style, 
with  many  singularities,  have  some  striking 
merits,  and  so  the  book  be  a  light  e;sercise, 
even  an  entertainment. 

To  such  praise  and  utility  the  work  is  just- 
ly entitled  ;  but  this  is  not  all  it  pretends  to ;  and 
more  cannot  without  many  limitations  be  con- 
ceded it.  Unluckily  the  Historic  Survey  is  not 
what  it  should  be,  but  only  what  it  would  be. 
Our  Author  hastens  to  correct  in  his  Preface 
any  false  hopes  his  Titlepage  may  have  ex- 
cited: "A  complete  History  of  German  Poe- 
try," it  seems,  "is  hardly  within  reach  of  his 
local  command  of  library:  so  comprehensive 
an  undertaking  would  require  another  resi- 
dence in  a  country  from  which  he  has  now  been 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


285 


separated  more  than  forty  years  ;"  and  which 
Yarious  considerations  render  it  unadvisabJe 
to  revisit.  Nevertheless,  "having  long  been 
in  the  practice  of  importing  the  productions 
of  its  fine  literature,"  and  of  working  in  that 
material,  as  critic,  biographer,  and  translator, 
for  more  than  one  "periodic  publication  of  this 
country,"  he  has  now  composed  "introductory 
and  connective  sections,"  filled  up  deficiencies, 
retrenched  superfluities ;  and  so,  collecting  and 
remodelling  those  "  successive  contributions," 
cements  them  together  into  the  "  new  and  entire 
work"  here  ofiered  to  the  public.  "  With  frag- 
ments," he  concludes,  "  long  since  hewn,  as  it 
were,  and  sculptured,  I  attempt  to  construct  an 
English  Temple  of  Fame  to  the  memory  of 
those  German  Poets." 

There  is  no  doubt  but  a  Complete  History 
of-  German  Poetry  exceeds  any  local  or  uni- 
versal command  of  books  which  a  British 
man  can  at  this  day  enjoy;  and,  farther,  pre- 
sents obstacles  of  an  infinitely  more  serious 
character  than  this.  A  History  of  German,  or 
of  any  national  Poetry,  would  form,  taken  in 
its  complete  sense,  one  of  the  most  arduous 
enterprises  any  writer  could  engage  in.  Poetry, 
were  it  the  rudest,  so  it  be  sincere,  is  the  at- 
tempt which  man  makes  to  render  his  exist- 
ence harmonious,  the  utmost  he  can  do  for  that 
end :  it  springs  therefore  from  his  whole  feel- 
ings, opinions,  activity,  and  takes  its  character 
from  these.  It  may  be  called  the  music  of  his 
whole  manner  of  being;  and,  historically  con- 
sidered, is  the  test  how  far  Music,  or  Freedom, 
existed  therein;  how  far  the  feeling  of  Love, 
of  Beauty,  and  Dignity,  could  be  elicited  from 
that  peculiar  situation  of  his,  and  from  the 
views  he  there  had  of  Life  and  Nature,  of  the 
Universe,  internal  and  external.  Hence,  in 
any  measure  to  understand  the  Poetry,  to  esti- 
mate its  worth,  and  historical  meaning,  we 
ask  as  a  quite  fundamental  inquiry:  What 
that  situation  was "?  Thus  the  History  of  a 
nation's  Poetry  is  the  essence  of  its  History, 
political,  economic,  scientific,  religious.  With 
all  these  the  complete  Historian  of  a  national 
Poetry  will  be  familiar;  the  national  physiog- 
nomy, in  its  finest  traits,  and  through  its  suc- 
cessive stages  of  growth,  will  be  clear  to  him: 
he  will  discern  the  grand  spiritual  Tendency 
of  each  period,  what  was  the  highest  Aim  and 
Enthusiasm  of  mankind  in  each,  and  how  one 
epoch  naturally  evolved  itself  from  the  other. 
He  has  to  record  this  highest  Aim  of  a  nation, 
in  its  successive  directions  and  developments  ; 
for  by  this  the  Poetry  of  the  nation  modulates 
itself,  this  is  the  Poetry  of  the  nation. 

Such  were  the  primary  essence  of  a  true 
History  of  Poetry ;  the  living  principle  round 
which  all  detached  facts  and  phenomena,  all 
separate  characters  of  Poems  and  Poets, 
would  fashion  themselves  into  a  coherent 
whole,  if  they  are  by  any  means  to  cohere. 
To  accomplish  such  a  work  for  any  Literature 
would  require  not  only  all  outward  aids,  but  an 
excellent  inward  faculty :  all  telescopes  and 
observatories  were  of  no  avail,  without  the 
seeing  eye  and  the  understanding  heart. 

Doubtless,  as  matters  stand,  such  models  re- 
main in  great  part  ideal ;  the  stinted  result  of 
actual  practice  must  not  be  too  rigidly  tried  by 


them.  In  our  language,  we  hare  yet  no  ex- 
ample of  such  a  performance.  Neither  else- 
where, except  perhaps  in  the  well-meant,  but 
altogether  inefl!ectual,  attempt  of  Denina, 
among  the  Italians,  and  in  some  detached, 
though  far  more  successful,  sketches  by  Ger- 
man writers,  is  there  any  that  we  know  of. 
To  expect  an  English  History  of  German  Li- 
terature in  this  style  were  especially  unrea- 
sonable ;  where  not  only  the  man  to  write 
it,  but  the  people  to  read  and  enjoy  it,  are 
wanting.  Some  Historic  Survey,  wherein  such 
an  ideal  standard,  if  not  attained,  if  not  ap- 
proached, might  be  faithfully  kept  in  view,  and 
endeavoured  after,  would  suflice  us.  Neither 
need  such  a  Survey,  even  as  a  British  Survey- 
or might  execute  it,  be  deficient  in  striking  ob- 
jects, and  views  of  a  general  interest.  There 
is  the  spectacle  of  a  great  people,  closely  re- 
lated to  us  in  blood,  language,  character,  ad- 
vancing through  fifteen  centuries  of  culture ; 
with  the  eras  and  changes  that  have  distin- 
guished the  like  career  in  other  nations.  Nay, 
perhaps,  the  intellectual  history  of  the  Ger- 
mans is  not  without  peculiar  attraction,  on  two 
grounds  :  first,  that  they  are  a  separate  unmix- 
ed people ;  that  in  them  one  of  the  two  grand 
stem-tribes,  from  which  all  modern  European 
countries  derive  their  population  and  speech, 
is  seen  growing  up  distinct,  and  in  several 
particulars  following  its  own  course;  second- 
ly, that  by  accident  and  by  desert,  the  Ger- 
mans have  more  than  once  been  found  playing 
the  highest  part  in  European  culture  ;  at  more 
than  one  era  the  grand  Tendencies  of  Europe 
have  first  imbodied  themselves  into  action  in 
Germany,  the  main  battle  between  the  New 
and  the  Old  has  been  fought  and  gained  there. 
We  mention  only  the  Swiss  Revolt,  and  Lu- 
ther's Reformation.  The  Germans  have  not 
indeed  so  many  classical  works  to  exhibit  as 
some  other  nations ;  a  Shakspeare,  a  Dante, 
has  not  yet  been  recognised  among  them ; 
nevertheless,  they  too  have  had  their  Teachers 
and  inspired  Singers  ;  and  in  regard  to  popu- 
lar Mythology,  traditionary  possessions  and 
spirit,  what  we  may  call  the  inarticulate  Poetry 
of  a  nation,  and  what  is  the  element  of  its 
spoken  or  written  Poetry,  they  will  be  found 
superior  to  any  other  modern  people. 

The  Historic  Surveyor  of  German  Poetry 
will  observe  a  remarkable  nation  struggling 
out  of  Paganism ;  fragments  of  that  stern 
Superstition,  saved  from  the  general  wreck, 
and  still,  amid  the  new  order  of  things,  carry- 
ing back  our  view,  in  faint  reflexes,  into  the 
dim  primeval  time.  By  slow  degrees  the  chaos 
of  the  Northern  Immigrations  settles  into  a 
new  and  fairer  world;  arts  advance;  little  by 
little,  a  fund  of  Knowledge,  of  Power  over  Na- 
ture, is  accumulated  for  man ;  feeble  glimmer- 
ings, even  of  a  higher  knowledge,  of  a  poetic, 
break  forth ;  till  at  length  in  the  Swabian  Era, 
as  it  is  named,  a  blaze  of  true  though  simple 
Poetry  bursts  over  Germany,  more  splendid, 
we  might  say,  than  the  Troubadour  Period  of 
any  other  nation ;  for  that  famous  Nibelungen 
Satig,  produced,  at  least  ultimately  fashioned  in 
those  times,  and  still  so  significant  in  these,  is 
altogether  without  parallel  elsewhere. 

To  this  period,  the  essence  of  which  was 


286 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


young  Wonder,  and  an  enthusiasm  for  which 
Chivalry  was  still  the  fit  exponent,  there  suc- 
ceeds, as  was  natural,  a  period  of  Inquiry,  a 
Didactic  period ;  wherein,  among  the  Germans, 
as  elsewhere,  many  a  Hugo  von  Trimberg  de- 
livers wise  saws,  and  moral  apothegms,  to  the 
general  edification:  later,  a  Town-clerk  of 
Strasburg  sees  his  Ship  of  fools  translated  into 
all  living  languages,  twice  into  Latin,  and  read 
by  Kings ;  the  Apologue  of  Reynard  the  Fox 
gathering  itself  together,  from  sources  remote 
and  near,  assumes  its  Low-German  vesture ; 
and  becomes  the  darling  of  high  and  low,  nay 
still  lives  with  us,  in  rude  genial  vigour,  as 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  indigenous  pro- 
ductions of  the  Middle  Ages.  Nor  is  acted 
poetry  of  this  kind  wanting;  the  Spirit  of  In- 
quiry translates  itself  into  Deeds  which  are 
poetical,  as  well  as  into  words:  already  at  the 
opening  of  the  fourteenth  century,  Germany 
witnesses  the  first  assertion  of  political  right, 
the  first  vindication  of  Man  against  Nobleman  ; 
in  the  early  history  of  the  German  Swiss. 
And  again,  two  centuries  later,  the  first  asser- 
tion of  intellectual  right,  the  first  vindication 
of  Man  against  Clergyman ;  in  the  history  of 
Luther's  Reformation.  Meanwhile  the  Press 
has  begun  its  incalculable  task ;  the  indige- 
nous Fiction  of  the  Germans,  what  we  have 
called  their  inarticulate  Poetry,  issues  in  in- 
numerable Volks-Jiucher,  (People's-Books,)  the 
progeny  and  kindred  of  which  still  live  in 
all  European  countries:  the  People  have  their 
Tragedy  and  their  Comedy ;  Tyll  Euknspicgel 
shakes  every  diaphragm  with  laughter;  the 
rudest  heart  quails  with  awe  at  the  wild  my- 
thus  of  Faust. 

With  Luther,  however,  the  Didactic  Tenden- 
cy has  reached  its  poetic  acme ;  and  now  we 
must  see  it  assume  a  prosaic  character,  and 
Poetry  for  a  long  while  decline.  The  Spirit 
of  Inquiry,  of  Criticism,  is  pushed  beyond  the 
limits,  or  two  exclusively  cultivated:  whathad 
done  so  much,  is  capable  of  doing  all;  Under- 
standing is  alone  listened  to,  while  Fancy  and 
Imagination  languish  inactive,  or  are  forcibly 
stifled ;  and  all  poetic  culture  gradually  dies 
away.  As  if  with  the  high  resolute  genius, 
and  noble  achievements,  of  its  Luthers  and 
Huttens,  the  genius  of  the  country  had  ex- 
hausted itself,  we  behold  generation  after  ge- 
neration of  mere  Prosaists  succeed  these  high 
Psalmists.  Science  indeed  advances,  practi- 
cal manipulation  in  all  kinds  improves ;  Ger- 
many has  its  Copernics,  Hevels,  Guerickes, 
Keplers ;  later,  a  Leibnitz  opens  the  path  of 
true  Logic,  and  teaches  the  mysteries  of  Fi- 
gure and  Number  :  but  the  finer  Education  of 
mankind  seems  at  a  stand.  Instead  of  Poetic 
recognition  and  worship,  we  have  stolid  Theo- 
logic  controversy,  or  still  shallower  Freethink- 
ing;  pedantry,  servility,  mode-hunting,  every 
species  of  Idolatry  and  Affectation  holds  sway. 
The  World  has  lost  its  beauty,  Life  its  infinite 
majesty,  as  if  the  Author  of  it  were  no  longer 
divine:  instead  of  admiration  and  creation  of 
the  True,  there  is  at  best  criticism  and  denial 
of  the  False ;  to  Luther  there  has  succeeded 
Thomasius.  In  this  era,  so  unpoetical  for  all 
Europe,  Germany  torn  in  pieces  by  a  Thirty 
Year's  War,  and  its  consequences,  is  pre-emi- 


nently prosaic ;  its  few  Singers  are  feeble 
echoes  of  foreign  models  little  better  than 
themselves.  No  Shakspeare,  no  Milton  ap- 
pears there  ;  such,  indeed,  would  have  appeared 
earlier,  if  at  all,  in  the  current  of  German  his- 
tory ;  but  instead,  they  have  only  at  best  Opit- 
zes,  Flemmings,  Logans,  as  we  had  our  Queen. 
Anne  Wits  ;  or,  in  their  Lohensteines,  Gryphs, 
Hoffmannswaldaus,  though  in  inverse  order, 
an  unintentional  parody  of  our  Drydens  and 
Lees. 

Nevertheless  from  every  moral  death  there 
is  a  new  birth;  in  this  wondrous  course  of 
his,  man  may  indeed  linger  but  cannot  retro- 
grade or  stand  still.  In  the  middle  of  last 
century,  from  among  the  Parisian  Erotics, 
rickety  Sentimentalism,  Court  aperies,  and 
hollow  Dulness,  striving  in  all  hopeless 
courses,  we  behold  the  giant  spirit  of  Ger- 
many awaken  as  from  long  slumber ;  shake 
away  these  worthless  fetters,  and  by  its  Les- 
sings  and  Klopstocks,  announce,  in  true  Ger- 
man dialect,  that  the  Germans  also  are  men. 
Singular  enough  in  its  circumstances  was 
this  rescuscitation  ;  the  work  as  of  a  *'  spirit 
on  the  waters," — a  movement  agitating  the 
great  popular  mass ;  for  it  was  favoured  by 
no  court  or  king:  all  sovereignties,  even  the 
pettiest,  had  abandoned  their  native  Litera- 
ture, their  native  language,  as  if  to  irreclaim- 
able barbarism.  The  greatest  King  produced 
in  Germany  since  Barbarossa's  time,  Frede- 
rick the  Second,  looked  coldly  on  the  native 
endeavour,  and  saw  no  hope  but  in  aid  from 
France.  However,  the  native  endeavour  pros- 
pered without  aid  :  Lessing's  announcement 
did  not  die  away  with  him,  but  took  clearer 
utterance,  and  more  inspired  modulation  from 
his  followers  ;  in  whose  works  it  now  speaks, 
not  to  Germany  alone,  but  to  the  whole  world. 
The  results  of  this  last  Period  of  German 
Literature  are  of  deep  significance,  the  depth 
of  which  is  perhaps  but  now  becoming  visi- 
ble. Here,  too,  it  may  be,  as  in  other  cases, 
the  Want  of  the  Age  has  first  taken  voice  and 
shape  in  Germany;  that  change  from  Nega- 
tion to  Affirmation,  from  Destruction  to  Re- 
construction, for  which  all  thinkers  in  every 
country  are  now  prepared,  is  perhaps  already 
in  action  there.  In  the  nobler  Literature  of 
the  Germans,  say  some,  lie  the  rudiments  of  a 
new  spiritual  era,  which  it  is  for  this,  and  for 
succeeding  generations  to  work  out  and  realize. 
The  ancient  creative  Inspiration,  it  would 
seem,  is  still  possible  in  these  ages ;  at  a  time 
when  Skepticism,  Frivolity,  Sensuality,  had 
withered  Life  into  a  sand  desert,  and  our  gay- 
est prospect  was  but  ihe  false  mirage,  and  even 
our  Byrons  could  utter  but  a  death-song  or  de- 
spairing howl,  the  Moses'-wand  has  again 
smote  from  that  Horeb  refreshing  streams,  to- 
wards which  the  better  spirits  of  all  nations 
are  hastening,  if  not  to  drink,  yet  wistfully  and 
hopefully  to  examine.  If  the  older  Literary 
History  of  Germany  has  the  common  attrac- 
tions, which  in  a  greater  or  a  less  degree  be- 
long to  the  successive  epochs  of  other  such 
Histories  ;  its  newer  Literature,  and  the  histo- 
rical delineation  of  this,  has  an  interest  such 
as  belongs  to  no  other. 

It  is  somewhat  in  this  way,  as  appears  to 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


287 


tts,  that  the  growth  of  German  poetry  must  be 
construed  and  represented  by  the  historian : 
these  are  the  general  phenomena  and  vicissi- 
tudes, which,  if  elucidated  by  proper  indivi- 
dual instances,  by  specimens  fitly  chosen,  pre- 
sented in  natural  sequence,  and  worked  by 
philosophy  into  union,  would  make  a  valuable 
book ;  on  any  and  all  of  which  the  observa- 
tions and  researches  of  so  able  an  inquirer  as 
Mr.  Taylor  would  have  been  welcome.  Sorry 
are  we  to  declare  that  of  all  this,  which  con- 
stitutes the  essence  of  any  thing  calhng  itself 
Historic  Survey,  there  is  scarcely  a  vestige  in 
the  book  before  us.  The  question.  What  is 
the  German  mind ;  what  is  the  culture  of  the 
German  mind ;  what  course  has  Germany  fol- 
lowed in  that  matter ;  what  are  its  national 
characteristics  as  manifested  therein  1  appears 
not  to  have  presented  itself  to  the  author's 
iholighr.  No  theorem  of  Germany  and  its  in- 
tellectual progress,  not  even  a  false  one,  has 
he  been  at  pains  to  construct  for  himself.  We 
believe,  it  is  impossible  for  the  most  assidu- 
ous reader  to  gather  from  these  three  Volumes 
any  portraiture  of  the  national  mind  of  Ger- 
many,— not  to  say  in  its  successive  phases 
and  the  historical  sequence  of  these,  but  in 
any  one  phase  or  condition.  The  work  is 
made  up  of  critical,  biographical,  bibliogra- 
phical dissertations,  and  notices  concerning 
this  and  the  other  individual  poet;  inter- 
spersed with  large  masses  of  translation:  and 
except  that  all  these  are  strung  together  in  the 
order  of  time,  has  no  historical  feature  what- 
ever. Many  literary  lives  as  we  read,  the  na- 
ture of  literary  life  in  Germany, — what  sort 
of  moral,  economical,  intellectual  element  it 
is  that  a  German  writer  lives  in  and  works 
in, — will  nowhere  manifest  itself.  Indeed,  far 
from  depicting  Germany,  scarcely  on  more 
than  one  or  two  occasions  does  our  author 
even  look  at  it,  or  so  much  as  remind  us  that 
it  were  capable  of  being  depicted.  On  these 
rare  occasions,  too,  we  were  treated  with  such 
philosophic  insight  as  the  following:  "The 
Germans  are  not  an  imitative,  but  they  are  a 
listening  people :  they  can  do  nothing  without 
directions,  and  any  thing  with  them.  As  soon 
as  Gottsched's  rules  for  writing  German  cor- 
rectly had  made  their  appearance,  everybody 
began  to  write  German."  Or  we  have  theo- 
retic hints,  resting  on  no  basis,  about  some 
new  tribunal  of  taste  which  at  one  time  had 
formed  itself  "  in  the  mess-rooms  of  the  Prus- 
sian officers ! " 

In  a  word,  the  "connecting  sections,"  or  in- 
deed by  what  alchymy  such  a  congeries  could 
be  connected  into  an  Historic  Survey,  have  not 
become  plain  to  us.  Considerable  part  of  it 
consists  of  quite  detached  little  Notices,  mostly 
of  altogether  insignificant  men;  heaped  to- 
gether as  separate  fragments ;  fit,  had  they 
been  unexceptionable  in  other  respects,  for  a 
Biographical  Dictionary,  but  nowise  for  an  His- 
toric Survey.  Then  we  have  dense  masses  of 
Translation,  sometimes  good,  but  seldom  of 
the  characteristic  pieces  ;  an  entire  Iphigcnia, 
an  entire  Nathan  the  Wise  :  nay  worse,  a  Sequel 
to  Nnthan,  which  when  we  have  conscien- 
tiously struggled  to  pursue,  the  Author  turns 
round,  without  any  apparent  smile  and  tells 


us  that  it  is  by  a  nameless  writer,  and  worth 
nothing.  Not  only  Mr.  Taylor's  own  Transla- 
tions, which  are  generally  good,  but  contribu- 
tions from  a  whole  body  of  labourers  in  that 
department,  are  given:  for  example,  near 
sixty  pages,  very  ill  rendered  by  a  Miss  Plum- 
tre,  of  a  Life  of  Kotzebue,  concerning  whom,  or 
whose  life,  death,  or  burial,  there  is  now  no 
curiosity  extant  among  men.  If  in  that  "Eng- 
lish Temple  of  Fame,"  with  its  hewn  and 
sculptured  stones,  those  Biographical-Diction- 
ary fragments  and  fractions  are  so  much  dry 
rvMle-work  of  whinstone,  is  not  this  quite  des- 
picable Autobiography  of  Kotzebue  a  rood  or 
two  of  mere  turf,  which,  as  ready-cut,  our  ar- 
chitect, to  make  up  measure,  has  packed  in 
among  his  marble  ashlar,  whereby  the  whole 
wall  will  the  sooner  bulge?  But  indeed,  ge- 
nerally speaking,  symmetry  is  not  one  of  his 
architectural  rules.  Thus,  in  volume  First, 
we  have  a  long  story  translated  from  a  Ger- 
man Magazine,  about  certain  antique  Hyper- 
borean Baresarks,  amusing  enough,  -but  with 
no  more  reference  to  Germany  than  to  Eng- 
land ;  while,  in  return,  the  Nibelungen  Lied  is 
despatched  in  something  less  than  one  line, 
and  comes  no  more  to  light.  Tyll  Eulenspie- 
gel,  who  was  not  an  "  anonymous  Satire,  enti- 
tled the  Mirror  of  Owls,'"  but  a  real  flesh-and- 
blood  hero  of  that  name,  whose  tombstone  is 
standing  to  this  day  near  Lubeck,  has  some 
four  lines  for  his  share ;  Reineke  de  Vos  about 
as  many,  which  also  are  inaccurate.  Again, 
if  Wieland  have  his  half-volume,  and  poor 
Ernest  Schulze,  poor  Zacharias  Werner,  and 
numerous  other  poor  men,  each  his  chapter; 
Luther  also  has  his  two  sentences,  and  is  in 
these  weighed  against — Dr.  Isaac  Watts.  Ul- 
rich  Hutten  does  not  occur  here  ;  Hans  Sachs 
and  his  Master-singers  escape  notice,  or  even 
do  worse ;  the  poetry  of  the  Reformation  is 
not  alluded  to.  The  name  of  Jean  Paul 
Friedrich  Richter  appears  not  to  be  known  to 
Mr.  Taylor ;  or  if  want  of  Rhyme  was  to  be 
the  test  of  a  Prosaist,  how  comes  Salomon 
Gesner  here  1  Stranger  still,  Ludwig  Tieck 
is  not  once  mentioned;  neither  is  Novalis ; 
neither  is  Maler  Miiller.  But  why  dwell  on 
these  omissions  and  commissions?  is  not  all 
included  in  this  one  well-nigh  incredible  fact, 
that  one  of  the  largest  articles  in  the  Book,  a 
tenth  part  of  the  whole  Historic  Survey  of  Ger- 
man  Poetry,  treats  of  that  delectable  genius, 
August  von  Kotzebue? 

The  truth  is,  this  Historic  Survey  has  not 
any  thing  historical  in  it;  but  is  a  mere  aggre- 
gate of  Dissertations,  Translations,  Notices, 
and  Notes,  bound  together  indeed  by  the  cir- 
cumstance that  they  are  all  about  German 
Poetry,  "about  it  and  about  it;"  also  by  the 
sequence  of  time,  and  still  more  strongly  by 
the  Bookbinder's  packthread;  but  by  no  other 
sufficient  tie  Avhatever.  The  authentic  title, 
were  not  some  mercantile  varnish  allowable  in 
such  cases,  might  be  :  "  General  Jail-delivery 
of  all  Publications  and  Manuscripts,  original 
or  translated,  composed  or  borrowed,  on  the 
subject  of  German  Poetry ;  by,"  &c. 

To  such  Jail-delivery,  at  least  when  it  is 
from  the  prison  of  Mr.  "Taylor's  Desk  at  Nor- 
wich, and  relates  to  a  subject  in  the  actual 


y 


288 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


predicament  of  German  Poetry  among  us,  we 
have  no  fundamental  objection :  and  for  the 
name,  now  that  it  is  explained,  there  is  nothing 
in  a  name ;  a  rose  by  any  other  name  would 
smell  as  sweet.  However,  even  in  this  lower 
and  lowest  point  of  view,  the  Historic  Survey  is 
liable  to  grave  objections :  its  worth  is  of  no 
unmixed  character.  We  mentioned  that  Mr. 
Taylor  did  not  often  cite  authorities  :  for  which 
doubtless  he  may  have  his  reasons.  If  it  be 
not  from  French  Prefaces,  and  the  Biographic 
Universellc,  and  other  the  like  sources,  we  con- 
fess ourselves  altogether  at  a  loss  to  divine 
whence  any  reasonable  individual  gathered 
such  notices  as  these.  Books  indeed  are 
scarce;  but  the  most  untoward  situation  may 
command  Wachler's  Vorlesungen,  Horn's  Poesie 
und  JBeredsamkeit,  Meister's  Characterisliken, 
Koch's  Compendium,  or  some  of  the  thousand 
and  one  compilations  of  that  sort,  numerous 
and  accurate  in  German,  more  than  in  any 
other  literature  :  at  all  events,  Jorden's  Lexicon 
Deutscher  und  Prosaisten,  and  the  world-renown- 
ed Leipsic  Conversations-Lexicon.  No  one  of 
these  appears  to  have  been  in  Mr.  Taylor's 
possession; — Bouterwek  alone,  and  him  he 
seems  to  have  consulted  perfunctorily.  A  cer- 
tain proportion  of  errors  in  such  a  work  is 
pardonable  and  unavoidable:  scarcely  so  the 
proportion  observed  here.  The  Historic  Survey 
abounds  with  errors,  perhaps  beyond  any  book 
it  has  ever  been  our  lot  to  review.  Of  these, 
many,  indeed,  are  harmless  enough:  as,  for 
instance,  where  we  learn  that  Gorres  was  born 
in  1804,  (not  in  1776;)  though  in  that  case  he 
must  have  published  his  Shah-Nameh  at  the  age 
of  three  years ;  or  where  it  is  said  that  Wer- 
ner's epitaph  "  begs  Mary  Magdalene  to  pray 
for  his  soul,"  which  it  does  not  do,  if  indeed 
any  one  cared  what  it  did.  Some  are  of  a 
quite  mysterious  nature;  either  impregnated 
with  a  wit  which  continues  obstinatelv  latent, 
or  indicating  that,  in  spite  of  Railways  and 
Newspapers,  some  portions  of  this  Island  are 
still  impermeable.  For  example,  "It  (Goetz 
von  Berlichingen)  was  admirably  translated  into 
English,  in  1799,  at  Edinburgh,  by  William 
Scott,  Advocate;  no  doubt,  the  same  person 
who,  under  the  poetical  but  assumed  name  of 
Walter,  has  since  become  the  most  extensively 
popular  of  the  British  writers."— Others  again 
are  the  fruit  of  a  more  culpable  ignorance ;  as 
when  we  hear  that  Goethe's  Dichtung  und 
Wahrheit  is  literally  meant  to  be  a  fictitious 
narrative,  and  no  genuine  Biography ;  that  his 
Stella  ends  quietly  in  Bigamy,  (to  Mr.  Taylor's 
satisfaction,)  which,  however  the  French 
Translation  may  run,  in  the  original  it  cer- 
tainly does  not.  Mr.  Taylor  likewise  com- 
plains that  his  copy  of  Faust  is  incomplete : 
so,  we  grieve  to  state,  is  ours.  Still  worse  is 
it  when  speaking  of  distinguished  men,  who 
probably  have  been  at  pains  to  veil  their  sen- 
timents on  certain  subjects,  our  author  takes  it 
upon  him  to  lift  such  veil,  and  with  perfect 
composure  pronounces  this  to  be  a  Deist,  ihat 
a  Pantheist,  that  other  an  Atheist,  often  with- 
out any  due  foundation.  It  is  quite  erroneous, 
for  example,  to  describe  Schiller  by  any  such 
unhappy  term  as  that  of  Deist:  it  is  very  par- 
ticularly erroneous   to  say  that  Goethe  any- 


where "  avows  himself  an  Atheist,"  that  he  "is 
a  Pantheist;" — indeed,  that  he  is,  was,  or  is 
like  to  be  any  ist  to  which  Mr.  Taylor  would 
attach  just  meaning. 

But  on  the  whole,  what  struck  us  most  in 
these  errors,  is  their  surprising  number.  In 
the  way  of  our  calling,  we  at  first  took  pencil, 
with  intent  to  mark  such  transgressions;  but 
soon  found  it  too  appalling  a  task,  and  so  laid 
aside  our  black-lead  and  our  art  (ccestus  artem- 
que.)  Happily,  however,  a  little  natural  in- 
vention, assisted  by  some  tincture  of  arithme- 
tic, came  to  our  aid.  Six  pages,  studied  for 
that  end,  we  did  mark ;  finding  therein  thirteen 
errors :  the  pages  are  167 — 173  of  Volume 
Third,  and  still  in  our  copy,  have  their  mar- 
ginal stigmas,  which  can  be  vindicated  before 
a  jury  of  Authors.  Now  if  6  give  13,  who 
sees  not  that  1455,  the  entire  number  of  pages, 
will  give  3152,  and  a  fraction  ]  Or,  allowing 
for  translations,  which  are  freer  from  errors, 
and  for  philosophical  Discussions,  wherein  the 
errors  are  of  another  sort;  nay,  granting  with 
a  perhaps  unwarranted  liberality,  that  these 
six  pages  may  yield  too  high  an  average, 
which  we  know  not  that  they  do, — may  not,  in 
round  numbers,  Fifteen  Hundred  be  given  as 
the  approximate  amount,  not  of  Errors.,  indeed, 
yet  of  Mistakes  and  Misstatements,  in  these 
three  octavos  1 

Of  errors  in  doctrine,  false  critical  judg- 
ments, and  all  sorts  of  philosophical  hallucina- 
tion, the  number,  more  difficult  to  ascertain,  is 
also  unfortunately  great.  Considered,  indeed, 
as  in  any  measure  a  picture  of  what  is  re- 
markable in  German  Poetry,  this  Historic  Survey 
is  one  great  Error.  We  have  to  object  to  Mr. 
Taylor  on  all  grounds  ;  that  his  views  are 
often  partial  and  inadequate,  sometimes  quite 
false  and  imaginary ;  that  the  highest  produc- 
tions of  German  Literature,  those  works  in 
Avhich  properly  its  characteristic  and  chief 
worth  lie,  are  still  as  a  sealed  book  to  him  ;  or, 
what  is  worse,  an  open  book  that  he  will  not 
read,  but  pronounces  to  be  filled  with  blank 
paper.  From  a  man  of  such  intellectual 
vigour,  who  has  studied  his  subject  so  long, 
we  should  not  have  expected  such  a  failure. 

Perhaps  the  main  principle  of  it  may  be 
stated,  if  not  accounted  for,  in  this  one  circum- 
stance, that  the  Historic  Survey,  like  its  Author, 
stands  separated  from  Germany  by  "  more 
than  forty  years."  During  this  time  Germany 
has  been  making  unexampled  progress  ;  while 
our  author  has  either  advanced  in  the  other 
direction,  or  continued  quite  stationary.  Forty 
years,  it  is  true,  make  no  diflference  in  a  classi- 
cal Poem ;  yet  much  in  the  readers  of  that 
Poem,  and  its  position  towards  these.  Forty 
years  are  but  a  small  period  in  some  Histories, 
but  in  the  history  of  German  Literature,  the 
most  rapidly  extending,  incessantly  fluctuating 
object  even  in  the  spiritual  world,  they  make 
a  great  period.  In  Germany,  within  these  forty 
years,  how  much  has  been  united,  how  much 
has  fallen  asunder!  Kant  has  superseded 
Wolfe;  Fichte,  Kant;  Schelling,  Fichte  ;  and 
now,  it  seems,  Hegel  is  bent  on  superseding 
Schelling.  Baumgarten  has  given  place  to 
Schlegel ;  the  Deutsche  Bibliothek  to  the  Berlin 
Hermes:  Lessing  still  towers  in  the  distance 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


like  an  Earthbom  Atlas ;  but  in  the  poetical 
Heaven,  Wieland  and  Klopstock  burn  fainter, 
as  new  and  more  radiant  luminaries  have 
arisen.  Within  the  last  forty  years,  German 
Literature  has  become  national,  idiomatic, 
distinct  from  all  others;  by  its  productions 
during  that  period,  it  is  either  something  or 
nothing. 

Nevertheless  it  is  still  at  the  distance  of 
forty  years,  sometimes  we  think  it  must  be 
fifty,  that  Mr.  Taylor  stands.  "  The  fine  Lite- 
rature of  Germany,"  no  doubt,  he  has  "  im- 
ported;" yet  only  with  the  eyes  of  1780  does 
he  read  it.  Thus  Sulzer's  Universal  Theory 
continues  still  to  be  his  roadbook  to  the  temple 
of  German  taste ;  almost  as  if  the  German 
critic  should  undertake  to  measure  Waverley  and 
Manfred  by  the  scale  of  Blair's  Lectures.  Sulzer 
was  an  estimable  man,  who  did  good  service 
in  his  day;  but  about  forty  years  ago  sunk 
into  a  repose,  from  which  it  would  now  be  im- 
possible to  rouse  him.  The  superannuation 
of  Sulzer  appears  not  once  to  be  suspected  by 
our  Author;  as  indeed  little  of  all  the  great 
■work  that  has  been  done  or  undone,  in  Literary 
Germany  within  that  period,  has  become  clear 
to  him.  The  far-famed  Xenien  of  Schiller's 
Muscnalmanach  are  once  mentioned,  in  some 
half-dozen  lines,  wherein  also  there  are  more 
than  half-a-dozen  inaccuracies,  and  one  rather 
egregious  error.  Of  the  results  that  followed 
from  these  Xenien-  of  Tieck,  Wackenroder. 
the  two  Schlegels,  and  Novalis,  whose  critical 
Union,  and  its  works,  filled  all  Germany  with 
tumult,  discussion,  and  at  length  with  new 
conviction,  no  whisper  transpires  here.  The 
New  School,  with  all  that  it  taught,  untaught,  and 
mistaught,  is  not  so  much  as  alluded  to. 
Schiller  and  Goethe,  with  all  the  poetic  world 
they  created,  remain  invisible,  or  dimly  seen  : 
Kant  is  a  sort  of  Political  Reformer.  It  must 
be  stated  with  all  distinctness,  that  of  the 
newer  and  higher  German  Literature,  no  reader 
will  obtain  the  smallest  understanding  from 
these  Volumes. 

Indeed,  quite  apart  from  his  inacquaintance 
with  actual  Germany,  there  is  that  in  the  struc- 
ture or  habit  of  Mr.  Taylor's  mind,  which  sin- 
gularly unfits  him  for  judging  of  such  matters 
well.  We  must  complain  that  he  reads  Ger- 
man Poetry,  from  first  to  last,  with  English 
eyes;  will  not  accommodate  himself  to  the 
spirit  of  the  Literature  he  is  investigating,  and 
do  his  utmost,  by  loving  endeavour,  to  win  its 
secret  from  it;  but  plunges  in  headlong,  and 
silently  assuming  that  all  this  was  written  for 
him  and  for  his  objects,  makes  short  work  with 
it,  and  innumerable  false  conclusions.  It  is 
sad  to  see  an  honest  traveller  confidently  gaug- 
ing all  foreign  objects  with  a  measure  that  will 
not  mete  them;  trying  German  Sacred  Oaks 
by  their  fitness  for  British  shipbuilding;  walk- 
ing from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  finding  so 
little  that  he  did  not  bring  with  him.  This,  we 
are  too  well  aware,  is  the  commonest  of  all 
errors,  both  with  vulgar  readers,  and  with 
vulgar  critics;  but  from  Mr.  Taylor  we  had 
expected  something  better;  nay, let  us  confess, 
he  himself  now  and  then  seems  to  attempt 
something  better,  but  too  imperfectly  succeeds 
in  it. 

37 


The  truth  is,  Mr.  Taylor,  though  a  man  of 
talent,  as  we  have  often  admitted,  and  as  the 
world  well  knows,  though  a  downright,  inde- 
pendent, and  to  all  appearance  most  praise- 
worthy man,  is  one  of  the  most  peculiar 
critics  to  be  found  in  our  times.  As  we  con- 
strue him  from  these  volumes,  the  basis  of  his 
nature  seems  to  be  polemical;  his  whole 
view  of  the  world,  of  its  Poetry,  and  whatever 
else  it  holds,  has  a  militant  character.  Ac- 
cording to  this  philosophy,  the  whole  duty  of 
man,  it  would  almost  appear,  is  to  lay  aside 
the  opinion  of  his  grandfather.  Doubtless,  it 
is  natural,  it  is  indispensable,  for  a  man  to  lay 
aside  the  opinion  of  his  grandfather,  when  it 
will  no  longer  hold  together  on  him ;  but  we 
had  imagined  that  the  great  and  infinitely 
harder  duty  was — ^To  turn  the  opinion  that 
does  hold  together,  to  some  account.  How- 
ever, it  is  not  in  receiving  the  New,  and 
creating  good  with  it,  but  solely  in  pulling  to 
pieces  the  Old,  that  Mr.  Taylor  will  have  us 
employed.  Often,  in  the  course  of  these  pages, 
might  the  British  reader  sorrowfully  exclaim: 
"  Alas  !  is  this  the  year  of  grace  1831,  and  are 
we  still  here?  Armed  with  the  hatchet  and 
tinder-box ;  still  no  symptom  of  the  sower's- 
sheet  and  plough  1"  These  latter,  for  our 
Author,  are  implements  of  the  dark  ages  ;  the 
ground  is  full  of  thistles  and  jungle ;  cut  down 
and  spare  not.  A  singular  aversion  to  Priests, 
something  like  a  natural  horror  and  hydropho- 
bia, gives  him  no  rest  night  nor  day:  the  gist 
of  all  his  speculations  is  to  drive  down  more 
or  less  effectual  palisades  against  that  class 
of  persons;  nothing  that  he  does  but  they 
interfere  with  or  threaten ;  the  first  question 
he  asks  of  every  passer-by,  be  it  German 
Poet,  Philosopher,  Farce-writer,  is,  "  Arian  or 
Trinitarian  *?  Wilt  thou  help  me  or  not  1" 
Long  as  he  has  now  laboured,  and  though  call- 
ing himself  Philosopher,  Mr.  Taylor  has  not 
yet  succeeded  in  sweeping  this  arena  clear ;  but 
still  painfully  struggles  in  the  questions  of 
Naturalism  and  Supernaturalism,  Liberalism 
and  Servilism. 

Agitated  by  this  zeal,  with  its  fitful  hope  and 
fear,  it  is  that  be  goes  tlirough  Germany; 
scenting  out  Infidelity  with  the  nose  of  an  an- 
cient Heresy-hunter,  though  for  opposite  pur- 
poses ;  and,  like  a  recruiting  sergeant,  beating 
aloud  for  recruits ;  nay,  where  in  any  corner 
he  can  spy  a  tall  man,  clutching  at  him,  to 
crimp  him  or  impress  him.  Goethe's  and 
Schiller  s  creed  we  saw  specified  above  ;  those 
of  Lessing  and  Herder  are  scarcely  less  edify- 
ing ;  but  take  rather  this  sagacious  exposition 
of  Kant's  Philosophy : 

"  The  Alexandrian  writings  do  not  diflTer  so 
widely  as  is  commonly  apprehended  from  those 
of  the  Konigsberg  School,  for  they  abound 
with  passages,  which,  while  they  seem  to  flatter 
the  popular  credulity,  resolve  into  allegory  the 
stories  of  the  gods,  and  into  an  illustrative 
personification  the  soul  of  the  world  ;  thus  in- 
sinuating to  the  more  alert  and  penetrating,  the 
speculative  rejection  of  opinions  with  which 
they  are  encouraged  andcommanded  in  action 
to  comply.  With  analogous  spirit.  Professor 
Kant  studiously  introduces  a  distinction  be- 
tween Practical  and  Theoretical  Reason ;  and 
2  B 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


while  he  teaches  that  rational  conduct  will  in- 
dulge the  hypothesis  of  a  God,  a  revelation,  and 
a  future  state,  (this,  we  presume  is  meant  by 
calling  ihem  inferences  of  Practical  Reason,)  he 
pretends  that  Theoretical  Reason  can  adduce 
no  one  satisfactory  argument  in  their  behalf: 
so  that  his  morality  amounts  to  a  defence  of 
the  old  adage,  ♦  Think  with  the  wise,  and  act 
with  the  vulgar;'  a  plan  of  behaviour  which 
secures  to  the  vulgar  an  ultimate  victory  over 


the 


Philosophy  is  to  be  withdrawn 


within  a  narrower  circle  of  the  initiated  ;  and 
these  must  be  induced  to  conspire  in  favouring 
a  vulgar  superstition.  This  can  best  be  ac- 
complished by  enveloping  with  enigmatic 
jargon  the  topics  of  discussion  ;  by  employing 
a  cloudy  phraseology,  which  may  intercept 
from  below  the  war-whoop  of  impiety,  and 
from  above  the  evulgation  of  infidelity ;  by 
contriving  a  kind  of  '  cipher  of  illuminism,'  in 
which  public  discussions  of  the  most  critical 
nature  can  be  carried  on  from  the  press,  with- 
out alarming  the  prejudices  of  the  people,  or 
exciting  the  precautions  of  the  magistrate. 
Such  a  cipher,  in  the  hands  of  an  adept,  is  the 
dialect  of  Kant.  Add  to  this,  the  notorious 
Gallicanism  of  his  opinions,  which  must  endear 
him  to  the  patriotism  of  the  philosophers  of 
the  Lyceum  ;  and  it  will  appear  probable  that 
the  reception  of  his  forms  of  syllogising  should 
extend  from  Germany  to  France ;  should  com- 
pletely and  exclusively  establish  itself  on  the 
Continent;  entomb  with  the  Reasonings  the 
Reason  of  the  modern  world;  and  form  the 
tasteless  fretwork  which  seems  about  to  con- 
vert the  halls  of  liberal  Philosophy  into 
churches  of  mystical  Supernaturalism." 

These  are,  indeed,  fearful  symptoms,  and 
enough  to  quicken  the  diligence  of  any  recruit- 
ing officer  that  has  the  good  cause  at  heart. 
Reasonably  may  such  officer,  beleagured  with 
"  witchcraft  and  demonology,trinitarianism,  in- 
tolerance," and  a  considerable  list  of  et-ceteras, 
and,  still  seeing  no  hearty  followers  of  his  flag, 
but  a  mere  Falstaff  regiment,  smite  upon  his 
thigh,  and,  in  moments  of  despondency,  lament 
that  Christianity  had  ever  entered,  or,  as  we 
here  have  it,  "  intruded"  into  Europe  at  all ; 
that,  at  least,  some  small  slip  of  heathendom, 
"  Scandinavia,  for  instance,"  had  not  been 
"left  to  its  natural  course,  unmisguided  by 
ecclesiastical  missionaries  and  monastic  in- 
stitutions. Many  superstitions,  which  have 
fatigued  the  credulity,  clouded  the  intellect, 
and  impaired  the  security  of  man,  and  which, 
alas  !  but  too  naturally  followed  in  the  train  of 
the  sacred  books,  would  there,  perhaps,  never 
have  struck  root;  and  in  one  corner  of  the 
world,  the  inquiries  of  reason  might  have 
found  an  earlier  asylum,  and  asserted  a  less 
circumscribed  range."  Nevertheless,  there  is 
still  hope,  preponderating  hope.  "  The  general 
tendency  of  the  German  school,"  it  would  ap- 
pear, could  we  but  believe  such  tidings,  "  is  to 
teach  French  opinions  in  English  forms." 
Philosophy  can  now  look  down  with  some  ap- 
proving glances  on  Socinianism.  Nay,  the 
literature  of  Germany,  "  very  liberal  and  tole- 
rant," is  gradually  overflowing  even  into  the 
Slavonian  nations,  "and  will  found,  in  new 
languages  and  climates,  those  latest  inferences 


of  a  corrupt  but  instructed  refinement,  which 
are  likely  to  rebuild  the  morality  of  the  An- 
cients on  the  ruins  of  Christian  Puritanism." 

Such  retrospections  and  prospections  bring 
to  mind  an  absurd  rumour  which,  confound- 
ing our  author  with  his  namesake,  the  cele- 
brated translator  of  Plato  and  Aristotle,  repre- 
setited  him  as  being  engaged  in  the  repair  and 
re-establishment  of  the  Pagan  religion.  For 
such  rumour,  we  are  happy  to  state,  there  is 
not,  and  was  not,  the  slightest  foundation. 
Wieland  may,  indeed,  at  one  time,  have  put 
some  whims  into  his  disciple's  head ;  but  Mr. 
Taylor  is  too  solid  a  man  to  embark  in  specu- 
lations of  that  nature.  Prophetic  day-dreams 
are  not  practical  projects  ;  at  all  events,  as  we 
here  see,  it  is  not  the  old  Pagan  gods  that  we 
are  to  bring  back,  but  only  the  ancient  Pagan 
morality,  a  refined  and  reformed  Paganism  ; — 
as  some  middle-aged  householder,  if  distressed 
by  tax-gatherers  and  duns,  might  resolve  on 
becoming  thirteen  again,  and  a  bird-nesting 
schoolboy.  Let  no  timid  Layman  apprehend 
any  overflow  of  Priests  from  Mr.  Taylor,  or 
even  of  Gods.  Is  not  this  commentary  on  the 
hitherto  so  inexplicable  conversion  of  Friedrich 
Leopold,  Count  Stolberg,  enough  to  quiet  every 
alarmist] 

"  On  the  Continent  of  Europe,  the  gentle- 
man, and  Frederic  Leopold  was  emphatically 
so,  is  seldom  brought  up  with  much  solicitude 
for  any  positive  doctrine  :  among  the  Catholics, 
the  moralist  insists  on  the  duty  of  conforming 
to  the  religion  of  one's  ancestors ;  among  the 
Protestants,  on  the  duty  of  conforming  to  the 
religion  of  the  magistrate  ;  but  Frederic  Leo- 
pold seems  to  have  invented  a  new  point  of 
honour,  and  a  most  rational  one,  the  duty  of 
conforming  to  the  religion  of  one's  father-in- 
law. 

"A  young  man  is  the  happier,  while  single, 
for  being  unencumbered  with  any  religious  re- 
straints; but  when  the  time  comes  for  sub- 
mitting to  matrimony,  he  will  find  the  pre- 
cedent of  Frederic  Leopold  well  entitled  to 
consideration.  A  predisposition  to  conform 
to  the  religion  of  the  father-in-law  facilitates 
advantageous  matrimonial  connections  ;  it  pro- 
duces in  a  family  the  desirable  harmony  of 
religious  profession ;  it  secures  the  sincere 
education  of  the  daughters  in  the  faith  of  their 
mother;  and  it  leaves  the  young  men  at  liberty 
to  apostatize  in  their  turn,  to  exert  their  right 
of  private  judgment,  and  to  choose  a  worship 
for  themselves.  Religion,  if  a  blemish  in  the 
male,  is  surely  a  grace  in  the  female  sex : 
courage  of  mind  may  tend  to  acknowledge 
nothing  above  itself;  but  timidity  is  ever  dis- 
posed to  look  upwards  for  protection,  for  con- 
solation, and  for  happiness." 

With  regard  to  this  latter  point,  whether  Re- 
ligion is  "  a  blemish  in  the  male,  and  surely  a 
grace  in  the  female  sex,"  it  is  possible  judg- 
ments may  remain  suspended.  Courage  of 
mind,  indeed,  will  prompt  the  squirrel  to  set 
itself  in  posture  against  an  armed  horseman ; 
yet  whether  for  men  and  women,  who  seem  to 
stand,  not  only  under  the  Galaxy  and  Stellar 
system,  and  under  Immensity  and  Eternity, 
but  even  under  any  bare  bodkin  or  drop  of 
prussic  acid,  "  such  courage  of  mind  as  may 


TAYLOR^S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


891 


tend  to  acknowledge  nothing  above  itself," 
were  ornamental  or  the  contrary;  whether, 
lastly,  religion  is  grounded  on  Fear,  or  on 
something  infinitely  higher  and  inconsistent 
with  Fear, — may  be  questions.  But  they  are 
of  a  kind  we  are  not  at  present  called  to  med- 
dle with. 

Mr.  Taylor  promulgates  many  other  strange 
articles  of  faith,  for  he  is  a  positive  man,  and 
has  a  certain  quiet  wilfulness ;  these,  however, 
cannot  henceforth  much  surprise  us.  He  still 
calls  the  Middle  Ages,  during  which  nearly  all 
the  inventions  and  social  institutions,  whereby 
we  yet  live  as  civilized  men,  were  originated 
or  perfected,  "  a  Millennium  of  Darkness  ;"  on 
the  faith  chiefly  of  certain  long-past  Pedants, 
who  reckoned  every  thing  barren,  because  Chry- 
solaras  had  not  yet  come,  and  no  Greek  Roots 
grew  there.  Again,  turning  in  the  other  direc- 
tion, he  criticizes  Luther's  Reformation,  and 
repeats  that  old,  and  indeed  quite  foolish,  story 
of  the  Augustine  Monk's  having  a  merely  com- 
mercial grudge  against  the  Dominican  ;  com- 
putes the  quantity  of  blood  shed  for  Protest- 
antism ;  and,  forgetting  that  men  shed  blood, 
in  all  ages,  for  any  cause,  and  for  no  cause, 
for  Sansculottism,  for  Bonapartism,  thinks  that, 
on  the  whole,  the  Reformation  was  an  error 
and  failure.  Pity  that  Providence  (as  King 
Alphonso  wished  in  the  Astronomical  case) 
had  not  created  its  man  three  centuries  sooner, 
and  taken  a  little  counsel  from  him  !  On  the 
other  hand,  "  Voltaire's  Reformation"  was  suc- 
cessful; and  here,  for  once.  Providence  was 
right.  Will  Mr.  Taylor  mention  what  it  was 
that  Voltaire  reformed?  Many  things  he  Re- 
formed, deservedly  and  undeservedly,  but  the 
thing  that  he /orwied  or  re-formed  is  still  un- 
known to  the  world. 

It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  add,  that  Mr. 
Taylor's  whole  Philosophy  is  sensual ;  that  is, 
he  recognises  nothing  that  cannot  be  weighed, 
measured,  and,  with  one  or  the  other  organ, 
eaten  and  digested.  Logic  is  his  only  lamp  of 
life ;  where  this  fails,  the  region  of  Creation 
terminates.  For  him  there  is  no  Invisible,  In- 
comprehensible;  whosoever,  under  any  name, 
believes  in  an  invisible,  he  treats,  with  leniency 
and  the  loftiest  tolerance,  as  a  mystic  and  luna- 
tic ;  and  if  the  unhappy  crackbrain  has  any 
handicraft,  literary  or  other,  allows  him  to  go 
at  large,  and  work  at  it.  W^ithal  he  is  a  great- 
hearted, strong-minded,  and,  in  many  points, 
interesting  man.  There  is  a  majestic  com- 
posure in  the  attitude  he  has  assumed  ;  mas- 
sive, immovable,  uncomplaining,  he  sits  in  a 
world  of  Delirium ;  and  for  his  Future  looks 
with  sure  faith, — only  in  the  direction  of  the 
Past.  We  take  him  to  be  a  man  of  sociable 
turn,  not  without  kindness;  at  all  events  of 
the  most  perfect  courtesy.  He  despises  the 
entire  Universe,  yet  speaks  respectfully  of 
Translators  from  the  German,  and  always  says 
that  they  "English  beautifully."  A  certain  mild 
Dogmatism  sits  well  on  him ;  peaceable,  in- 
controvertible, uttering  the  palpably  absurd,  as 
if  it  were  a  mere  truism.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  touches  of  a  grave,  scientific  ob- 
scenity, which  are  questionable.  This  word 
Obscenity  we  use  with  reference  to  our  readers, 
and  might  also  add  Profanity,  but  not  with  re- 


ference to  Mr.  Taylor;  he,  as  we  said,  is 
scientific  merely;  and  where  there  is  no  ccenum 
and  no  fanum,  there  can  be  no  obscenity  and 
no  profanity. 

To  a  German  we  might  have  compressed  all 
this  long  description  into  a  single  word :  Mr. 
Taylor  is  simply  what  they  call  a  Philister  ,• 
every  fibre  of  him  is  Philistine.  With  us  such 
men  usually  take  into  Politics,  and  become 
Code-makers  and  Utilitarians  :  it  was  only  in 
Germany  that  they  ever  meddled  much  with 
Literature;  and  there  worthy  Nicolai  has  long 
since  terminated  his  Jesuit-hunt;  no  Adelung 
now  writes  books,  Ueber  die  Niitzlichkeit  der  Emp- 
findung,  (On  the  Utility  of  Feeling.)  Singu- 
lar enough, now,  when  that  old  species  had  been 
quite  extinct  for  almost  half  a  century  in  their 
own  land,  appears  a  native-born  English  Philis- 
tine, made  in  all  points  as  they  were.  With 
wondering  welcome  we  hail  the  Strongboned ; 
almost  as  we  might  a  resuscitated  Mammoth. 
Let  no  David  choose  smooth  stones  from  the 
brook  to  sling  at  him:  is  he  not  our  own 
Goliath,  whose  limbs  were  made  in  England, 
whose  thews  and  sinews  any  soil  might  be 
proud  of?  Is  he  not,  as  we  said,  a  man  that 
can  stand  on  his  own  legs  without  collapsing 
when  left  by  himself?  in  these  days  one  of  the 
greatest  rarities,  almost  prodigies. 

We  cheerfully  acquitted  Mr.  Taylor  of  Re- 
ligion;  but  must  expect  less  gratitude  when 
we  farther  deny  him  any  feeling  for  true  Po- 
etry, as  indeed  the  feelings  for  Religion  and 
for  Poetry  of  this  sort  are  one  and  the  same. 
Of  Poetry,  Mr.  Taylor  knows  well  what  will 
make  a  grand,  especially  a  large,  picture  in  the 
imagination :  he  has  even  a  creative  gift  of 
this  kind  himself,  as  his  style  will  often  tes- 
tify; but  much  more  he  does  not  know.  How 
indeed  should  he  1  Nicolai,  too,  "judged  of 
Poetry  as  he  did  of  Brunswick  Mum,  simply 
by  tasting  it."  Mr.  Taylor  assumes,  as  a  fact 
known  to  all  thinking  creatures,  that  Poetry  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  "a  stimulant." 
Perhaps  above  five  hundred  times  in  the  His- 
toric Survey  we  see  this  doctrine  expressly  acted 
on.  Whether  the  piece  to  be  judged  of  is  a 
Poetical  Whole,  and  has  what  the  critics  have 
named  a  genial  life,  and  what  that  life  is,  he 
inquires  not;  but,  at  best,  whether  it  is  a  lo- 
gical Whole,  and  for  most  part,  simply,  whether 
it  is  stimulant.  The  praise  is,  that  it  has  fine 
situations,  striking  scenes,  agonizing  scenes, 
harrows  his  feelings,  and  the  like.  Schiller's 
Robbers  he  finds  to  be  stimulant ;  his  Maid  of 
Orleans  is  not  stimulant,  but  "  among  the  weak- 
est of  his  tragedies,  and  composed  apparently 
in  ill  health."  The  author  of  Pizarro  is  su- 
premely stimulant ;  he  of  Torquato  Tasso  is  ; 
"too  quotidian  to  be  stimulant."  We  had  un- 
derstood that  alcohol  was  stimulant  in  all  its 
shapes ;  opium  also,  tobacco,  and  indeed  the 
whole  class  of  narcotics  ;  but  heretofore  found 
Poetry  in  none  of  the  Pharmacopoeias.  Ne- 
vertheless, it  is  edifying  to  observe  with  what 
fearless  consistency  Mr.  Taylor,  who  is  no 
half-man,  carries  through  this  theory  of  stimu- 
lation. It  lies  privily  in  the  heart  of  many  a 
reader  and  reviewer;  nay,  Schiller,  at  one 
time,  said  that  "Moliere's  old  woman  seemed 
to  have  become  sole  Editress  of  all  Reviews  ;*' 


892 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


but  seldom,  in  the  history  of  Literature,  has 
she  had  the  honesty  to  unveil,  and  ride  trium- 
phant as  in  these  volumes.  Mr.  Taylor  dis- 
covers that  the  only  Poet  to  be  classed  with 
Homer  is  Tasso  ;  that  Shakspeare's  Tragedies 
are  cousins-german  to  those  of  Otway ;  that 
poor,  moaning,  monotonous  Macpherson  is 
an  epic  poet.  Lastly,  he  runs  a  laboured 
parallel  between  Schiller,  Goethe,  and  Kotze- 
bue ;  one  is  more  this,  the  other  more  that ; 
one  strives  hither,  the  other  thither,  through 
the  whole  string  of  critical  predicables;  al- 
most as  if  we  should  compare  scientifically 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  the  Prophecies  of  Isaiah, 
and  Mat  Lewis's  Tales  of  Terror. 

Such  is  Mr.  Taylor;  a  strong-hearted  oak, 
but  in  an  unkindly  soil,  and  beat  upon  from 
infancy  by  Trinitarian  and  Tory  Southwest- 
ers  :  such  is  the  result  which  native  vigour, 
wind-storms,  and  thirsty  mould  have  made 
out  among  them  ;  grim  boughs  dishevelled  in 
multangular  complexity,  and  of  the  stiffness 
of  brass  ;  a  tree  crooked  every  way,  un  wedge- 
able  and  gnarled.  What  bandages  or  cord- 
ages of  ours,  or  of  man's,  could  straighten  it, 
now  that  it  has  grown  there  for  half  a  cen- 
tury ?  We  simply  point  out  that  there  is 
excellent  tough  knee-timber  in  it,  and  of  straight 
timber  little  or  none. 

In  fact,  taking  Mr.  Taylor  as  he  is  and  must 
be,  and  keeping  a  perpetual  account  and  pro- 
test with  him  on  these  peculiarities  of  his, 
we  find  that  on  various  parts  of  his  subject 
he  has  profitable  things  to  say.  The  Gbttingen 
group  of  Poets,  "Burger  and  his  set,"  such 
as  they  were,  are  pleasantly  delineated.  The 
like  may  be  said  of  the  somewhat  earlier 
Swiss  brotherhood,  whereof  Bodmer  and  Brei- 
tinger  are  the  central  figures  ;  though  worthy, 
wonderful  Lavater,  the  wandering  Physiogno- 
mist and  Evangelist,  and  Protestant  Pope, 
should  not  have  been  first  forgotten,  and  then 
crammed  into  an  insignificant  paragraph. 
Lessing,  again,  is  but  poorly  managed ;  his 
main  performance,  as  was  natural,  reckoned 
to  be  the  writing  of  Nathan  the  Wise ;  we  have 
no  original  portrait  here,  but  a  pantagraphical 
reduced  copy  of  some  foreign  sketches  or 
scratches,  quite  unworthy  of  such  a  man,  in 
such  an  historical  position,  standing  on  the  con- 
fines of  Light  and  Darkness,  like  Day  on  the 
misty  mountain  tops.  Of  Herder  also  there 
is  much  omitted;  the  Geschichte  der  Menscheit 
scarcely  alluded  to ;  yet  some  features  are 
given,  accurately  and  even  beautifully.  A 
slow-rolling  grandiloquence  is  in  Mr.  Taylor's 
best  passages,  of  which  this  is  one  :  if  no  po- 
etic light,  he  has  occasionally  a  glow  of  true 
rhetorical  heat.  Wieland  is  lovingly  painted, 
yet  on  the  whole  faithfully,  as  he  looked  some 
fifty  years  ago,  if  not  as  he  now  looks :  this  is 
the  longest  article  in  the  Historic  Survey,  and 
much  too  long;  those  Paganizing  Dialogues  in 
particular  had  never  much  worth,  and  at  pre- 
sent have  scarcely  any. 

Perhaps  the  best  of  all  these  Essays  is  that 
on  Klopstock.  The  sphere  of  Klopstock's  ge- 
nius does  not  transcend  Mr.  Taylor's  scale  of 
poetic  altitudes ;  though  it  perhaps  reaches 
the  highest  grade  there  ;  the  "  stimulant "  the- 
ory recedes  into  the  back-ground ;  indeed  there 


is  a  rhetorical  amplitude  and  brilliancy  in  the 
Messias  which  elicits  in  our  critic  an  instinct 
truer  than  his  philosophy  is.  He  has  honestly 
studied  the  Messias,  and  presents  a  clear  out- 
line of  it ;  neither  has  the  still  purer  spirit  of 
Klopstock's  Odes  escaped  him.  We  have 
English  Biographies  of  Klopstock,  and  a  mi- 
serable Version  of  his  great  Work ;  but  per- 
haps there  is  no  writing  in  our  language  that 
offers  so  correct  an  emblem  of  him  as  this 
analysis.  Of  the  Odes  we  shall  here  present 
one,  in  Mr.  Taylor's  translation,  which,  though 
in  prose,  the  reader  will  not  fail  to  approve  of. 
It  is  perhaps,  the  finest  passage  in  his  whole 
Historic  Survey. 

"the  two  muses. 

"  I  saw — tell  me,  was  I  beholding  what  now 
happens,  or  was  I  beholding  futurity  1 — I  saw 
with  the  Muse  of  Britain  the  Muse  of  Ger- 
many engaged  in  competitory  race — flying 
warm  to  the  goal  of  coronation. 

"Two  goals,  where  the  prospect  terminates, 
bordered  the  career:  Oaks  of  the  forest  shaded 
the  one  ;  near  to  the  other  waved  Palms  in 
the  evening  shadow. 

"  Accustomed  to  contest,  stepped  she  from 
Albion  proudly  into  the  arena;  as  she  stepped, 
when,  with  the  Grecian  Muse  and  with  her 
from  the  Capitol,  she  entered  the  lists. 

"She  beheld  the  young  trembling  rival,  who 
trembled  yet  with  dignity  ;  glowing  roses  wor- 
thy of  victory  streamed  flaming  over  her  cheek, 
and  her  golden  hair  flew  abroad. 

"  Already  she  retained  with  pain  in  her  tu- 
multuous bosom  the  contracted  breath;  al- 
ready she  hung  bending  forward  towards  the 
goal ;  already  the  herald  was  lifting  the  trum- 
pet, and  her  eyes  swam  with  intoxicating  joy. 

"  Proud  of  her  courageous  rival,  prouder  of 
herself,  the  lofty  Britoness  measured,  but  with 
noble  glance,  thee,  Tuiskone :  '  Yes,  by  the 
bards,  I  grew  up  with  thee  in  the  grove  of  oaks  : 

"  'But  a  tale  had  reached  me  that  thou  wast 
no  more.  Pardon,  O  Muse,  if  thou  beest  im- 
mortal, pardon  that  I  but  now  learn  it.  Yon- 
der at  the  goal  alone  will  I  learn  it. 

"'There  it  stands.  But  dost  thou  see  the 
still  further  one,  and  its  crowns  also  ?  This 
represt  courage,  this  proud  silence,  this  look 
which  sinks  fiery  upon  the  ground,  I  know: 

" '  Yet  weigh  once  again,  ere  the  herald  sound 
a  note  dangerous  to  thee.  Am  Inot  she  who  have 
measured  myself  with  her  from  Thermopylae, 
and  with  the  stately  one  of  the  Seven  Hills  1" 

"She  spake:  the  earnest  decisive  moment 
drew  nearer  with  the  herald.  *  I  love  thee,' 
answered  quick  with  looks  of  flame,  Teutona, 
'  Britoness,  I  love  thee  to  enthusiasm; 

"'But  not  warmer  than  immortality  and 
those  Palms :  Touch,  if  so  wills  thy  genius, 
touch  them  before  me ;  yet  will  I,  when  thou 
seizest  it,  seize  also  the  crown. 

" '  And,  Oh  how  I  tremble!  O  ye  Immortals, 
perhaps  I  may  reach  first  the  high  goal :  then, 
oh  then,  may  thy  breath  attain  my  loose- 
streaming  hair !' 

"  The  herald  shrilled.  They  flew  with  eagle- 
speed.  The  wide  career  smoked  up  clouds  of 
dust.  I  looked.  Beyond  the  Oak  billowed 
yet  thicker  the  dust,  and  I  lost  them." 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


293 


"This  beautiful  allegory,"  adds  Mr.  Taylor, 
"requires  no  illustration;  but  it  constitutes 
one  of  the  reasons  for  suspecting  that  the 
younger  may  eventually  be  the  victorious 
Muse."  We  hope  not,  but  that  the  generous 
race  may  yet  last  through  long  centuries. 
Tuiskone  has  shot  through  a  mighty  space, 
since  this  Poet  saw  her:  what  if  she  were  now 
slackening  her  speed,  and  the  Britoness  quick- 
ening hers  1 

If  the  Essay  on  Klopstock  is  the  best,  that 
on  Kotzebue  is  undoubtedly  the  worst,  in  this 
book,  or  perhaps  in  any  book  written  by  man 
of  ability  in  our  day.  It  is  one  of  those  acts 
which,  in  the  spirit  of  philanthropy,  we  could 
wish  Mr.  Taylor  to  conceal  in  profoundest 
secrecy  ;  were  it  not  that  hereby  the  "  stimu- 
lant" theory,  a  heresy  which  still  lurks  here 
and  there  even  in  our  better  criticism,  is  in 
some  sort  brought  to  a  crisis,  and  may  the 
sooner  depart  from  this  world,  or  at  least  from 
the  high  places  of  it,  into  others  more  suitable. 
Kotzebue,  whom  all  nations,  and  kindreds,  and 
tongues,  and  peoples,  his  own  people  the  fore- 
most, after  playing  with  him  for  some  foolish 
hour,  have  swept  out  of  doors  as  a  lifeless 
bundle  of  dyed  rags,  is  here  scientifically  ex- 
amined, measured,  pulse-felt,  and  pronounced 
to  be  living,  and  a  divinity.  He  has  such  pro- 
lific "invention,"  abounds  so  in  "fine  situa- 
tions," in  passionate  scenes,  is  so  soul-har- 
rowing, so  stimulant.  The  Proceedings  at  Bow 
Street  are  stimulant  enough;  neither  is  prolific 
invention,  interesting  situations,  or  soul-har- 
rowing passion  wanting  among  the  Authors 
that  compose  there ;  least  of  all  if  we  follow 
them  to  Newgate,  and  the  gallows  :  but  when 
did  the  Morning  Herald  think  of  inserting  its 
Police  Reports  among  our  Anthologies  1  Mr. 
Taylor  is  at  the  pains  to  analyze  very  many 
of  Kotzebue's  productions,  and  translates 
copiously  from  two  or  three  :  how  the  Siberian 
Governor  took  on  when  his  daughter  was 
about  to  run  away  with  one  Benjowsky,  who 
however,  was  enabled  to  surrender  his  prize, 
there  on  the  beach,  with  sails  hoisted,  by 
"  looking  at  his  wife's  picture  ;"  how  the  peo- 
ple "lift  young  Burgundy  from  the  Tun,"  not 
indeed  to  drink  him,  for  he  is  not  wine  but  a 
Duke;  how  a  certain  stout-hearted  West  In- 
dian, that  has  made  a  fortune,  proposes  mar- 
riage to  his  two  sisters,  but  finding  the  ladies 
reluctant,  solicits  their  serving-woman,  whose 
reputation  is  not  only  cracked,  but  visibly 
quite  rent  asunder,  accepts  her  nevertheless, 
with  her  thriving  cherub,  and  is  the  happiest 
of  men  ; — with  more  of  the  like  sort.  On  the 
strength  of  which  we  are  assured  that, "  accord- 
ing to  my  judgment,  Kotzebue  is  the  greatest 
dramatic  genius  that  Europe  has  evolved  since 
Shakspeare."  Such  is  the  table  which  Mr. 
Taylor  has  spread  for  pilgrims  in  the  Prose 
Wilderness  of  Life :  thus  does  he  sit  like  a  kind 
host,  ready  to  carve;  and  though  the  viands 
and  beverage  are  but,  as  it  were,  stewed  gar- 
lic, Yarmouth  herrings,  and  blue-ruin,  praise 
them  as  "  stimulant,"  and  courteously  presses 
the  universe  to  fall  to. 

What  a  purveyor  with  this  palate  shall  say 
to  Nectar  and  Ambrosia,  may  be  curious  as  a 
question  in  Natural  History,  but  hardly  other 


wise.  The  most  of  what  Mr.  Taylor  has  writ- 
ten on  Schiller,  on  Goethe,  and  the  new  Litera- 
ture of  Germany,  a  reader  that  loves  him,  as 
we  honestly  do,  will  consider  as  unwritten,  or 
written  in  a  state  of  somnambulism.  He  who 
has  just  quitted  Kotzebue's  Bear-garden,  and 
Fives-court,  and  pronounces  it  to  be  all  stimu- 
lant and  very  good,  what  is  there  for  him  to  do 
in  the  Hall  of  the  Gods  ]  He  looks  transiently 
in;  asks  with  mild  authority,  "Arian  or 
Trinitarian?  Quotidian  or  Stimulant  1"  and 
receiving  no  answer  but  a  hollow  echo,  which 
almost  sounds  like  laughter,  passes  on,  mut- 
tering that  they  are  dumb  idols,  or  mere  Niirn- 
berg  waxwork. 

It  remains  to  notice  Mr.  Taylor's  Transla- 
tions. Apart  from  the  choice  of  subjects, 
which  in  probably  more  than  half  the  cases  is 
unhappy,  there  is  much  to  be  said  in  favour 
of  these.  Compared  with  the  average  of 
British  Translations,  they  may  be  pronounced 
of  almost  ideal  excellence ;  compared  with  the 
best  translations  extant,  for  example,  the  Ger- 
man Shakspeare,  Homer,  Calderon,  they  may 
still  be  called  better  than  indiflferent.  One 
great  merit  Mr.  Taylor  has:  rigorous  ad- 
herence to  his  original ;  he  endeavours  at 
least  to  copy  with  all  possible  fidelity  the  turn 
of  phrase,  the  tone,  the  very  metre,  whatever 
stands  written  for  him.  With  the  German 
language  he  has  now  had  a  long  familiarity, 
and,  what  is  no  less  essential,  and  perhaps 
still  rarer  among  our  translators,  has  a  decided 
understanding  of  English.  All  this  of  Mr. 
Taylor's  own  Translations :  in  the  borrowed 
pieces,  whereof  there  are  several,  we  seldom, 
except  indeed  in  those  by  Shelley  and  Cole- 
ridge, find  much  worth ;  sometimes  a  distinct 
worthlessness.  Mr.  Taylor  has  made  no  con- 
science of  clearing  those  unfortunate  per- 
formances even  from  their  gross  blunders. 
Thus,  in  that  "excellent  version  by  Miss 
Plumptre,"  we  find  this  statement:  Professor 
Miiller  could  not  utter  a  period  without  intro- 
ducing the  words  idlh  under,  "  whether  they  had 
business  there  or  not;"  which  statement,  were 
it  only  on  the  ground  that  Professor  Miiller  was 
not  sent  to  Bedlam,  there  to  utter  periods,  we 
venture  to  deny.  Doubtless  his  besetting  sin 
was  mitunder,  which  indeed  means  at  the  same 
time,  or  the  like,  (etyraologically,  vyith  among,) 
but  nowise  with  under.  One  other  instance  we 
shall  give,  from  a  much  more  important  sub- 
ject. Mr.  Taylor  admits  that  he  does  not  make 
much  of  Faust :  however,  he  inserts  Shelley's 
version  of  the  Mayday  Night ;  and  another 
scene,  evidently  rendered  by  quite  a  different 
artist.  In  this  latter,  Margaret  is  in  the  Cathe- 
dral during  High-Mass,  but  her  whole  thoughts 
are  turned  inwards  on  a  secret  shame  and  sor- 
row: an  Evil  Spirit  is  whispering  in  her  ear; 
the  Choir  chant  fragments  of  the  Dies  iree,-  she 
is  like  to  choke  and  sink.  In  the  original, 
this  passage  is  in  verse ;  and,  we  presume, 
in  the  translation  also, — founding  on  the 
capital  letters.  The  concluding  lines  are 
these: 

"  MARGARET. 

I  feel  imprison'd.    The  thick  pillars  gird  me. 
The  vaults  low'r  o'er  me.    Air,  air,  I  faint. 
2  B  2 


294 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


KTIL    SPIKIT. 

Where  wilt  thou  lie  concealed  ?  for  sin  and  shame 
Remain  not  hidden— wo  is  coming  down. 

THE    CHOIR. 

Quid  sum  miser  turn  dicturus  ? 
Quem  patronum  rogaturus  ? 
Cum  vix  Justus  sit  securus. 

EVIL    SPIRIT. 

From  thee  the  glorified  avert  their  view, 
The  pure  forbear  to  offer  thee  a  hand. 

THE    CHOIR. 

Quid  sum  miser  turn  dicturus  ? 
MARGARET. 

Neighbour,  your " 

— ^Your  what  1 — Angels  and  ministers  of  grace 
defend  us  !— "  Your  Drambotth:'  Will  Mr. 
Taylor  have  us  understand,  then,  that  "the 
noble  German  nation,"  more  especially  the 
fairer  half  thereof,  (for  the  "  Neighbour"  is 
Nachbarin,  Neighboure«s,)  goes  to  church  with  a 
decanter  of  brandy  in  its  pocket  ]  Or  would 
he  not  rather,  even  forcibly,  interpret  Fldsch- 
chen  by  vinaigrette,  by  volatile-salts  7 — The  world 
has  no  notice  that  this  passage  is  a  borrowed 
one,  but  will,  notwithstanding,  as  the  more 
charitable  theory,  hope  and  believe  so. 

We  have  now  done  with  Mr.  Taylor ;  and 
would  fain,  after  all  that  has  come  and  gone, 
part  with  him  in  good  nature  and  good  will. 
He  has  spoken  freely,  we  have  answered  free- 
ly.   Far  as  we  differ  from  him  in  regard  to 
German  Literature,  and  to  the  much  more  im- 
portant subjects  here  connected  with  it ;  deeply 
as  we  feel  convinced  that  his  convictions  are 
wrong  and  dangerous,  are  but  half  true,  and, 
if  taken  for  the  whole  truth,  wholly  false  and 
fatal,  we  have  nowise  blinded  ourselves  to  his 
vigorous  talent,  to  his  varied  learning,  his  sin- 
cerity, his  manful  independence  and  self-sup- 
port.    Neither  is  it  for  speaking  out  plainly 
that  we  blame  him.     A  man's  honest,  earnest 
opinion  is  the  most  precious  of  all  he  possesses : 
let  him  communicate  this,  if  he  is  to  communi- 
cate anything.    There  is,  doubtless,  a  time  to 
speak,  and  a  time  to  keep  silence ;  yet  Fon- 
tenelle's  celebrated  aphorism,  /  might  have  my 
hand  full  of  truth,  and  would  open  only  my  little 
finger,  may  be  practised  also  to  exxess,  and 
the  little  finger  itself  kept  closed.     That  re- 
serve, and  knowing  silence,  long  so  universal 
among  us,  is  less  the  fruit  of  active  benevo- 
lence, of  philosophic   tolerance,   than  of  in- 
difference and  weak  conviction.    Honest  Skep- 
ticism, honest  Atheism,  is   better   than    that 
withered,   lifeless   Dilettantism    and   amateur 
Eclecticism,  which  merely  toys  with  all  opi- 
nions ;   or  than    that  wicked    Machiavelism, 
which,  in  thought  denying  every  thing,  except 
that  Power  is  Power,  in  words,  for  its  own  wise 
purposes,  loudly  believes  every  thing :  of  both 
which  miserable  habitudes  the  day,  even  in 
England,  is  wellnigh  over.     That  Mr.  Taylor 
belongs  not,  and  at  no  time  belonged,  to  either 
of  these  classes,  we  account  a  true  praise.  Of 
his  Historic  Survey  we   have   endeavoured   to 
point  out  the  faults  and  the  merits  :  should  he 


reach  a  second  edition,  which  we  hope,  per- 
haps he  may  profit  by  some  of  our  hints,  and 
render  the  work  less  unworthy  of  himself  and 
of  his  subject.  In  its  present  state  and  shape, 
this  English  Temple  of  Fame  can  content  no 
one.  A  huge,  anomalous,  heterogeneous  mass, 
no  section  of  it  like  another,  oriel-window 
alternating  with  rabbit-hole,  wrought  capital 
on  pillar  of  dried  mud;  heaped  together  out 
of  marble,  loose  earth,  rude  boulder-stone ; 
hastily  roofed  in  with  shingles, — such  is  the 
Temple  of  Fame ;  uninhabitable  either  for 
priest  or  statue,  and  which  nothing  but  a  con- 
tinued suspension  of  the  laws  of  gravity  can 
keep  from  rushing  ere  long  into  a  chaos  of 
stone  and  dust.  For  the  English  worshipper, 
who  in  the  meanwhile  has  no  other  temple,  we 
search  out  the  least  dangerous  apartments  ;  for 
the  future  builder,  the  materials  that  will  be 
valuable. 

And  now,  in  washing  our  hands  of  this  ail- 
too  sordid  but  not  unnecessary  task,  one  word 
on  a  more  momentous  object.  Does  not  the 
existence  of  such  a  Book,  do  not  many  other 
indications,  traceable  in  France,  in  Germany, 
as  well  as  here,  betoken  that  a  new  era  in  the 
spiritual  intercourse  of  Europe  is  approach- 
ing; that  instead  of  isolated,  mutually  repul- 
sive National  Literatures,  a  World-Literature 
may  one  day  be  looked  for  1  The  better  minds 
of  all  countries  begin  to  understand  each  other ; 
and,  which  follows  naturally,  to  love  each 
other  and  help  each  other  ;  by  whom  ultimate- 
ly all  countries  in  all  their  proceedings  are 
governed. 

Late  in  man's  history,  yet  clearly  at  length, 
it  becomes  manifest  to  the  dullest,  that  mind 
is  stronger  than  matter,  that  mind  is  the  creator 
and  shaper  of  matter;  that  not  brute  Force, 
but  only  Persuasion  and  Faith  is  the  king  of 
this  world.  The  true  Poet,  who  is  but  the  in- 
spired Thinker,  is  still  an  Orpheus  whose  Lyre 
tames  the  savage  beasts,  and  evokes  the  dead 
rocks  to  fashion  themselves  into  palaces  and 
stately  inhabited  cities.  It  has  been  said,  and 
may  be  repeated,  that  Literature  is  fast  be- 
coming all  in  all  to  us  ;  our  Church,  our  Sen- 
ate, our  whole  Social  Constitution.  The  true 
Pope  of  Christendom  is  not  that  feeble  old 
man  in  Rome ;  nor  is  its  Autocrat  the  Na- 
poleon, the  Nicolas,  with  his  half  million  even 
of  obedient  bayonets ;  such  Autocrat  is  him- 
self but  a  more  cunningly-devised  bayonet  and 
military  engine  in  the  hands  of  a  mightier  than 
he.  The  true  Autocrat  and  Pope  is  that  man, 
the  real  or  seeming  Wisest  of  the  past  age  ; 
crowned  after  death ;  who  finds  his  Hierarchy 
of  gifted  Authors,  his  Clergy  of  assiduous 
Journalists;  whose  Decretals,  written  not  on 
parchment,  but  on  the  living  souls  of  men,  it 
were  an  inversion  of  the  Laws  of  Nature  to 
rfisobey.  In  these  times  of  ours,  all  Intellect 
has  fused  itself  into  Literature:  Literature, 
Printed  Thought,  is  the  molten  sea  and  wonder- 
bearing  Chaos,  into  which  mind  after  mind 
casts  forth  its  opinion,  its  feeling,  to  be  molten 
into  the  general  mass,  and  to  work  there  ;  In- 
terest after  Interest  is  engulfed  in  it,  or  em- 
barked on  it:  higher,  higher  it  rises  round  all 
the  Edifices  of  Existence ;  they  must  all  be 


TRAGEDY  OF  THE  NIGHT-MOTH. 


295 


molten  into  it,  and  anew  bodied  forth  from  it, 
or  stand  unconsumed  among  its  fiery  surges. 
Wo  to  him  whose  Edifice  is  not  built  of  true 
Asbest,  and  on  the  everlasting  Rock ;  but  on 
the  false  sand,  and  of  the  drift-wood  of  Ac- 
cident, and  the  paper  and  parchment  of  anti- 
quated Habit !  For  the  power,  or  powers,  exist 
not  on  our  Earth,  that  can  say  to  that  sea,  roll 
back,  or  bid  its  proud  waves  be  still. 

What  form  so  omnipotent  an  element  will 
assume;  how  long  it  will  welter  to  and  fro  as 
a  wild  Democracy,  a  wild  Anarchy;  what 
Constitution  and  Organization  it  will  fashion 
for  itself,  and  for  what  depends  on  it,  in  the 


depths  of  Time,  is  a  subject  for  prophetic  con- 
jecture, wherein  brightest  hope  is  not  un- 
mingled  with  fearful  apprehension  and  awe 
at  the  boundless  unknown.  The  more  cheer- 
ing is  this  one  thing  which  we  do  see  and 
know — That  its  tendency  is  to  a  universal 
European  Commonweal;  that  the  wisest  in 
all  nations  will  communicate  and  co-operate ; 
whereby  Europe  will  again  have  its  true 
Sacred  College,  and  Council  of  Amphictyous  ; 
wars  will  become  rarer,  less  inhuman,  and,  in 
the  course  of  centuries,  such  delirious  ferocity 
in  nations,  as  in  individuals  it  already  is,  may 
be  proscribed,  and  become  obsolete  for  ever. 


TRAGEDY   OF  THE  NIGHT-MOTH. 


[Fraser's  Magazine,  1831.] 


Magna  Ausus. 

'T  is  placid  midnight,  stars  are  keeping 
Their  meek  and  silent  course  in  heaven  ; 

Save  pale  recluse,  all  things  are  sleeping, 
His  mind  to  study  still  is  given. 

But  see !  a  wandering  Nighi-moth  enters, 
Allured  by  taper  gleaming  bright; 

A  while  keeps  hovering  round,  then  ventures 
On  Goethe's  mystic  page  to  light. 

With  awe  she  views  the  candle  blazing  ; 

A  universe  of  fire  it  seems 
To  moXh-savante  with  rapture  gazing. 

Or  fount  whence  Life  and  Motion  streams. 

What  passions  in  her  small  heart  whirling, 
Hopes  boundless,  adoration,  dread  ; 

At  length  her  tiny  pinions  twirling. 

She  darts  and — puff! — the  moth  is  dead ! 

The  sullen  flame,  for  her  scarce  sparkling, 
Gives  but  one  hiss,  one  fitful  glare  ; 

Now  bright  and  busy,  now  all  darkling, 
She  snaps  and  fades  to  empty  air. 

Her  bright  gray  form  that  spread  so  slimly, 
Some  fan  she  seemed  of  pigmy  Queen ; 
T^Ier  silky  cloak  that  lay  so  trimly, 

Her  wee,  wee  eyes  that  looked  so  keen, 

Last  moment  here,  now  gone  for  ever, 
To  nought  are  passed  with  fiery  pain  ; 

And  ages  circling  round  shall  never 
Give  to  this  creature  shape  again  1 


Poor  moth  !  near  weeping  I  lament  thee, 
Thy  glossy  form,  thy  instant  wo ; 

'T  was  zeal  for  « things  too  high"  that  sent  thee 
From  cheery  earth  to  shades  below. 

Short  speck  of  boundless  space  was  needed 
For  home,  for  kingdom,  world  to  thee  ! 

Where  passed  unheeding  as  unheeded, 
Thy  slender  life  from  sorrow  free. 

But  syren  hopes  from  out  thy  dwelling, 
Enticed  thee,  bade  thee  Earth  explore, — 

Thy  frame,  so  late  with  rapture  swelling, 
Is  swept  from  Earth  for  evermore! 

Poor  moth  !  thy  fate  my  own  resembles : 

Me  too  a  restless  asking  mind 
Hath  sent  on  far  and  weary  rambles, 

To  seek  the  good  I  ne'er  shall  find. 

Like  thee,  with  common  lot  contented, 
With  humble  joys  and  vulgar  fate, 

I  might  have  lived  and  ne'er  lamented, 
Moth  of  a  larger  size,  a  longer  date  \ 

But  Nature's  majesty  unveiling, 

What  seemed  her  wildest,  grandest  charms. 
Eternal  Truth  and  Beauty  hailing. 

Like  thee,  I  rushed  into  her  arms. 

What  gained  we,  little  moth  1  Thy  ashes. 
Thy  one  brief  parting  pang  may  show  : 

And  withering  thoughts  for  soul  that  dashes 
From  deep  to  deep,  are  but  a  death  more  slow. 


296 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


CHAHACTEBISTICS.* 


[Edinburgh  Review,  1831.] 


The  healthy  know  not  of  their  health,  but  i 
only  the  sick :  this  is  the  Physician's  Aphorism ;  i 
and  applicable  in  a  far  wider  sense  than  he 
gives  it.  We  may  say,  it  holds  no  less  in 
moral,  intellectual,  political,  poetical,  than  in 
merely  corporeal  therapeutics  ;  that  wherever, 
or  in  what  shape  soever,  powers  of  the  sort 
which  can  be  named  vital  are  at  work,  herein 
lies  the  test  of  their  working  right,  or  working 
wrong. 

In  the  Body,  for  example,  as  all  doctors  are 
agreed,  the  first  condition  of  complete  health 
is, that  each  organ  perform  its  function  uncon- 
sciously, unheeded ;  let  but  any  organ  announce 
its  separate  existence,  were  it  even  boastfully, 
and  for  pleasure,  not  for  pain,  then  already  has 
one  of  those  unfortunate  "false  centres  of  sen- 
sibility" established  itself,  already  is  derange- 
ment there.  The  perfection  of  bodily  well- 
being  is,  that  the  collective  bodily  activities 
seem  one ;  and  be  manifested,  moreover,  not  in 
themselves,  but  in  the  action  they  accomplish. 
If  a  Dr.  Kitchener  boast  that  his  system  is  in 
high  order.  Dietetic  Philosophy  may  indeed 
take  credit;  but  the  true  Peptician  was  that 
Countryman  who  answered  that,  **  for  his  part, 
he  had  no  system."  In  fact,  unity,  agreement, 
is  always  silent,  or  soft-voiced ;  it  is  only  dis- 
cord that  loudly  proclaims  itself.  So  long  as 
the  several  elements  of  Life,  all  fitly  adjusted, 
can  pour  forth  theirmovement  like  harmonious 
tuned  strings,  it  is  a  melody  and  unison  ;  Life, 
from  its  mysterious  fountains,  flows  out  as  in 
celestial  music  and  diapason, — which  also,  like 
that  other  music  of  the  spheres,  even  because 
it  is  perennial  and  complete,  without  interrup- 
tion and  without  imperfection,  might  be  fabled 
to  escape  the  ear.  Thus,  too,  in  some  lan- 
guages, is  the  state  of  health  well  denoted  by  a 
term  expressing  unity  ;  when  we  feel  ourselves 
as  we  wish  to  be,  we  say  that  we  are  ivhole. 

Few  mortals,  it  is  to  be  feared,  are  perma- 
nently blessed  with  that  felicity  of  "  having  no 
system :"  nevertheless,  most  of  us,  looking 
back  on  young  years,  may  remember  seasons 
of  a  light,  aerial  translucency  and  elasticity, 
and  perfect  freedom ;  the  body  had  not  yet 
become  the  prison-house  of  the  soul,  but  was 
its  vehicle  and  implement,  like  a  creature  of 
the  thought,  and  altogether  pliant  to  its  bid- 
ding. We  knew  not  that  we  had  limbs,  we 
only  lifted,  hurled,  and  leapt ;  through  eye  and 
ear,  and  all  avenues  of  sense,  came  clear  un- 
impeded tidings  from  without,  and  from  within 


•  1.  An  Essay  on  the  Origin  and  Prospects  of  Man. 
By  Thomas  Hope.    3  vols.  8vo.     London,  1831. 

2.  Philosophische  Vorlesnngen,  insbesondere  iiber  Philo- 
sophie  der  sprache  uvd  des  Wortes.  Geschrieben  und 
Torgetrao'en  zu  Dresden  im  December,  1828,  und  in  den 
ersten  Tagen  des  Janvars  1829.  (Philosophical  Lectures, 
especially  on  the  Philosophy  of  Languajre  and  the  Gift 
of  Speech.  Written  and  delivered  at  Dresden  in  De- 
cember, 1828,  and  the  early  days  of  January,  1829.)  By 
Friedricb  von  Schlegel.    8vo.  Vienna,  1830. 


issued  clear  victorious  force ;  we  stood  as  in 
the  centre  of  Nature,  giving  and  receiving,  in 
harmony  with  it  all ;  unlike  Virgil's  Husband- 
men, "  too  happy  because  we  did  not  know  our 
blessedness."  In  those  days,  health  and  sick- 
ness were  foreign  traditions  that  did  not  con- 
cern us ;  our  whole  being  was  as  yet  One,  the 
whole  man  like  an  incorporated  Will.  Such, 
were  Rest  or  ever-successful  Labour  the  hu- 
man lot,  might  our  life  continue  to  be :  a  pure, 
perpetual,  unregarded  music  ;  a  beam  of  per- 
fect white  light,  rendering  all  things  visible, 
but  itself  unseen,  even  because  it  was  of  that 
perfect  whiteness,  and  no  irregular  obstruction 
had  yet  broken  it  into  colours.  The  beginning 
of  Inquiry  is  Disease:  all  Science,  if  we  con- 
sider well,  as  it  must  have  originated  in  the 
feeling  of  something  being  wrong,  so  it  is  and 
continues  to  be  but  Division,  Dismemberment, 
and  partial  healing  of  the  wrong.  Thus,  as 
was  of  old  written,  the  Tree  of  Knowledge 
springs  from  a  root  of  evil,  and  bears  fruits  of 
good  and  evil.  Had  Adam  remained  in  Para- 
dise, there  had  been  no  Anatomy  and  no 
Metaphysics.  / 

But,  alas,  as  the  Philosopher  declares, "  Life 
itself  is  a  disease ;  a  working  incited  by  suf- 
fering;"  action  from  passion!  The  memory 
of  that  first  state  of  Freedom  and  paradisiac 
Unconsciousness  has  faded  away  into  an  ideal 
poetic  dream.  We  stand  here  too  conscious 
of  many  things :  with  Knowledge,  the  symptom 
of  Derangement,  we  must  even  do  our  best  to 
restore  a  little  Order.  Life  is,  in  few  instances, 
and  at  rare  intervals,  the  diapason  of  a  hea- 
venly melody  ;  oftenest  the  fierce  jar  of  disrup- 
tions and  convulsions,  which,  do  what  we  will, 
there  is  no  disregarding.  Nevertheless,  such 
is  still  the  wish  of  Nature  on  our  behalf;  in 
all  vital  action,  her  manifest  purpose  and 
effort  is,  that  we  should  be  unconscious  of  it, 
and,  like  the  peptic  Countryman,  never  know 
that  we  "have  a  system."  For  indeed  vital 
action  everywhere  is  emphatically  a  means, 
not  an  end ;  Life  is  not  given  us  for  the  mere 
sake  of  Living,  but  always  with  an  ulterior^ 
external  Aim :  neither  is  it  on  the  process,  on 
the  means,  but  rather  on  the  result,  that  Na- 
ture, in  any  of  her  doings,  is  wont  to  intrust  us 
with  insight  and  volition.  Boundless  as  is  the 
domain  of  man,  it  is  but  a  small  fractional 
proportion  of  it  that  he  rules  with  Conscious- 
ness and  by  Forethought :  what  he  can  con- 
trive, nay,  what  he  can  altogether  know  and 
comprehend,  is  essentially  the  mechanical, 
small ;  the  great  is  ever,  in  one  sense  or  other, 
the  vital;  it  is  essentially  the  mysterious,  and 
only  the  surface  of  it  can  be  understood.  But 
Nature,  it  might  seem,  strives,  like  a  kind 
mother,  to  hide  from  us  even  this,  that  she  is  a 
mystery:  she  will  have  us  rest  on  her  beauti- 
ful and  awful  bosom  as  if  it  were  our  secure 
home  ;    on    he  bottomless,  boundless   Deep, 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


2W 


whereon  all  human  things  fearfully  and  won- 
derfully swim,  she  will  have  us  walk  and  build, 
as  if  the  film  which  supported  us  there  (which 
any  scratch  of  a  bare  bodkin  will  rend  asunder, 
anysputterof  a  pistol-shot  instantaneously  burn 
up)  were  no  film,  but  a  solid  rock-foundation. 
For  ever  in  the  neighbourhood  of  an  inevitable 
Death,  man  can  forget  that  he  is  born  to  die ; 
of  his  Life,  which,  strictly  meditated,  contains 
in  it  an  Immensity  and  an  Eternity,  he  can 
conceive  lightly,  as  of  a  simple  implement 
wherewith  to  do  day-labour  and  earn  wages. 
So  cunningly  does  Nature,  the  mother  of  all 
highest  art,  which  only  apes  her  from  afar, 
"body  forth  the  Finite  from  the  Infinite;"  and 
guide  man  safe  on  his  wondrous  path,  not  more 
by  endowing  him  with  vision,  than,  at  the  right 
place,  with  blindness  !  Under  all  her  works, 
chiefly  under  her  noblest  work,  Life,  lies  a 
basis  of  Darkness,  which  she  benignantly  con- 
ceals ;  in  Life,  too,  the  roots  and  inward  cir- 
culations which  stretch  down  fearfully  to  the 
regions  of  Death  and  Night,  shall  not  hint  of 
their  existence,  and  only  the  fair  stem  with  its 
leaves  and  flowers,  shone  on  by  the  fair  sun, 
disclose  itself,  and  joyfully  grow. 

However,  without  venturing  into  the  abstruse, 
or  too  eagerly  asking  Why  and  How,,  in  things 
where  our  answer  must  needs  prove,  in  great 
part,  an  echo  of  the  question,  let  us  be  content 
to   remark   farther,  in   the   merely  historical 
way,  how  that  Aphorism  of  the  bodily  Physi- 
cian  holds   good  in  quite  other  departments. 
Of  the  Soul,  with  her  activities,  we  shall  find 
it  no  less  true  than  of  the  Body:  nay,  cry  the 
Spiritualists,  is  not  that  very  division  of  the 
unity,  Man,  into  a  dualism  of  Soul  and  Body, 
itself  the  symptom  of  disease ;    as,  perhaps, 
your  frightful   theory  of  Materialism,  of  his 
being  but  a  Body,  and  therefore,  at  least,  once 
more  a   unity,  may  be  the  paroxysm  which 
was  critical,  and  the  beginning  of  cure  !     But 
omitting   this,   we  observe,   with    confidence 
enough,  that  the  truly  strong  mind,  view  it  as 
Intellect,  as  Morality,  or  under  any  other  as- 
pect, is  nowise  the  mind  acquainted  with  its 
strength  ;  that  here  as  before  the  sign  of  health 
is  Unconsciousness.    In  our  inward,  as  in  our 
outward  world,  what  is  mechanical  lies  open 
to  us :  not  what  is  dynamical  and  has  vitality. 
Of    our  Thinking,   we  might    say,   it  is   but 
the  mere  upper  surface   that  we  shape  into 
articulate  Thoughts ; — underneath  the  region 
of  argument  and  conscious  discourse  lies  the 
region  of  meditation ;  here,  in  its  quiet  myste- 
rious depths,  dwells  what  vital  force  is  in  us  ; 
here,  if  aught  is  to  be  created,  and  not  merely 
manufactured  and   communicated,  must   the 
work  go  on.     Manufacture  is  intelligible,  but 
trivial ;  Creation  is  great,  and  cannot  be  un- 
derstood.   Thus  if  the  Debator  and  Demon- 
strator, whom  we  may  rank  as  the  lowest  of 
true  thinkers,  knows  what  he  has  done,  and 
how  he  did  it,  the  Artist,  whom  we  rank  as  the 
highest,  knows  not;  must  speak  of  Inspiration, 
and,  in  one  or  the  other  dialect,  call  his  work 
the  gift  of  a  divinity. 

But  on  the  whole,  "  genius  is  ever  a  secret 


not  that  it  is  any  thing  surprising:  MiltonA 
again,  is  more  conscious  of  his  faculty,  which! 
accordingly  is  an  inferior  one.  On  the  other 
hand,  what  cackling  and  strutting  must  we 
not  often  hear  and  see,  when,  in  some  shape 
of  academical  prolusion,  maiden  speech,  re- 
view article,  this  or  the  other  well-fledged 
goose  has  produced  its  goose-egg,  of  quite 
measurable  value,  were  it  the  pink  of  its  whole 
kind;  and  wonders  why  all  mortals  do  not 
wonder ! 

Foolish  enough,  too,  was  the  College  Tutor's 
surprise  at  Walter  Shandy ;  how,  though  un- 
read in  Aristotle,  he  could  nevertheless  argue ; 
and  not  knowing  the  name  of  any  dialectic 
tool,  handled  them  all  to  perfection.     Is  it  the 
skilfullest  Anatomist  that  cuts  the  best  figure 
at  Sadler's  Wells  1  or  does  the  Boxer  hit  bet- 
ter for  knowing  that  he  has  a  flexor  longus 
and  a  flexor  brevis  ?     But,  indeed,  as  in  the 
higher  case  of  the  Poet,  so  here  in  that  of  the 
Speaker  and  Inquirer,  the  true  force  is  an  un- 
conscious  one.     The  healthy  Understanding, 
we  should  say,  is  not  the  Logical,  argumenta- 
tive, but  the  Intuitive;  for  the  end  of  Under- 
standing is  not  to  prove,  and  find  reasons,  but 
to  know  and  believe.     Of  Logic,  and  its  limits, 
and  uses  and  abuses,  there  were  much  to  be 
said  and  examined;  one  fact,  however,  which 
chiefly    concerns    us    here,   has    long    been 
familiar;  that  the  man  of  logic  and  the  man 
of  insight ;  the  Reasoner  and  the  Discoverer,  or 
even  Knower,  are  quite  separable, — indeed,  for 
most  part,  quite  separate  characters.     In  prac- 
tical matters,  for  example,  has  it  not  become 
almost  proverbial  that  the  man  of  logic  cannot 
prosper  1     This  is  he  whom  business  people 
call    Systematic   and    Theorizer   and   Word- 
monger  ;  his  vital  intellectual  force  lies  dormant 
or  extinct,  his  whole  force  is  mechanical,  con- 
scious :  of  such  a  one  it  is  foreseen  that,  when 
once  confronted  with  the  infinite  complexities 
of  the  real  world,  his  little  compact  theorem 
of  the  world  will  be  found  wanting;  that  unless 
he  can  throw  it  overboard,  and  become  a  new 
creature,  he  will  necessarily  founder.    Nay, 
in  mere  Speculation  itself,  the  most  inefl^ectual 
of  all  characters,  generally  speaking,  is  your 
dialectic  man-at-arms ;  were  he  armed  cap-a- 
pie  in  syllogistic  mail  of  proof,  and   perfect 
master  of  logic-fence,  how  little  does  it  avail 
him !     Consider  the  old  Schoolmen,  and  their 
pilgrimage    towards    Truth :    the    iaith fullest 
endeavour,  incessant  unwearied  motion,  often 
great  natural  vigour;  only  no  progress:  nothing 
but  antic  feats  of  one  limb  poised  against  the 
other;  there  they  balanced,  somersetled,  and 
made  postures ;  at  best  gyrated  swiftly,  with 
some  pleasure,  like  Spinning  Dervishes,  and 
ended  where  they  began.     So  it  is,  so  will  it 
always  be,  with  all  System-makers  and  builders 
of  logical  card-castles ;  of  which  class  a  cer- 
tain remnant  must,  in  every  age,  as  they  do  in 
our  own,  survive  and  build.    Logic  is  good, 
but  it  is  not  the  best.     The  Irrefragable  Doc- 
tor, with  his  chains  of  induction,  his  corollaries, 
dilemmas,  and  other  cunning  logical  diagrams 
and  apparatus,  will  cast  you  a  beautiful  horo- 


to  itself;"  of  this  old  truth  we  have,  on  all  sides,  j  scope,  and  speak  reasonable  things ;  neverlhp 
daily  evidence.    The  Shakspeare  takes  no  airs  j  less  your  stolen  jewel,  which-you  wanted  him  to 
for  writing  Hamlet  and  the  Tempest,  understands  ',  find  you,  is  not  forthcoming.    Often  by  some 
38 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


winged  word,  winged  as  the  thunderbolt  is,  of 
a  Luther,  a  NapoleoQ,  a  Goethe,  shall  we  see 
the  difficulty  split  asunder,  and  its  secret  laid 
bare ;  while  the  Irrefragable,  with  all  his  logi- 
cal tools,  hews  at  it,  and  hovers  round  it,  and 
finds  it  on  all  hands  too  hard  for  him. 

Again  in  the  difference  between  Oratory 
and  Rhetoric,  as  indeed  everywhere  in  that 
superiority  of  what  is  called  the  Natural  over 
the  Artificial,  we  find  a  similar  illustration.  The 
Orator  persuades  and  carries  all  with  him,  he 
knows  not  how;  the  Rhetorician  can  prove 
that  he  ought  to  have  persuaded  and  car- 
ried all  with  him ;  the  one  is  in  a  state  of 
healthy  unconsciousness,  as  if  he  "had  no 
system;"  the  other,  in  virtue  of  regimen  and 
dietetic  punctuality,  feels  at  best  that  "  his 
system  is  in  high  order."  So  stands  it,  in 
short,  with  all  forms  of  Intellect,  whether  as 
directed  to  the  finding  of  Truth,  or  to  the  fit 
imparting  thereof;  to  Poetry,  to  Eloquence,  to 
depth  of  Insight,  which  is  the  basis  of  both 
these ;  always  the  characteristic  of  right  per- 
formance is  a  certain  spontaneity,  an  uncon- 
sciousness; "the  healthy  know  not  of  their 
health,  but  only  the  sick."  So  that  the  old  pre- 
cept of  the  critic,  as  crabbed  as  it  looked  to  his 
ambitious  disciple,  might  contain  in  it  a  most 
fundamental  truth,  applicable  to  us  all,  and  in 
much  else  than  Literature:  "Whenever  you 
have  written  any  sentence  that  looks  particu- 
larly excellent,  be  sure  to  blot  it  out"  In  like 
manner,  under  milder  phraseology,  and  with 
a  meaning  purposely  much  wider,  a  living 
Thinker  has  taught  us :  "  Of  the  Wrong  we 
are  always  conscious,  of  the  Right  never." 

But  if  such  is  the  law  with  regard  to  Specu- 
lation and  the  Intellectual  power  of  man,  much 
more  is  it  with  regard  to  Conduct,  and  the 
power,  manifested  chiefly  therein,  which  we 
name  Moral.  "Let  not  thy  left  hand  know 
what  thy  right  hand  doeth :"  whisper  not  to 
thy  own  heart,  How  worthy  is  this  action ;  for 
then  it  is  already  becoming  worthless.  (  The 
good  man  is  he  who  works  continually  in  well- 
doing ;  to  whom  well-doing  is  as  his  natural 
existence,  awakening  no  astonishment,  re- 
quiring no  commentary;  but  there,  like  a 
thing  of  course,  and  as  if  it  could  not  but  be 
so.  Self-contemplation,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
infallibly  the  symptom  of  disease,  be  it  or  be  it 
not  the  sign  of  cure :  an  unhealthy  Virtue  is 
one  that  consumes  itself  to  leanness  in  repent- 
ing and  anxiety ;  or,  still  worse,  that  inflates 
itself  into  dropsical  boastfulness  and  vain 
glory :  either  way,  it  is  a  self-seeking ;  an  un- 
profitable looking  behind  us  to  measure  the 
way  we  have  made  :  whereas  the  sole  concern 
is  to  walk  continually  forward,  and  make  more 
way.  If  in  any  sphere  of  Man's  Life,  then  in 
the  moral  sphere,  as  the  inmost  and  most  vital 
of  all,  it  is  good  that  there  be  wholeness  ;  that 
there  be  unconsciousness,  which  is  the  evi- 
dence of  this.  Let  the  free,  reasonable  Will, 
which  dwells  in  us,  as  in  our  Holy  of  Holies, 
be  indeed  free,  and  obeyed  like  a  Divinity,  as 
is  its  right  and  its  eflTort:  the  perfect  obedience 
will  be  the  silent  one.  Such  perhaps  were  the 
sense  of  that  maxim,  enunciating,  as  is  usual, 
but  the  half  of  a  truth :  "  To  say  that  we  have  a 
clear  conscience  is  to  utter  a  solecism ;  had  we 


never  sinned,  we  should  have  had  no  con- 
science." Were  defeat  unknown,  neither 
would  victory  be  celebrated  by  songs  of 
triumph.    ) 

This,  true  enough,  is  an  ideal,  impossible 
state  of  being;  yet  ever  the  goal  towards  which 
our  actual  state  of  being  strives ;  which  it  is 
the  more  perfect  the  nearer  it  can  approach. 
Nor,  in  our  actual  world,  where  Labour  must 
often  prove  ineffectual,  and  thus  in  all  senses 
Light  alternate  with  Darkness,  and  the  nature 
of  an  ideal  Morality  be  much  modified,  is  the 
case,  thus  far,  materially  different.  It  is  a 
fact,  which  escapes  no  one,  that,  generally 
speaking,  whoso  is  acquainted  with  his  worth 
has  but  a  little  stock  to  cultivate  acquaintance 
with.  Above  all,  the  public  acknowledgment 
of  such  acquaintance,  indicating  that  it  has 
reached  quite  an  intimate  footing,  bodes  ill. 
Already,  to  the  popular  judgment,  he  who 
talks  much  about  Virtue  in  the  abstract,  begins 
to  be  suspicious  ;  it  is  shrewdly  guessed  that 
where  there  is  great  preaching,  there  will  be 
little  almsgiving.  Or  again,  on  a  wider  scale, 
we  can  remark  that  ages  of  Heroism  are  not 
ages  of  Moral  Philosophy ;  Virtue,  when  it 
can  be  philosophized  of,  has  become  aware 
of  itself,  is  sickly,  and  beginning  to  decline. 
A  spontaneous  habitual  all-pervading  spirit  of 
Chivalrous  Valour  shrinks  together,  and  perks 
itself  up  into  shrivelled  Points  of  Honour; 
humane  Courtesy  and  Nobleness  of  mind 
dwindles  into  punctilious  Politeness,  "  avoid- 
ing meats;"  "paying  tithe  of  mint  and  anise, 
neglecting  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law." 
Goodness,  which  was  a  rule  to  itself,  must  ap- 
peal to  Precept,  and  seek  strength  from  Sanc- 
tions; the  Freewill  no  longer  reigns  unques- 
tioned and  by  divine  right,  but  like  a  mere 
earthly  sovereign,  by  expediency,  by  Rewards 
and  Punishments :  or  rather,  let  us  say,  the  Free- 
will, so  far  as  may  be,  has  abdicated  and  with- 
drawn into  the  dark,  and  a  spectral  nightmare 
of  a  Necessity  usurps  its  throne ;  for  now  that 
mysterious  Self-impulse  of  the  whole  man, 
heaven-inspired,  and  in  all  senses  partaking 
of  the  Infinite,  being  captiously  questioned  in 
a  finite  dialect,  and  answering,  as  it  needs 
must,  by  silence, — is  conceived  as  non-extant, 
and  only  the  outward  Mechanism  of  it  remains 
acknowledged:  of  Volition,  except  as  the 
synonym  of  Desire,  we  hear  nothing ;  of  "  Mo- 
tives," without  any  Mover,  more  than  enough. 

So,  too,  when  the  generous  Aflfections  have 
become  well-nigh  paralytic,  we  have  the  reign 
of  Sentimentality.  The  greatness,  the  profit- 
ableness, at  any  rate  the  extremely  ornamental 
nature  of  high  feeling,  and  the  luxury  of  doing 
good ;  charity,  love,  self-forgetfulness,  devoted- 
ness,  and  all  manner  of  godlike  magnanimity 
are  everywhere  insisted  on,  and  pressingly  in- 
culcated in  speech  and  writing,  in  prose  and 
verse;  Socinian  Preachers  proclaim  "  Benevo- 
lence" to  all  the  four  winds,  and  have  Truth 
engraved  on  their  watchseals :  unhappily  with 
little  or  no  effect.  Were  the  Limbs  in  right 
Walking  order,  why  so  much  demonstrating 
of  Motion  ?  The  barrenest  of  all  mortals  is 
the  Sentimentalist.  Granting  even  that  he 
were  sincere,  and  did  not  wilfully  deceive  us, 
or  without  first  deceiving  himself,  what  good 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


299 


is  in  him  1  Does  he  not  lie  there  as  a  perpetual 
lesson  of  despair,  and  type  of  bedrid  valetudina- 
rian impotence  ?  His  is  emphatically  a  Virtue 
that  has  become,  through  every  fibre,  conscious 
of  itself;  it  is  all  sick,  and  feels  as  if  it  were 
made  of  glass  and  durst  not  touch  or  be 
touched :  in  the  shape  of  work,  it  can  do 
nothing;  at  the  utmost,  by  incessant  nursing 
and  caudling,  keep  itself  alive.  As  the  last 
stage  of  all,  when  Virtue,  properly  so  called, 
has  ceased  to  be  practised,  and  become  extinct, 
and  a  mere  remembrance,  we  have  the  era  of 
Sophists,  descanting  of  its  existence,  proving 
it,  denying  it,  mechanically  "  accounting"  for 
it; — as  dissectors  and  demonstrators  cannot 
operate  till  once  the  body  be  dead. 

Thus  is  true  Moral  genius,  like  true  intellec- 
tual, which  indeed  is  but  a  lower  phasis  thereof, 
"  ever  a  secret  to  itself."  The  healthy  moral 
nature  loves  Goodness,  and  without  wonder 
wholly  lives  in  it ;  the  unhealthy  makes  love  to 
it,  and  would  fain  get  to  live  in  it;  or,  finding 
such  courtship  fruitless,  turns  round,  and  not 
without  contempt,  abandons  it.  These  curious 
relations  of  the  Voluntary  and  Conscious  to 
the  Involuntary  and  Unconscious,  and  the 
small  proportion  which,  in  all  departments  of 
our  life,  the  former  bears  to  the  latter, — might 
lead  us  into  deep  questions  of  Psychology  and 
Physiology :  such,  however,  belong  not  to  our 
present  object.  Enough,  if  the  fact  itself  be- 
come apparent,  that  Nature  so  meant  it  with 
us;  that  in  this  wise  we  are  made.  We  may 
now  say,  that  view  man's  individual  Existence 
under  what  aspect  we  will,  under  the  highest 
Spiritual,  as  under  the  merely  Animal  aspect, 
everywhere  the  grand  vital  energy,  while  in  its 
sound  state,  is  an  unseen,  unconscious  one ; 
or,  in  the  words  of  our  old  Aphorism,  "  the 
healthy  know  not  of  their  health,  but  only  the 
sick." 

To  understand  man,  however,  we  must  look 
beyond  the  individual  man  and  his  actions  or 
interests,  and  view  him  in  combination  tivith 
his  fellows.  It  is  in  Society  that  man  first 
feels  what  he  is ;  first  becomes  what  he  can 
be.  In  Society  an  altogether  new  set  of  spiri- 
tual activities  are  evolved  in  him,  and  the  old 
immeasurably  quickened  and  strengthened. 
Society  is  the  genial  element  wherein  his  nature 
first  lives  and  grows ;  the  solitary  man  were 
but  a  small  portion  of  himself,  and  must  con- 
tinue for  ever  folded  in,  stunted,  and  only  half 
alive.  "  x\lready,"  says  a  deep  Thinker,  with 
more  meaning  than  will  disclose  itself  at 
once,  "  my  opinion,  my  conviction,  gains  infi- 
mtely  in  strength  and  sureness,  the  moment 
a  second  mind  has  adopted  it."  Such,  even  in 
its  simplest  form,  is  association ;  so  wondrous 
the  communion  of  soul  with  soul  as  directed 
to  the  mere  act  of  Knowing !  In  other  higher 
acts,  the  wonder  is  still  more  manifest;  as  in 
that  portion  of  our  being  which  we  name  the 
Moral:  for  properly,  indeed,  all  communion  is 
of  a  moral  sort,  whereof  such  intellectual  com- 
munion, (in  the  act  of  knowing,)  is  itself  an 
example.  But  with  regard  to  Morals  strictly 
so  called,  it  is  in  Society,  we  might  almost  say, 
that  Morality  begins ;  here  at  least  it  takes  an 
altogether  new  form,  and  on  every  side,  as  in 
living  growth,  expands  itself.    The  Duties  of 


Man  to  himself,  to  what  is  Highest  in  himself, 
make  but  the  First  Table  of  the  Law:  to  the 
First  Table  is  now  superadded  a  Second,  with 
the  duties  of  Man  to  his  Neighbour ;  whereby 
also  the  significance  of  the  first  now  assumes 
its  true  importance.  Man  has  joined  himself 
with  man;  soul  acts  and  reacts  on  soul;  a 
mystic  miraculous  unfathomable  Union  estab- 
lishes itself;  Life,  in  all  its  elements,  has  be- 
come intensated,  consecrated.  The  lightning- 
'  spark  of  Thought,  generated,  or  say  rather 
j  heaven-kindled,  in  the  solitary  mind,  awakens 
I  its  express  likeness  in  another  mind,  in  a 
thousand  other  minds,  and  all  blaze  up  together 
in  combined  fire ;  reverberated  from  mind  to 
mind,  fed  also  with  fresh  fuel  in  each,  it  ac- 
quires incalculable  new  Light  as  Thought,  in- 
calculable new  Heat  as  converted  into  Action. 
By  and  by,  a  common  store  of  Thought  can 
accumulate,  and  be  transmitted  as  an  everlast- 
ing possession  :  Literature,  whether  as  pre- 
served in  the  memory  of  Bards,  in  Runes  and 
Hieroglyphs  engraved  on  stone,  or  in  Books  of 
written  or  printed  paper,  comes  into  existence, 
and  begins  to  play  its  wondrous  part.  Politics 
are  formed ;  the  weak  submitting  to  the  strong; 
with  a  willing  loyalty,  giving  obedience  that  he 
may  receive  guidance  :  or  say  rather,  in  honour 
of  our  nature,  the  ignorant  submitting  to  the 
wise ;  for  so  it  is  in  all  even  the  rudest  com- 
munities, man  never  yields  himself  wholly  to 
brute  Force,  but  always  to  moral  Greatness  ; 
thus  the  universal  title  of  respect,  from  the 
Oriental  Scheik,  from  the  Sachem  of  the  red  In- 
dians, down  to  our  English  Sir,  implies  only 
that  he  whom  we  mean  to  honour  is  our  senior. 
Last,  as  the  crown  and  all-supporting  keystone 
of  the  fabric,  Religion  arises.  The  devout 
meditation  of  the  isolated  man,  which  flitted 
through  his  soul,  like  a  transient  tone  of  Love 
and  Awe  from  unknown  lands,  acquires  cer- 
tainty, continuance,  when  it  is  shared  in  by  his 
brother-men.  "  Where  two  or  three  are  gathered 
together"  in  the  name  of  the  Highest,  then  first 
does  the  Highest,  as  it  is  written,  "appear 
among  them  to  bless  them  ;"  then  first  does  an 
Altar  and  act  of  united  Worship  open  a  way 
from  Earth  to  Heaven  ;  whereon,  were  it  but  a 
simple  Jacob's-ladder,  the  heavenly  Messen- 
gers will  travel,  with  glad  tidings,  and  unspeak- 
able gifts  for  men.  Such  is  Societt,  the  vital 
articulation  of  many  individuals  into  a  new 
collective  individual :  greatly  the  most  impor- 
tant of  man's  attainments  on  this  earth;  that  in 
which,  and  by  virtue  of  which,  all  his  other 
attainments  and  attempts  find  their  arena,  and 
have  their  value.  Considered  well,  Society  is 
the  standing  wonder  of  our  existence ;  a  true 
region  of  the  Supernatural ;  as  it  were,  a  se- 
cond all-embracing  Life,  wherein  our  first  indi- 
vidual Life  becomes  doubly  and  trebly  alive, 
and  whatever  of  infinitude  was  in  us  bodies 
itself  forth,  and  becomes  visible  and  active. 

To  figure  society  as  endowed  with  Life  is 
scarcely  a  metaphor  ;  but  rather  the  statement 
of  a  fact  by  such  imperfect  methods  as  language 
alFords.  Look  at  it  closely,  that  mystic  Union, 
Nature's  highest  work  with  man,  wherein  man's 
volition  plays  an  indispensable  yet  so  subordi- 
nate a  part,  and  the  small  Mechanical  grows  so 
1  mysteriously  and  indissolubly  out  of  the  infinite 


900 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Dynamical,  like  body  out  of  Spirit, — is  truly 
enough  vital,  what  we  can  call  vital,  and  bears 
the  distinguishing  character  of  life.  In  the 
same  style  also,  we  can  say  that  Society  has 
its  periods  of  sickness  and  vigour,  of  youth, 
manhood,  decrepitude,  dissolution,  and  new- 
birth  ;  in  one  or  other  of  which  stages,  we  may, 
in  all  times  and  all  places  where  men  inhabit, 
discern  it;  and  do  ourselves  in  this  time  and 
place,  whether  as  co-operating  or  as  contending, 
as  healthy  members  or  as  diseased  ones,  to  our 
joy  and  sorrow,  form  part  of  it.  The  question, 
what  is  the  actual  condition  of  Society  1  has 
in  these  days  unhappily  become  important 
enough.  No  one  of  us  is  unconcerned  in  that 
question ;  but  for  the  majority  of  thinking  men 
a  true  answer  to  it,  such  is  the  state  of  matters, 
appears  almost  as  the  one  thing  needful.  Mean- 
while as  the  true  answer,  that  is  to  say,  the 
complete  and  fundamental  answer  and  settle- 
ment, often  as  it  has  been  demanded,  is  no- 
where forthcoming,  and  indeed  by  its  nature  is 
impossible,  any  honest  approximation  towards 
such  is  not  without  value.  The  feeblest  light, 
or  even  so  much  as  a  more  precise  recognition 
of  the  darkness,  which  is  the  first  step  to  attain- 
ment of  light,  will  be  welcome. 

This  once  understood,  let  it  not  seem  idle  if 
we  remark  that  here  too  our  old  Aphorism 
holds ;  that  again  in  the  Body  Politic,  as  in  the 
animal  body,  the  sign  of  right  performance  is 
Unconsciousness.  Such,  indeed,  is  virtually  the 
meaning  of  that  phrase  "  artificial  state  of  so- 
ciety," as  contrasted  with  the  natural  state,  and 
indicating  something  so  inferior  to  it.  For,  in 
all  vital  things,  men  distinguish  an  Artificial 
and  a  Natural ;  founding  on  some  dim  percep- 
tion or  sentiment  of  the  very  truth  we  here 
insist  on  ;  the  Artificial  is  the  conscious,  me- 
chanical ;  the  Natural  is  the  unconscious,  dy- 
namical. Thus  as  we  have  an  artificial  Poetry, 
and  prize  only  the  natural ;  so  likewise  we  have 
an  artificial  Morality,  an  artificial  Wisdom,  an 
artificial  Society.  The  artificial  Society  is 
precisely  one  that  knows  its  own  structure,  its 
own  internal  functions ;  not  in  watching,  not  in 
knowing  which,  but  in  working  outwardly  to 
the  fulfilment  of  its  aim,  does  the  well-being  of 
a  Society  consist.  Every  Society,  every  Polity, 
has  a  spiritual  principle;  is  the  imbodiment, 
tentative,  and  more  or  less  complete,  of  an 
Idea:  all  its  tendencies  of  endeavour,  speciali- 
ties of  custom,  its  laws,  politics,  and  whole  pro- 
cedure, (as  the  glance  of  some  Montesquieu 
across  innumerable  superficial  entanglements 
can  partly  decipher,)  are  prescribed  by  an  Idea, 
and  flow  naturally  from  it,  as  movements  from 
the  living  source  of  motion.  This  idea,  be  it 
of  devotion  to  a  Man  or  class  of  Men,  to  a 
Creed,  to  an  institution,  or  even,  as  in  more 
ancient  times,  to  a  piece  of  land,  is  ever  a  true 
Loyalty;  has  in  it  something  of  a  religious, 
paramount,  quite  infinite  character;  it  is  pro- 
perly the  Soul  of  the  State,  its  Life  :  mysterious 
as  other  forms  of  Life,  and  like  these  working 
secretly,  and  in  a  depth  beyond  that  of  con- 
sciousness. 

Accordingly,  it  is  not  in  the  vigorous  ages 
of  a  Roman  Republic  that  Treatises  of  the 
Commonwealth  are  written :  while  the  Decii 
are  rushing  with  devoted  bodies  on  the  ene- 


mies of  Rome,  what  need  of  preaching  Patri- 
otism ■?     The  virtue  of  Patriotism  has  already 
sunk  from  its  pristine,  all-transcendant  condi- 
tion, before  it  has  received  a  name.     So  long  as 
the  Commonwealth  continues  rightly  athletic,  it 
cares  not  to  dabble  in  anatomy.     Why  teach 
Obedience  to  the  sovereign ;  why  so  much  as  ad- 
mire it,  or  separately  recognise  it,  while  a  divine 
idea  of  Obedience  perennially  inspires  all  men  1 
Loyalty,  like  Patriotism,  of  which  it  is  a  form, 
was  not  praised  until  it  had  begun  to  decline ; 
the  Preux  Chevaliers  first  became  rightly  admir- 
able, when  "dying  for  their  king"  had  ceased  to 
be  a  habit  with  chevaliers.  Forif  the  mystic  sig- 
nificance of  the  State,  let  this  be  what  it  may, 
dwells  vitally  in  every  heart,  encircles  every  life 
as  with  a  second  higher  life,  how  should  it  stand 
self-questioning  1     It  must  rush  outward,  and 
express  itself  by  works.     Besides,  if  perfect, 
it  is  there  as  by  necessity,  and  does  not  ex- 
cite inquiry  :  it  is  also  by  nature,  infinite,  has 
no  limits;  therefore  can  be  circumscribed  by 
no  conditions  and  definitions ;  cannot  be  rea- 
soned of;  except  musically,  or  in  the  language 
of  Poetry,  cannot  yet  so  much  as  be  spoken  of. 
In  those  days.  Society  was  what  we  name 
healthy,  sound  at  heart.     Not,  indeed,  without 
suffering   enough;    not  without    perplexities, 
difficulty  on  every  side:  for  such  is  the  ap- 
pointment of  man;  his  highest  and  sole  bless- 
edness is,  that  he  toil,  and  know  what  to  toil  at: 
not  in  ease,  but  in  united  victorious  labour, 
which  is  at  once  evil  and  the  victory  over  evil, 
does  his  Freedom  lie.     Nay,  often,  looking  no 
deeper  than  such  superficial  perplexities  of  the 
early  Time,  historians  have  taught  us  that  it 
was  all  one  mass  of  contradiction  and  disease; 
and  in  the  antique  Republic,  or  feudal   Mo- 
narchy, have  seen  only  the  confused  chaotic 
quarry,  not  the  robust  labourer,  or  the  stately 
edifice  he  was  building  of  it.  If  society,  in  such 
ages,  had  its  difficulty,  it  had  also  its  strength ; 
if  sorrowful  masses  of  rubbish  so  encumbered 
it,  th^  tough  sinews  to  hurl  them  aside,  with 
indomitable  heart,  were  not  wanting.     Society 
went  along  without  complaint;  did  not  stop  to 
scrutinize  itself,  to  say,  How  well  I  perform, 
or,  Alas,  how  ill !     Men  did  not  yet  feel  them- 
selves to  be  "the  envy  of  surrounding  nations;" 
and  were  enviable  on  that  very  account.     So- 
ciety  was   what  we   can   call  whole,  in  both 
senses  of  the  word.    The  individual  man  was 
in  himself  a  whole,  or  complete  union ;  and 
could  combine  with  his  fellows  as  the  living 
member   of  a   greater   whole.     For  all  mejif 
through  their  life,  were  animated  by  one  great 
Idea ;  thus  all  efllDrts  pointed  one  way,  every- 
where there  was  wholeness.   Opinion  and  Action 
had  not  yet  become  disunited  ;  but  the  former 
could  still  produce   the   latter,  or   attempt  to 
produce  it,  as  the  stamp  does  its  impression 
while  the  wax  is  not  hardened.     Thought,  and 
the  Voice  of  thought,  were  also  a  unison ;  thus, 
instead  of  Speculation  we  had  Poetry;  Lite- 
rature, in   its   rude   utterance,  was   as   yet  a 
heroic  Song,  perhaps  too  a  devotional  Anthern. 
Religion  was  everywhere;  Philosophy  lay  hid 
under  it,  peacefully  included  in  it.     Herein,  as 
in  the  life-centre  of  all,  lay  the  true  health  and 
oneness.     Only  at  a  later  era  must  Religion 
split  itself  into  Philosophies ;  and  thereby  the 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


301 


vital  union  of  thought  being  lost,  disunion  and 
mutual  collision  in  all  provinces  of  Speech  and 
of  Action  more  and  more  prevail.  For  if  the 
Poet,  or  Priest,  or  by  whatever  title  the  inspired 
thinker  may  be  named,  is  the  sign  of  vigour 
and  wellbeing ;  so  likewise  is  the  Logician,  or 
uninspired  thinker,  the  sign  of  disease,  proba- 
bly of  decrepitude  and  decay.  Thus,  not  to 
mention  other  instances,  one  of  them  much 
nearer  hand, — so  soon  as  Prophecy  among  the 
Hebrews  had  ceased,  then  did  the  reign  of  Ar- 
gumentation begin  ;  and  the  ancient  Theocracy, 
in  its  Sadduceeisms  and  Phariseeisms,  and 
vain  jangling  of  sects  and  doctors,  give  token 
that  the  soul  of  it  had  fled,  and  that  the  body 
itself  by  natural  dissolution,  "with  the  old 
forces  still  at  work,  but  working  in  reverse 
order,"  was  on  the  road  to  final  disappearance. 

We  might  pursue  this  question  into  innu- 
merable other  ramifications  ;  and  everywhere, 
under  new  shapes,  find  the  same  truth,  which 
we  here  so  imperfectly  enunciate,  disclosed : 
that  throughout  the  whole  world  of  man,  in  all 
manifestations  and  performances  of  his  nature, 
outward  and  inward,  personal  and  social,  the 
Perfect,  the  Great  is  a  mystery  to  itself,  knows 
not  itself;  whatsoever  does  know  itself  is  al- 
ready little,  and  more  or  less  imperfect.  Or  other- 
wise, we  may  say,  Unconsciousness  belongs  to 
pure  unmixed  Life ;  Consciousness  to  a  diseased 
mixture  and  conflict  of  Life  and  Death:  Uncon- 
sciousness is  the  sign  of  Creation ;  Conscious- 
ness at  best,  that  of  Manufacture.  So  deep,  in 
this  existence  of  ours,  is  the  significance  of  Mys- 
tery. Well  might  the  Ancients  make  silence  a 
god  ;  for  it  is  the  element  of  all  godhood,  infi^ii- 
tude,  or  transcendental  greatness  ;  at  once  the 
source  and  the  ocean  wherein  all  such  begins 
and  ends.  In  the  same  sense,  too,  have  Poets 
sung  "  Hymns  to  the  Night ;"  as  if  "  Night"  were 
nobler  than  day ;  as  if  Day  were  but  a  small 
motley-coloured  veil  spread  transiently  over 
the  infinite  bosom  of  Night,  and  did  but  deform 
and  hide  from  us  its  purely  transparent,  eter- 
nal deeps.  So  likewise  have  they  spoken  and 
sung  as  if  Silence  were  the  grand  epitome  and 
complete  sum-total  of  all  Harmony;  and  Death, 
what  mortals  call  Death,  properly  the  begin- 
ning of  Life.  Under  such  figures,  since  ex- 
cept in  figures  there  is  no  speaking  of  the  Invi- 
sible, have  men  endeavoured  to  express  a  great 
Truth ; — a  Truth,  in  our  times,  as  nearly  as  is 
perhaps  possible,  forgotten  by  the  most ;  which 
nevertheless  continues  for  ever  true,  for  ever  all- 
important,  and  will  one  day,  under  new  figures, 
be  again  brought  home  to  the  bosoms  of  all. 

But,  indeed,  in  a  far  lower  sense,  the  rudest 
mind  has  still  some  intimation  of  the  greatness 
there  is  in  Mysterv.  If  Silence  was  made  a 
god  of  by  the  AnCTents,  he  still  continues  a 
government  clerk  among  us  Moderns.  To  all 
Quacks,  moreover,  of  what  sort  soever,  the 
effect  of  Mystery  is  well  known  :  here  and  there 
some  Cagliostro,  even  in  latter  days,  turns  it 
to  notable  account:  the  Blockhead  also,  who 
is  ambitious,  and  has  no  talent,  finds  sometimes 
in  "the  talent  of  silence,"  a  kind  of  succedane- 
um.  Or  again,  looking  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  matter,  do  we  not  see,  in  the  common  un- 
derstanding of  mankind,  a  certain  distrust,  a 


certain  contempt  of  what  is  altogether  self- 
conscious  and  mechanical  1  As  nothing  that  is 
wholly  seen  through  has  other  than  a  trivial  cha- 
racter ;  so  any  thing  professing  to  be  great,  and 
yet  wholly  to  see  through  itself,  is  already 
known  to  be  false,  and  a  failure.  The  evil  re- 
pute your  "  theoretical  men"  stand  in,  the  ac- 
knowledged inefficiency  of  "  Paper  Constitu- 
tions," and  all  that  class  of  objects,  are  in- 
stances of  this.  Experience  often  repeated, 
and  perhaps  a  certain  instinct  of  something  far 
deeper  that  lies  under  such  experiences,  has 
taught  men  so  much.  They  know,  beforehand, 
that  the  loud  is  generally  the  insignificant,  the 
empty.  Whatsoever  can  proclaim  itself  from 
the  house-tops  may  be  fit  for  the  hawker,  and 
for  those  multitudes  that  must  needs  buy  of  him; 
but  for  any  deeper  use,  might  as  well  continue 
unproclaimed.  Observe,  too,  how  the  converse 
of  the  proposition  holds  ;  how  the  insignificant, 
the  empty,  is  usually  the  loud;  and,  after  the 
manner  of  a  drum,  is  loud  even  because  of  its 
emptiness.  The  uses  of  some  Patent  Dinner 
Calefactor  can  be  bruited  abroad  over  the 
whole  world  in  the  course  of  the  first  winter; 
those  of  the  Printing  Press  are  not  so  well  seen 
into  for  the  first  three  centuries  :  the  passing 
of  the  Select  Vestries  Bill  raises  more  noise 
and  hopeful  expectancy  among  mankind,  than 
did  the  promulgation  of  the  Christian  Religion. 
Again,  and  again,  we  say,  the  great,  the  crea- 
tive, and  enduring,  is  ever  a  secret  to  itself; 
only  the  small,  the  barren,  and  transient,  is 
otherwise. 

If  we  now,  with  a  practical  medical  view, 
examine,  by  this  same  test  of  Unconsciousness, 
the  Condition  of  our  own  Era,  and  of  man's 
Life  therein,  the  diagnosis  we  arrive  at  is  no- 
wise of  a  flattering  sort.  The  state  of  Society 
in  our  days  is  of  all  possible  states  the  least  an 
unconscious  one :  this  is  especially  the  Era 
when  all  manner  of  Inquiries  into  what  was 
once  the  unfelt,  involuntary  sphere  of  man's 
existence,  find  their  place,  and  as  it  were  oc- 
cupy the  whole  domain  of  thought.  What,  for 
example,  is  all  this  that  we  hear,  for  the  last 
generation  or  two,  about  the  Improvement  of 
the  Age,  the  Spirit  of  the  Age,  Destruction  of 
Prejudice,  Progress  of  the  Species,  and  the 
March  of  Intellect,  but  an  unhealthy  state  of 
self-sentience,  self-survey:  the  precursor  and 
prognostic  of  still  worse  health  1  That  Intel- 
lect do  march,  if  possible  at  double-quick  time, 
is  very  desirable ;  nevertheless  why  should 
she  turn  round  at  every  stride,  and  cry:  See 
you  what  a  stride  I  have  taken !  Such  a 
marching  of  Intellect  is  distinctly  of  the  spa- 
vined kind ;  what  the  Jockeys  call  "  all  action 
and  no  go."  Or  at  best,  if  we  examine  well,  it 
is  the  marching  of  that  gouty  Patient,  whom 
his  Doctors  had  clapt  on  a  metal  floor  artifi- 
cially heated  to  the  searing  point,  so  that  he 
was  obliged  to  march,  and  marched  with 
a  vengeance — nowhither.  Intellect  did  not 
awaken  for  the  first  time  yesterday;  but  has 
been  under  way  from  Noah's  Flood  down- 
wards :  greatly  her  best  progress,  moreover, 
was  in  the  old  times,  when  she  said  nothing 
about  it.  In  those  same  dark  "  ages,"  Intellect 
(metaphorically  as  well  as  literally)  could  in- 
vent glass,  which  now  she  has  enough  ado  to 
20 


aos 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


grind  into  spectacles.  Intellect  built  not  only 
Churches,  but  a  Church,  the  Church,  based  on 
this  firm  Earth,  yet  reaching  up,  and  leading  up, 
as  high  as  Heaven ;  and  now  it  is  all  she  can  do 
to  keep  its  doors  bolted,  that  there  be  no  tearing 
of  the  Surplices,  no  robbery  of  the  Alms-box. 
She  built  a  Senate-house  likewise,  glorious  in 
its  kind ;  and  now  it  costs  her  a  wellnigh  mortal 
effort  to  sweep  it  clear  of  vermin,  and  get  the 
roof  made  rain-tight. 

But  the  truth  is,  with  Intellect,  as  with  most 
other  things,  we  are  now  passing  from  that 
first  or  boastful  stage  of  Self-sentience  into 
the  second  or  painful  one:  out  of  these  often 
asseverated  declarations  that  "  our  systenl  is 
in  high  order,"  we  come  now,  by  natural  se- 
quence, to  the  melancholy  conviction  that  it  is 
altogether  the  reverse.  Thus,  for  instance,  in 
the  matter  of  Government,  the  period  of  the 
"Invaluable  Constitution"  must  be  followed  by 
a  Reform  Bill;  to  laudatory  De  Lolmes  suc- 
ceed objurgatory  Benthams.  At  any  rate, 
what  Treatises  on  the  Social  Contract,  on  the 
Elective  Franchise,  the  Rights  of  Man,  the 
Rights  of  Property,  Codifications,  Institutions, 
Constitutions,  have  we  not,  for  long  years, 
groaned  under  !  Or  again,  with  a  wider  sur- 
vey, consider  those  Essays  on  Man,  Thoughts 
on  Man,  Inquiries  concerning  Man;  not  to 
mention  Evidences  of  the  Christian  Faith, 
Theories  of  Poetry,  Consideration  on  the  Ori- 
gin of  Evil,  which  during  the  last  century 
have  accumulated  on  us  to  a  frightful  extent. 
Never  since  the  beginning  of  Time  was  there, 
that  we  hear  or  read  of,  so  intensely  self-con- 
scious a  Society.  Our  whole  relations  to  the 
Universe  and  to  our  fellow  man  have  become 
an  Inquiry,  a  Doubt:  nothing  will  go  on  of  its 
own  accord,  and  do  its  functions  quietly  ;  but 
all  things  must  be  probed  into,  the  whole  work- 
ing of  man's  world  be  anatomically  studied. 
Alas,  anatomically  studied,  that  it  may  be  me- 
dically aided  !  Till  at  length,  indeed,  we  have 
come  to  such  a  pass,  that  except  in  this  same 
Medicine,  with  its  artifices  and  appliances, 
few  can  so  much  as  imagine  any  strength  or 
hope  to  remain  for  us.  The  whole  Life  of 
Society  must  now  be  carried  on  by  drugs : 
doctor  after  doctor  appears  with  his  nostrum, 
of  Co-operative  Societies,  Universal  Suffrage, 
Cottage-and-Cow  systems,  Repression  of  Popu- 
lation, Vote  by  Ballot.  To  such  height  has 
the  dyspepsia  of  Society  reached;  as  indeed 
the  constant  grinding  internal  pain,  or  from 
time  to  time  the  mad  spasmodic  throes,  of  all 
Society  do  otherwise  too  mournfully  indicate. 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  attribute,  as  some  un- 
wise persons  do,  the  disease  itself  to  this  un- 
happy sensation  that  there  is  a  disease !  The 
Encyclopedists  did  not  produce  the  troubles  of 
France ;  but  the  troubles  of  France  produced 
the  Encyclopedists,  and  much  else.  The  Self- 
consciousness  is  the  symptom  merely ;  nay,  it 
is  also  the  attempt  towards  cure.  We  record 
the  fact,  without  special  censure  ;  not  wonder- 
ing that  Society  should  feel  itself,  and  in  all 
ways  complain  of  aches  and  twinges,  for  it 
has  suffered  enough.  Napoleon  was  but  a 
Job's  comforter,  when  he  told  his  wounded 
StaflPofficer,  twice  unhorsed  by  cannon  balls, 


and  with  half  his  limbs  blown  to  pieces :  Vbus 
vous  ecoutez  trop  ! 

On  the  outward,  or  as  it  were  Physical  diseases 
of  Society,  it  were  beside  our  purpose  to  insist 
here.  These  are  diseases  which  he  who  runs 
may  read ;  and  sorrow  over,  with  or  without 
hope.  Wealth  has  accumulated  itself  into 
masses;  and  Poverty,  also  in  accumulation 
enough,  lies  impassably  separated  from  it ;  op- 
posed, uncommunicating,  like  forces  in  posi- 
tive and  negative  poles.  The  gods  of  this 
lower  world  sit  aloft  on  glittering  thrones,  less 
happy  than  Epicurus'  gods,  but  as  indolent,  as 
impotent;  while  the  boundless  living  chaos  of 
Ignorance  and  Hunger  welters  terrific,  in  its 
dark  fury,  under  their  feet.  How  much  among 
us  might  be  likened  to  a  whited  sepulchre; 
outwardly  all  Pomp  and  Strength;  but  in- 
wardly full  of  horror  and  despair  and  dead 
men's  bones  !  Iron  highways,  with  their  wains 
fire-winged,  are  uniting  all  ends  of  the  firm 
Land;  quays  and  moles,  with  their  innumera- 
ble stately  fleets,  tame  the  Ocean  into  our  pli- 
ant bearer  of  burdens  ;  Labour's  thousand  arms, 
of  sinew  and  of  metal,  all-conquering,  every- 
where, from  the  tops  of  the  mountain  down  to 
the  depths  of  the  mine  and  the  caverns  of  the 
sea,  ply  unweariedly  for  the  service  of  man  : 
Yet  man  remains  unserved.  He  has  subdued 
this  Planet,  his  habitation  and  inheritance,  yet 
reaps  no  profit  from  the  victory.  Sad  to  look 
upon,  in  the  highest  stage  of  civilization,  nine- 
tenths  of  mankind  must  struggle  in  the  lowest 
battle  of  savage  or  even  animal  man,  the  bat- 
tle against  Famine.  Countries  are  rich,  pros- 
perous in  all  manner  of  increase,  beyond  ex- 
ample: but  the  Men  of  those  countries  are 
poor,  needier  than  ever  of  all  sustenance  out- 
ward and  inwSird ;  of  Belief,  of  Knowledge, 
of  Money,  of  Food.  The  rule.  Sic  vos  non  vobisy 
never  altogether  to  be  got  rid  of  in  men's  In- 
dustry, now  presses  with  such  incubus  weight, 
that  Industry  must  shake  it  off,  or  utterly  be 
strangled  under  it;  and,  alas,  can  as  yet  but 
gasp  and  rave,  and  aimlessly  struggle,  like  one 
in  the  final  deliration.  Thus  Change,  or  the 
inevitable  approach  of  Change,  is  manifest 
everywhere.  In  one  Country  we  have  seen 
lava-torrents  of  fever-frenzy  envelope  all 
things  ;  Government  succeed  Government,  like 
the  phantasms  of  a  dying  brain :  in  another 
Country,  we  can  even  now  see,  in  maddest  al- 
ternation, the  Peasant  governed  by  such  guid- 
ance as  this:  To  labour  earnestly  one  month 
in  raising  wheat,  and  the  next  month  labour 
earnestly  in  burning  it.  So  that  Society,  were 
it  not  by  nature  immortal,  and  its  death  ever  a 
new-birth,  might  appear,  as  it  does  in  the  eyes 
of  some,  to  be  sick  to  dissolution,  and  even 
now  writhing  in  its  last  agony.  Sick  enough 
we  must  admit  it  to  be,  \|jth  disease  enough,  a 
whole  nosology  of  diseases ;  wherein  he  per- 
haps is  happiest  that  is  not  called  to  prescribe 
as  physician  ; — wherein,  however,  one  small 
piece  of  policy,  that  of  summoning  the  Wisest 
in  the  Commonwealth,  by  the  sole  method  yet 
known  or  thought  of,  to  come  together  and  with 
their  whole  soul  consult  for  it,  might,  but  for 
late  tedious  experiences,  have  seemed  unques- 
tionable enough. 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


308 


But  leaving  this,  let  us  rather  look  within, 
into  the  Spiritual  condition  of  Society,  and  see 
what  aspects  and  prospects  offer  themselves 
there.  For,  after  all,  it  is  there  properly  that 
the  secret  and  origin  of  the  whole  is  to  be 
sought :  the  Physical  derangements  of  Society 
are  but  the  image  and  impress  of  its  Spiritual ; 
while  the  heart  continues  sound,  all  other 
sickness  is  superficial,  and  temporary.  False 
Action  is  the  fruit  of  false  Speculation  ;  let  the 
spirit  of  Society  be  free  and  strong,  that  is  to 
say,  1^  true  Principles  inspire  the  members 
of  Society,  then  neither  can  disorders  accumu- 
late in  its  Practice ;  each  disorder  will  be 
promptly,  faithfully  inquired  into,  and  reme- 
died as  it  arises.  But  alas,  with  us  the  Spiri- 
tual condition  of  Society  is  no  less  sickly  than 
the  Physical.  Examine  man's  internal  world, 
in  any  of  its  social  relations  and  performances, 
here  too  all  seems  diseased  self-consciousness, 
collision,  and  mutually-destructive  struggle. 
Nothing  acts  from  within  outwards  in  undi- 
vided healthy  force  ;  every  thing  lies  impotent, 
lamed,  its  force  turned  inwards,  and  painfully 
"listens  to  itself." 

To  begin  with  our  highest  Spiritual  function, 
with  Religion,  we  might  ask,  whither  has  Reli- 
gion now  fledl  Of  Churches  and  their  estab- 
lishments we  here  say  nothing;  nor  of  the 
unhappy  domains  of  Unbelief,  and  how  innu- 
merable men,  blinded  in  their  minds,  must 
*'  live  without  God  in  the  world ;"  but,  taking  the 
fairest  side  of  the  matter,  we  ask.  What  is  the 
nature  of  that  same  Religion,  which  still  lin- 
gers in  the  hearts  of  the  few  who  are  called,  and 
call  themselves,  specially  the  Religious "?  Is  it 
a  healthy  Religion,  vital,  unconscious  of  itself; 
that  shines  forth  spontaneously  in  doing  of  the 
Work,  or  even  in  preaching  of  the  Word? 
Unhappily,  no.  Instead  of  heroic  martyr  Con- 
duct, and  inspired  and  soul-inspiring  Elo- 
quence, whereby  Religion  itself  were  brought 
home  to  our  living  bosoms,  to  live  and  reign 
there,  we  have  "  Discourses  on  the  Evidences," 
endeavouring,  with  smallest  result,  to  make  it 
probable  that  such  a  thing  as  Religion  exists. 
The  most  enthusiastic  Evangelicals  do  not 
preach  a  Gospel,  but  keep  describing  how  it 
should  and  might  be  preached ;  to  awaken  the 
sacred  fire  of  Faith,  as  by  a  sacred  contagion, 
is  not  their  endeavour ;  but,  at  most,  to  describe 
how  Faith  shows  and  acts,  and  scientifically 
distinguish  true  Faith  from  false.  Religion, 
like  all  else,  is  conscious  of  itself,  listens  to 
itself;  it  becomes  less  and  less  creative,  vital; 
more  and  more  mechanical.  Considered  as  a 
whole,  the  Christian  Religion,  of  late  ages  has 
been  continually  dissipating  itself  into  Meta- 
physics ;  and  threatens  now  to  disappear,  as 
some  rivers  do,  in  deserts  of  barren  sand. 

Of  Literature,  cftid  its  deep-seated,  wide- 
spread maladies,  why  speak  1  Literature  is 
but  a  branch  of  Religion,  and  always  partici- 
pates in  its  character.  However,  in  our  time, 
it  is  the  only  branch  that  still  shows  any  green- 
ness ;  and,  as  some  think,  must  one  day  become 
the  main  stem.  Now,  apart  from  the  subter- 
ranean and  tartarean  regions  of  Literature ; — 
leaving  out  of  view  the  frightful,  scandalous 
statistics  of  Puffing,  the  mystery  of  Slander, 
Falsehood,  Hatred,  and  other  convulsion-work 


of  rabid  Imbecility,  and  all  that  has  rendered 
Literature  on  that  side  a  perfect  "  Babylon  the 
mother  of  Abominations,"  in  very  deed,  making 
the  world  "  drunk"  with  the  wine  of  her  iniquity; 
— forgetting  all  this,  let  us  look  only  to  the  re- 
gions of  the  upper  air;  to  such  Literature  as 
can  be  said  to  have  some  attempt  towards 
truth  in  it,  some  tone  of  music,  and  if  it  be  not 
poetical,  to  hold  of  the  poetical.  Among  other 
characteristics,  is  not  this  manifest  enough; 
that  it  knows  itself!  Spontaneous  devotedness 
to  the  object,  being  wholly  possessed  by  the 
object,  what  we  can  call  Inspiration,  has  well- 
nigh  ceased  to  appear  in  Literature.  Which 
melodious  Singer  forgets  that  he  is  singing 
melodiously  1  We  have  not  the  love  of  great- 
ness, but  the  love  of  the  love  of  greatness. 
Hence  infinite  Affectations,  Distractions;  in 
every  case  inevitable  Error.  Consider,  for  one 
example,  this  peculiarity  of  Modern  Literature^ 
the  sin  that  has  been  named  View-hunting.  In 
our  elder  writers,  there  are  no  paintings  of 
scenery  for  its  own  sake ;  no  euphuistic  gal- 
lantries with  Nature,  but  a  constant  heart-love 
for  her,  a  constant  dwelling  in  communion 
with  her.  View-hunting,  with  so  much  else 
that  is  of  kin  to  it,  first  came  decisively  into 
action  through  the  Sorrows  of  Werler ;  which 
wonderful  Performance,  indeed,  may  in  many 
senses  be  regarded  as  the  progenitor  of  all  that 
has  since  become  popular  in  Literature; 
whereof,  in  so  far  as  concerns  spirit  and  ten- 
dency, it  still  offers  the  most  instructive  image ; 
for  nowhere,  except  in  its  own  country,  above 
all  in  the  mind  of  its  illustrious  Author,  has  it 
yet  fallen  wholly  obsolete.  Scarcely  ever,  till 
that  late  epoch,  did  any  worshipper  of  Nature 
become  entirely  aware  that  he  was  worship- 
ping, much  to  his  own  credit,  and  think  of 
saying  to  himself:  Come  let  us  make  a  de- 
scription!  Intolerable  enough:  when  every 
puny  whipster  draws  out  his  pencil,  and  insists 
on  painting  you  a  scene;  sa  that  the  instant 
you  discern  such  a  thing  as  "  wavy  outline," 
"  mirror  of  the  lake,"  "  stern  headland,"  or  the 
like,  in  any  Book,  you  must  timorously  hasten 
on ;  and  scarcely  the  Author  of  Waverley  him- 
self can  tempt  you  not  to  skip. 

Nay,  is  not  the  diseased  self-conscious  state 
of  Literature  disclosed  in  this  one  fact,  which 
lies  so  near  us  here,  the  prevalence  of  Review- 


ing 


!     Sterne's  wish  for  a  reader  "that  would 


give  up  the  reins  of  his  imagination  into  his 
author's  hands  and  be  pleased  he  knew  not 
why,  and  cared  not  wherefore,"  might  lead  him 
a  long  journey  now.  Indeed,  for  our  best  class 
of  readers,  the  chief  pleasure,  a  very  stinted 
one,  is  this  same  knowing  of  the  Why;  which 
many  a  Kames  and  Bossu  has  been,  ineffec- 
tually enough,  endeavouring  to  teach  us :  till 
at  last  these  also  have  laid  down  their  trade ; 
and  now  your  Reviewer  is  a  mere  taster,  who 
tastes,  and  says,  by  the  evidence  of  such  palate, 
such  tongue,  as  he  has  got — It  is  good ;  it  is 
bad.  Was  it  thus  that  the  French  carried  out 
certain  inferior  creatures  on  their  Algerine 
Expedition,  to  taste  the  wells  for  them,  and  try 
whether  they  were  poisoned  1  Far  be  it  from 
us  to  disparage  our  own  craft,  whereby  we 
have  our  living!  Only  we  must  note  these 
things:  that  Reviewing  spreads  with  strange 


304 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


vigour;  that  such  a  man  as  Byron  reckons  the 
Reviewer  and  the  Poet  equal ;  that  at  the  last 
Leipsic  Fair,  there  was  advertised  a  Review 
of  Reviews.  By  and  by  it  will  be  found  that 
**  all  Literature  has  become  one  boundless  self- 
devouring  Review;  and  as  in  London  routs, 
we  have  to  do  nothing,  but  only  to  see  others  do 
nothing." — Thus  does  Literature  also,  like  a 
sick  thing,  superabundantly  "listen  to  itself." 

No  less  is  this  unhealthy  symptom  manifest, 
if  we  cast  a  glance  on  our  Philosophy,  on  the 
character  of  our  speculative  Thinking.  Nay, 
already,  as  above  hinted,  the  mere  existence 
and  necessity  of  a  Philosophy  is  an  evil.  Man 
is  sent  hither  not  to  question,  but  to  work: 
**  the  end  of  man,"  it  was  long  ago  written,  "  is 
an  Action,  not  a  Thought."  In  the  perfect 
state,  all  Thought  were  but  the  Picture  and  in- 
spiring Symbol  of  Action ;  Philosophy,  except 
as  Poetry  and  Religion,  had  no  being.  And 
yet  how,  in  this  imperfect  state,  can  it  be 
avoided,  can  it  be  dispensed  withl  Man 
stands  as  in  the  centre  of  Nature;  his  fraction 
of  Time  encircled  by  Eternity,  his  handbreadth 
of  Space  encircled  by  Infinitude:  how  shall 
he  forbear  asking  himself,  What  am  I;  and 
Whence;  and  Whither?  How  too,  except  in 
slight  partial  hints,  in  kind  asseverations  and 
assurances,  such  as  a  mother  quiets  her  fret- 
fully inquisitive  child  with,  shall  he  get  answer 
to  such  inquiries  1 

The  disease  of  Metaphysics,  accordingly,  is 
a  perennial  one.  In  all  ages,  those  questions 
of  Death  and  Immortality,  Origin  of  Evil,  Free- 
dom and  Necessity,  must,  under  new  forms, 
anew  make  their  appearance ;  ever,  from  time 
to  time,  must  the  attempt  to  shape  for  our- 
selves some  Theorem  of  the  Universe  be 
repeated.  And  ever  unsuccessfully :  for  what 
Theorem  of  the  Infinite  can  the  Finite  render 
complete  ?  We,  the  whole  species  of  Man- 
kind, and  our  whole  existence  and  history,  are 
but  a  floating  speck  in  the  illimitable  ocean  of 
the  All ;  yet  in  that  ocean ;  indissoluble  portion 
thereof;  partaking  of  its  infinite  tendencies; 
borne  this  way  and  that  by  its  deep-swelling 
tides,  and  grand  ocean  currents ; — of  which 
what  faintest  chance  is  there  that  we  should 
ever  exhaust  the  significance,  ascertain  the 
goings  and  comings?  A  region  of  Doubt, 
therefore,  hovers  for  ever  in  the  background ; 
in  Action  alone  can  we  have  certainty.  Nay, 
properly.  Doubt  is  the  indispensable,  inexhaus- 
tible material  whereon  Action  works,  which 
Action  has  to  fashion  into  Certainty  and  Re- 
ality ;  only  on  a  canvas  of  Darkness,  such  is 
man's  way  of  being,  could  the  many-coloured 
picture  of  our  Life  paint  itself  and  shine. 

Thus  if  our  oldest  system  of  Metaphysics  is 
as  old  as  the  Book  of  Genesis,  our  latest  is  that 
of  Mr.  Thomas  Hope,  published  only  within 
the  current  year.  It  is  a  chronic  malady  that 
of  Metaphysics,  as  we  said,  and  perpetually 
recurs  on  us.  At  the  utmost,  there  is  a  better 
and  a  worse  in  it;  a  stage  of  convalescence, 
and  a  stage  of  relapse  with  new  sickness: 
these  for  ever  succeed  each  other,  as  is  the 
nature  of  all  Life-movements  here  below.  The 
first,  or  convalescent  stage,  we  might  also 
name  of  that  Dogmatical  or  Constructive  Meta- 
physics ;    when   the  mind  constructively  en- 


deavours to  scheme  out,  and  assert  for  itself 
an  actual  Theorem  of  the  Universe,  and  there- 
with for  a  time  rests  satisfied.  The  second  or 
sick  stage  might  be  called  that  of  Skeptical 
or  Inquisitory  Metaphysics;  when  the  mind 
having  widened  its  sphere  of  vision,  the  exist- 
ing Theorem  of  the  Universe  no  longer  answers 
the  phenomena,  no  longer  yields  contentment; 
but  must  be  torn  in  pieces,  and  certainty  anew 
sought  for  in  the  endless  realms  of  Denial. 
All  Theologies  and  sacred  Cosmogonies  be- 
long, in  some  measure,  to  the  first  dass :  in 
all  Pyrrhonism  from  Pyrrho  down  to  Hume 
and  the  innumerable  disciples  of  Hume,  we 
have  instances  enough  of  the  second.  In  the 
former,  so  far  as  it  affords  satisfaction,  a  tem- 
porary anodyne  to  Doubt,  an  arena  for  whole- 
some action,  there  may  be  much  good;  indeed 
in  this  case,  it  holds  rather  of  Poetry  than 
of  Metaphysics,  might  be  called  Inspiration 
rather  than  Speculation.  The  latter  is  Meta- 
physics proper ;  a  pure,  unmixed,  though  from 
time  to  time  a  necessary  evil. 

For  truly,  if  we  look  into  it,  there  is  no  more 
fruitless  endeavour  than  this  same,  which  the 
Metaphysician  proper  toils  in :  to  educe  Con- 
viction out  of  Negation.  How,  by  merely 
testing  and  rejecting  what  is  not,  shall  we  ever 
attain  knowledge  of  what  isl  Metaphysical 
Speculation,  as  it  begins  in  No  or  Nothingness, 
so  it  must  needs  end  in  Nothingness ;  circu- 
lates and  must  circulate  in  endless  vortices  ; 
creating,  swallowing — itself.  Our  being  is 
made  up  of  Light  and  Darkness,  the  Light 
resting  on  the  Darkness,  and  balancing  it; 
everywhere  there  is  Dualism,  Equipoise;  a 
perpetual  Contradiction  dwells  in  us :  "  where 
shall  I  place  myself  to  escape  from  my  own 
shadow?"  Consider  it  well,  Metaphysics  is 
the  attempt  of  the  mind  to  rise  above  the 
mind;  to  environ,  and  shut  in,  or  as  we  say, 
comprehend  the  mind.  Hopeless  struggle,  for 
the  wisest,  as  for  the  foolishest !  What  strength 
of  sinew,  or  athletic  skill,  will  enable  the 
stoutest  athlete  to  fold  his  own  body  in  his 
arms,  and,  by  lifting,  lift  up  himself?  The 
Irish  Saint  swam  the  Channel  "carrying  his 
head  in  his  teeth :"  but  the  feat  has  never  been 
imitated. 

That  this  is  the  age  of  Metaphysics,  in  the 
proper,  or  skeptical  Inquisitory  sense;  that 
there  was  a  necessity  for  its  being  such  an 
age,  we  regard  as  our  indubitable  misfortune. 
From  many  causes,  the  arena  of  free  Activity 
has  long  been  narrowing,  that  of  skeptical  In- 
quiry becoming  more  and  more  universal,  more 
and  more  perplexing.  The  Thought  conducts 
not  to  the  Deed;  but  in  boundless  chaos,  self- 
devouring,  engenders  monstrosities,  fantasms, 
fire-breathing  chimeras.  Profitable  Specula- 
tion were  this :  What  is  to  be  done ;  and  How 
is  it  to  be  done?  But  with  us  not  so  much  as 
the  What  can  be  got  sight  of.  For  some 
generations,  all  Philosophy  has  been  a  painful, 
captious,  hostile  question  towards  every  thing  in 
the  Heaven  above,  in  the  Earth  beneath:  Why 
art  thou  there  ?  Till  at  length  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  the  worth  and  authenticity  of  all  things 
seems  dubitable  or  deniable:  our  best  effort 
must  be  unproductively  spent,  not  in  working, 
but  in  ascertaining  our  mere  Whereabout,  and 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


30& 


so  much  as  whether  we  are  to  work  at  all. 
Doubt,  which,  as  was  said,  ever  hangs  in  the 
back-ground  of  our  world,  has  now  become 
our  middle-ground  and  foreground ;  whereon, 
for  the  time,  no  fair  Life-picture  can  be  painted, 
but  only  the  dark  air-canvas  itself  flow  round 
us,  bewildering  and  benighting. 

Nevertheless,  doubt  as  we  will,  man  is 
actually  Here;  not  to  ask  questions,  but  to  do 
work :  in  this  time,  as  in  all  times,,  it  must  be 
the  heaviest  evil  for  him,  if  his  faculty  of  Ac- 
tion lie  dormant,  and  only  that  of  skeptical  In- 
quiry exert  itself.  Accordingly,  whoever  looks 
abroad  upon  the  world,  comparing  the  Past 
with  the  Present,  may  find  that  the  practical 
condition  of  man,  in  these  days,  is  one  of  the 
saddest ;  burdened  with  miseries  which  are  in 
a  considerable  degree  peculiar.  In  no  time 
was  man's  life  what  he  calls  a  happy  one  ;  in 
no  time  can  it  be  so.  A  perpetual  dream  there 
has  been  of  Paradises,  and  some  luxurious 
Lubberland,  where  the  brooks  should  run  wine, 
and  the  trees  bend  with  ready-baked  viands ; 
but  it  was  a  dream  merely,  an  impossible 
dream.  Suffering,  Contradiction,  Error,  have 
their  quite  perennial,  and  even  indispensable, 
abode  in  this  Earth.  Is  not  Labour  the  in- 
heritance of  man  1  And  what  Labour  for  the 
present  is  joyous,  and  not  grievous  1  Labour, 
Effort,  is  the  very  interruption  of  that  Ease, 
which  man  foolishly  enough  fancies  to  be  his 
Happiness:  and  yet  without  Labour  there 
were  no  Ease,  no  Rest,  so  much  as  conceiva- 
ble. Thus  Evil,  what  we  call  Evil,  must  ever 
exist  while  man  exists:  Evil,  in  the  widest 
sense  we  can  give  it,  is  precisely  the  dark, 
disordered  material  out  of  which  man's  Free- 
will has  to  create  an  edifice  of  order,  and 
Good.  Ever  must  Pain  urge  us  to  Labour; 
and  only  in  free  Effort  can  any  blessedness  be 
imagined  for  us. 

But  if  man  has,  in  all  ages,  had  enough  to 
encounter,  there  has,  in  most  civilized  ages, 
been  an  inward  force  vouchsafed  him,  whereby 
the  pressure  of  things  outward  might  be  with- 
stood. Obstruction  abounded  ;  but  Faith  also 
was  not  wanting.  ^It  is  by  Faith  that  man  re- 
moves mountains:  while  he  had  Faith,  his 
limbs  might  be  wearied  with  toiling,  his  back 
galled  with  bearing;  but  the  heart  within  him 
was  peaceable  and  resolved.  In  the  thickest 
gloom  there  burnt  a  lamp  to  guide  him.  If  he 
struggled  and  suffered,  he  felt,  that  it  even 
should  be  so;  knew  for  what  he  was  suffering 
and  struggling.  Faith  gave  him  an  inward 
Willingness;  a  world  of  Strength  wherewith 
to  front  a  world  of  Difficulty.  The  true 
wretchedness  lies  here  :  that  the  Difficulty  re- 
main and  the  Strength  be  lost ;  that  Pain  can- 
not relieve  itself  in  free  Effort ;  that  we  have 
the  Labour,  and  want  the  Willingness.  Faith 
strengthens  us,  enlightens  us,  for  all  endeavours 
and  endurances ;  with  Faith  we  can  do  all,  and 
dare  all,  and  life  itself  has  a  thousand  times 
been  joyfully  given  away.  But  the  sum  of 
man's  misery  is  even  this,  that  he  feel  himself 
crushed  under  the  Juggernaut  wheels  and 
know  that  Juggernaut  is  no  divinity,  but  a 
dead  mechanical  idol.    ) 

Now  this  is  specially  the  misery  which  has 
fallen  on  man  in  our  Era.  Belief,  Faith  has 
39 


wellnigh  vanished  from  the  world.  The  youth 
on  awakening  in  this  wondrous  Universe,  no 
longer  finds  a  competent  theory  of  its  wonders. 
Time  was  when,  if  he  asked  himself:  What  is 
man  ;  what  are  the  duties  of  man  1  the  answer 
stood  ready  written  for  him.  But  now  the 
ancient  "  ground-plan  of  the  AH"  belies  itself 
when  brought  into  contact  with  reality ;  Mother 
Church  has,  to  the  most,  become  a  superan- 
nuated Stepmother,  whose  lessons  go  disre- 
garded; or  are  spurned  at,  and  scornfully 
gainsayed.  For  young  Valour  and  thirst  of  Ac- 
tion no  ideal  Chivalry  invites  to  heroism,  pre- 
scribes what  is  heroic :  the  old  ideal  of  Man- 
hood has  grown  obsolete,  and  the  new  is  still 
invisible  to  us,  and  we  grope  after  it  in  dark- 
ness, one  clutching  this  phantom,  another  that ; 
Werterism,  Byronism,  even  Brummelism, 
each  has  its  day.  For  contemplation  and  love 
of  Wisdom  no  Cloister  now  opens  its  religious 
shades ;  the  Thinker  must,  in  all  senses,  wander 
homeless,  too  often  aimless,  looking  up  to  a 
Heaven  which  is  dead  for  him,  round  to  an 
Earth  which  is  deaf.  Action,  in  those  old 
days,  was  easy,  was  voluntary,  for  the  divine 
worth  of  human  things  lay  acknowledged; 
Speculation  was  wholesome,  for  it  ranged 
itself  as  the  handmaid  of  Action ;  what  could 
not  so  range  itself  died  out  by  its  natural  death, 
by  neglect.  Loyalty  still  hallowed  obedience, 
and  made  rule  noble;  there  was  still  some- 
thing to  be  loyal  to;  the  Godlike  stood  em- 
bodied under  many  a  symbol  in  men's  interests 
and  business ;  the  Finite  shadowed  forth  the 
Infinite ;  Eternity  looked  through  Time.  The 
Life  of  man  was  encompassed  and  overcano- 
pied  by  a  glory  of  Heaven,  even  as  his  dwell- 
ing-place by  the  azure  vault. 

How  changed  in  these  new  days !  Truly  may 
it  be  said,  the  Divinity  has  withdrawn  from 
the  Earth  ;  or  veils  himself  in  that  wide-wast- 
ing Whirlwind  of  a  departing  Era,  wherein  the 
fewest  can  discern  his  goings.  Not  Godhead, 
but  an  iron,  ignoble  circle  of  Necessity  em- 
braces all  things ;  binds  the  youth  of  these 
times  into  a  sluggish  thrall,  or  else  exasperates 
him  into  a  rebel.  Heroic  Action  is  paralyzed ; 
for  what  worth  now  remains  unquestionable 
with  him]  At  the  fervid  period  when  his 
whole  nature  cries  aloud  for  Action,  there  is 
nothing  sacred  under  whose  banner  he  can  act; 
the  course  and  kind  and  conditions  of  free 
Action  are  all  but  undiscoverable.  Doubt 
storms  in  on  him  through  every  avenue :  in- 
quiries of  the  deepest,  painfullest  sort  must  be 
engaged  with ;  and  the  invincible  energy  of 
young  years  waste  itself  in  skeptical,  suicidal 
cavillings ;  in  passionate  "  questionings  of 
Destiny,"  whereto  no  answer  will  be  returned. 

For  men,  in  whom  the  old  perennial  prin- 
ciple of  Hunger  (be  it  Hunger  of  the  poor 
Day-drudge  who  stills  it  with  eighteenpence  a 
day,  or  of  the  arfibitious  Place-hunter  who  can 
nowise  still  it  with  so  little)  suffices  to  fill  up 
existence,  the  case  is  bad ;  but  not  the  worst. 
These  men  have  an  aim,  such  as  it  is;  and 
can  steer  towards  it,  with  chagrin  enough  truly; 
yet,  as  their  hands  are  kept  full,  without  des- 
peration. Unhappier  are  they  to  whom  a  higher 
instinct  has  been  given;  who  struggle  to  be 
persons,  not  machines ;  to  whom  the  Universe 
2c2 


306 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


is  not  a  warehouse,  or  at  best  fancy-bazaar, 
but  a  mystic  temple  and  hall  of  doom.  For 
such  men  there  lie  properly  two  courses  open. 
The  lower,  yet  still  an  estimable  class,  take 
up  with  worn-out  Symbols  of  the  Godlike; 
keep  trimming  and  trucking  between  these 
and  Hypocrisy,  purblindly  enough,  miserably 
enough.  A  numerous  intermediate  class  end 
in  Denial ;  and  form  a  theory  that  there  is  no 
theory;  that  nothing  is  certain  in  the  world, 
except  this  fact  of  Pleasure  being  pleasant ; 
so  they  try  to  realize  what  trifling  modicum 
of  Pleasure  they  can  come  at,  and  to  live  con- 
tented therewith,  winking  hard.  Of  these  we 
speak  not  here  ;  but  only  of  the  second  nobler 
class,  who  also  have  dared  to  say  No,  and 
cannot  yet  say  Yea;  but  feel  that  in  the  No 
they  dwell  as  in  a  Golgotha,  where  life  enters 
not,  where  peace  is  not  appointed  them.  Hard, 
for  most  part,  is  the  fate  of  such  men ;  the 
harder  the  nobler  they  are.  In  dim  forecast- 
ings,  wrestles  within  them  the  "  Divine  Idea 
of  the  World,"  yet  will  nowhere  visibly  reveal 
itself.  They  have  to  realize  a  Worship  for 
themselves,  or  live  unworshipping.  The  God- 
like has  vanished  from  the  world;  and  they, 
by  the  strong  cry  of  their  soul's  agony,  like 
true  wonder-workers,  must  again  evoke  its 
presence.  This  miracle  is  their  appointed  task ; 
which  they  must  accomplish,  or  die  wretched- 
ly :  this  miracle  has  been  accomplished  by 
such  :  but  not  in  our  land ;  our  land  yet  knows 
not  of  it.  Behold  a  Byron,  in  melodious  tones, 
"  cursing  his  day :"  he  mistakes  earthborn 
passionate  Desire  for  heaven-inspired  Free- 
will; without  heavenly  loadstar,  rushes  madly 
into  the  dance  of  meteoric  lights  that  hover  on 
the  mad  Mahlstrom ;  and  goes  down  among 
its  eddies.  Hear  a  Shelley  filling  the  earth  with 
inarticulate  wail ;  like  the  infinite,  inarticulate 
grief  and  weeping  of  forsaken  infants.  A 
noble  Friedrich  Schlegel,  stupified  in  that  fear- 
ful loneliness,  as  of  a  silenced  battle-field,  flies 
back  to  Catholicism ;  as  a  child  might  to  its 
slain  mother's  bosom,  and  cling  there.  In  lower 
regions,  how  many  a  poor  Hazlitt  must  wander 
on  God's  verdant  earth,  like  the  Unblest  on 
burning  deserts ;  passionately  dig  wells,  and 
draw  up  only  the  dry  quicksand ;  believe  that 
he  is  seeking  Truth,  yet  only  wrestle  among 
endless  Sophisms,  doing  desperate  battle  as 
with  spectre-hosts ;  and  die  and  make  no 
sign! 

To  the  better  order  of  such  minds  any  mad 
joy  of  Denial  has  long  since  ceased :  the  pro- 
blem is  not  now  to  deny,  but  to  ascertain  and 
perform.  Once  in  destroying  the  False,  there 
was  a  certain  inspiration ;  but  now  the  genius 
of  Destruction  has  done  its  work,  there  is  now 
nothing  more  to  destroy.  The  doom  of  the  Old 
has  long  been  pronounced,  and  irrevocable; 
the  Old  has  passed  away :  but,  alas,  the  New 
appears  not  in  its  stead;  the  Time  is  still  in 
pangs  of  travail  with  the  New.  Man  has  walked 
by  the  light  of  conflagrations,  and  amid  the 
sound  of  falling  cities;  and  now  there  is  dark- 
ness, and  long  watching  till  it  be  morning. 
The  voice  even  of  the  faithful  can  but  exclaim : 
"As  yet  struggles  the  twelfth  hour  of  the 
Night:  birds  of  darkness  are  on  the  wing, 
spectres   uproar,  the   dead  walk,  the  living 


dream. — Thou,  Eternal  Providence,  wilt  cause 
the  day  to  dawn  !"* 

Such  being  the  condition,  temporal  and 
spiritual,  of  the  world  at  our  Epoch,  can  we 
wonder  that  the  world  "  listens  to  itself,"  jand 
struggles  and  writhes,  everywhere  externally 
and  internally,  like  a  thing  in  paini  Nay,  is 
not  even  this  unhealthy  action  of  the  world's 
Organization,  if  the  symptom  of  universal  dis- 
ease, yet  also  the  symptom  and  sole  means  of 
restoration  and  cure]  The  eflbrt  of  Nature, 
exerting  her  medicative  force  to  cast  out 
foreign  impediments,  and  once  more  become 
One,  become  whole  1  In  Practice,  still  more 
in  Opinion,  which  is  the  precursor  and  proto- 
type of  Practice,  there  must  needs  be  collision, 
convulsion ;  much  has  to  be  ground  away. 
Thought  must  needs  be  Doubt  and  Inquiry,  be- 
fore it  can  again  be  Affirmation  and  Sacred 
Precept.  Innumerable  "  Philosophies  of  Man,'* 
contending  in  boundless  hubbub,  must  an- 
nihilate each  other,  before  an  inspired  Poesy 
and  Faith  for  Man  can  fashion  itself  together. 

From  this  stunning  hubbub,  a  true  Babylon- 
ish confusion  of  tongues,  we  have  here  selected 
two  voices ;  less  as  objects  of  praise  or  con- 
demnation, than  as  signs  how  far  the  confusion 
has  reached,  what  prospect  there  is  of  its 
abating.  Friedrich  Schlegel's  Lectures,  de- 
livered at  Dresden,  and  Mr.  Hope's  Essay, 
published  in  London,  are  the  latest  utterances 
of  European  Speculation;  far  asunder  in  ex- 
ternal place,  they  stand  at  a  still  wider  dis- 
tance in  inward  purport;  are,  indeed,  so  op- 
posite and  yet  so  cognate  that  they  may,  in 
many  senses,  represent  the  two  Extremes  of 
our  whole  modern  system  of  Thought;  and  be 
said  to  include  between  them  all  the  Meta- 
physical Philosophies,  so  often  alluded  to  here^ 
which,  of  late  times,  from  France,  Germany, 
England,  have  agitated  and  almost  over- 
whelmed us.  Both  in  regard  to  matter  and  to 
form,  the  relation  of  these  two  Works  is  signifi- 
cant enough. 

Speaking  first  of  their  cognate  qualities,  let 
us  remark,  not  without  emotion,  one  quite  ex- 
traneous point  of  agreement;  the  fact  that  the 
Writers  of  both  have  departed  from  this  world; 
they  have  now  finished  their  search,  and  had 
all  doubts  resolved :  while  we  listen  to  the 
voice,  the  tongue  that  uttered  it  has  gone  silent 
for  ever.  But  the  fundamental,  all-pervading 
similarity  lies  in  this  circumstance,  well  Avor- 
thy  of  being  noted,  that  both  these  Philoso- 
phies are  of  the  Dogmatic,  or  Constructive 
sort :  each  in  its  way  is  a  kind  of  Genesis ;  an 
endeavour  to  bring  the  Phenomena  of  man's 
Universe  once  more  under  some  theoretic 
Scheme ;  in  both  there  is  a  decided  principle 
of  unity;  they  strive  after  a  result  which  shall 
be  positive;  their  aim  is  not  to  question,  but 
to  establish.  This,  especially  if  we  consider 
with  what  comprehensive  concentrated  force 
it  is  here  exhibited,  forms  a  new  feature  in 
such  works. 

Under  all  other  aspects,  there  is  the  most 
irreconcilable  opposition  ;  a  staring  contrarie- 
ty, such  as  might  provoke  contrasts  were  there 


♦  Jean  Paul's  Hesperus.    Vorrede. 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


307 


far  fewer  points  of  comparison.  If  Schlegel's 
Work  is  the  apotheosis  of  Spiritualism ;  Hope's 
again  is  the  apotheosis  of  Materialism :  in  the 
one,  all  matter  is  evaporated  into  a  Phenome- 
non, and  terrestrial  Life  itself,  with  its  whole 
doings  and  showings,  held  out  as  a  Disturbance 
{Zerriltlung)  produced  by  the  Zeitgeist,  (Spirit 
of  Time ;)  in  the  other.  Matter  is  distilled  and 
sublimated  into  some  semblance  of  Divinity : 
the  one  regards  Space  and  Time  as  mere  forms 
of  man's  mind,  and  without  external  existence 
or  reality;  the  other  supposes  Space  andTime 
to  be  "incessantly  created,"  and  rayed  in 
upon  us  like  a  sort  of  "gravitation."  Such  is 
their  difference  in  respect  of  purport ;  no  less 
striking  is  it  in  respect  of  manner,  talent,  suc- 
cess, and  all  outward  characteristics.  Thus, 
if  in  Schlegel  we  have  to  admire  the  power  of 
Words,  in  Hope  we  stand  astonished,  it  might 
almost  be  said,  at  the  want  of  an  articulate 
Language.  To  Schlegel  his  Philosophic 
Speech  is  obedient,  dexterous,  exact,  like  a 
promptly-ministering  genius;  his  names  are 
so  clear,  so  precise  and  vivid,  that  they  almost 
(sometimes  altogether)  become  things  for  him  : 
with  Hope  there  is  no  Philosophical  Speech ; 
but  a  painful,  confused  stammering,  and  strug- 
gling after  such;  or  the  tongue, as  in  dotish 
forgetfulness,  maunders  low,  longwinded,  and 
speaks  not  the  word  intended,  but  another;  so 
that  here  the  scarcely  intelligible,  in  these  end- 
less convolutions,  becomes  the  wholly  unreada- 
ble ;  and  often  we  could  ask,  as  that  mad  pupil 
did  of  his  tutor  in  Philosophy,  "  But  whether 
is  Virtue  a  fluid,  then,  or  a  gas  ?"  If  the  fact, 
that  Schlegel,  in  the  city  of  Dresden,  could 
find  audience  for  such  high  discourse,  may  ex- 
cite our  envy ;  this  other  fact,  that  a  person  of 
strong  powers,  skilled  in  English  Thought  and 
master  of  its  Dialect,  could  write  the  Origin 
and  Prospects  of  Man,  may  painfully  remind  us 
of  the  reproach,  "that  England  lias  now  no 
language  for  Meditation  ;  that  England,  the 
most  Calculative,  is  the  least  Meditative,  of  all 
civilized  countries." 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  offer  any  criticism 
of  Schlegel's  Book ;  in  such  limits  as  were 
possible  here,  we  should  despair  of  communi- 
cating even  the  faintest  image  of  its  signifi- 
cance. To  the  mass  of  readers,  indeed,  both 
among  the  Germans  themselves,  and  still  more 
elsewhere,  it  nowise  addresses  itself,  and  may 
lie  for  ever  sealed.  We  point  it  out  as  a  re- 
markable document  of  the  Time  and  of  the 
Man;  can  recommend  it,  moreover,  to  all 
earnest  Thinkers,  as  a  work  deserving  their 
best  regard :  a  work  full  of  deep  meditation, 
wherein  the  infinite  mystery  of  Life,  if  not  re- 
presented, is  decisively  recognised.  Of  Schle- 
gel himself,  and  his  character,  and  spiritual 
history,  we  can  profess  no  thorough  or  final 
understanding ;  yet  enough  to  make  us  view 
him  with  admiration  and  pity,  nowise  with 
harsh  contemptuous  censure;  and  must  say, 
with  clearest  persuasion,  that  the  outcry  of 
his  being  "  a  renegade,"  and  so  forth,  is  but 
like  other  such  outcries,  a  judgment  where 
there  was  neither  jury,  nor  evidence,  nor 
judge.  The  candid  reader,  in  this  Book  itself, 
to  say  nothing  of  all  the  rest,  will  find  traces 
of  a  high,  far-seeing,  earnest  spirit,  to  whom 


I  "  Austrian  Pensions,"  and  the  Kaiser's  crown, 
and  Austria  altogether,  were  but  a  light  matter 

j  to  the  finding  and  vitally  appropriating  of 
Truth.    Let  us  respect  the  sacred  mystery  of 

!  a  Person  ;   rush  not  irreverently  into   man's 

'  Holy  of  Holies  !  Were  the  lost  little  one,  as 
we  said  already,  found  "  sucking  its  dead  mo- 
ther, on  the  field  of  carnage,"  could  it  be  other 
than  a  spectacle  for  tears  1  A  solemn  mourn- 
ful feeling  comes  over  us  when  we  see  this  last 
Work  of  Fried  rich  Schlegel,  the  unwearied 
seeker,  end  abruptly  in  the  middle  ;  and,  as  if 
he  had  not  yet  found,  as  if  emblematically  of 
much,  end  with  an  "  Aber — ,"  with  a  "  But — !" 
This  was  the  last  word  that  came  from  the 
Pen  of  Friedrich  Schlegel:  about  eleven  at 
night  he  wrote  it  down,  and  there  paused 
sick;  at  one  in  the  morning,  Time  for  him 
had  merged  itself  in  Eternity ;  he  was,  as  we 
say,  no  more. 

Still  less  can  we  attempt  any  criticism  of 
Mr.  Hope's  new  Book  of  Genesis.  Indeed, 
under  any  circumstaoces,  criticism  of  it  were 
now  impossible.  Such  an  utterance  could 
only  be  responded  to  in  peals  of  laughter;  and 
laughter  sounds  hollow  and  hideous  through 
the  vaults  of  the  dead.  Of  this  monstrous 
Anomaly,  where  all  sciences  are  heaped  and 
huddled  together,  and  the  principles  of  all  are, 
with  a  childlike  innocence,  plied  hither  and 
thither,  or  wholly  abolished  in  case  of  need; 
where  the  First  Cause  is  figured  as  a  huge 
Circle,  with  nothing  to  do  but  radiate  "  gravi- 
tation" towards  its  centre  ;  and  so  construct  a 
Universe,  wherein  all,  from  the  lowest  cu- 
cumber with  its  coolness,  up  to  the  highest 
seraph  with  his  love,  were  but,  "gravitation," 
direct  or  reflex, "  in  more  or  less  central  globes," 
— what  can  we  say,  except,  with  sorrow  and 
shame,  that  it  could  have  originated  nowhere 
save  in  England]  It  is  a  general  agglomerate 
of  all  facts,  notions,  whims,  and  observations, 
as  they  lie  in  the  brain  of  an  English  gentle- 
man ;  as  an  English  gentleman,  of  unusual 
thinking  power,  is  led  to  fashion  them,  in  his 
schools  and  in  his  world :  all  these  thrown 
into  the  crucible,  and  if  not  fused,  yet  soldered 
or  conglutinated  with  boundless  patience  ;  and 
now  tumbled  out  here,  heterogeneous,  amor- 
phous, unspeakable,  a  world's  wonden  Most 
melancholy  must  we  name  the  whole  business ; 
full  of  long-continued  thought,  earnestness, 
loftiness  of  mind;  not  without  glances  into 
the  Deepest,  a  constant  fearless  endeavour  af- 
ter truth ;  and  with  all  this  nothing  accom- 
plished, but  the  perhaps  absurdest  Book 
written  in  our  century  by  a  thinking  man.  A 
shameful  Abortion ;  which,  however,  need  not 
now  be  smothered  or  mangled,  for  it  is  already 
dead ;  only,  in  our  love  and  sorrowing  reve- 
rence for  the  writer  of  jinastasim,  and  the  he- 
roic seeker  of  Light,  though  not  bringer  thereof, 
let  it  be  buried  and  forgotten. 

For  ourselves,  the  loud  discord  which  jars 
in  these  two  Works,  in  innumerable  works  of 
the  like  import,  and  generally  in  all  the  Thought 
and  Action  of  this  period,  does  not  any  longer 

[  utterly  confuse  us.  Unhappy  who,  in  such  a 
time,  felt  not,  at  all  conjunctures,  ineradicably 
in  his  heart  the  knowledge  that  a  God  made 

;  this  Universe,  and  a  Demon  not !     And  shall 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Evil  always  prosper,  then  1  Out  of  all  Evil 
comes  Good ;  and  no  Good  that  is  possible  but 
shall  one  day  be  real.  Deep  and  sad  as  is  our 
feeling  that  we  stand  yet  in  the  bodeful  Night; 
equally  deep,  indestructible  is  our  assurance 
that  the  Morning  also  will  not  fail.  Nay,  al- 
ready, as  we  look  round,  streaks  of  a  day- 
spring  are  in  the  east :  it  is  dawning ;  when 
the  time  shall  be  fulfilled,  it  will  be  day.  The 
progress  of  man  towards  higher  and  no- 
bler Developments  of  whatever  is  highest  and 
noblest  in  him,  lies  not  only  prophesied  to 
Faith,  but  now  written  to  the  eye  of  Observa- 
tion, so  that  he  who  runs  may  read. 

One  great  step  of  progress,  for  example,  we 
should  say,  in  actual  circumstances,  was  this 
same ;  the  clear  ascertainment  that  we  are  in 
progress.  About  the  grand  Course  of  Provi- 
dence, and  his  final  Purposes  with  us,  we  can 
know  nothing,  or  almost  nothing :  man  begins 
in  darkness,  ends  in  darkness;  mystery  is 
everywhere  around  us  and  in  us,  under  our 
feet,  among  our  hands.  Nevertheless  so  much 
has  become  evident  to  every  one,  that  this 
wondrous  Mankind  is  advancing  somewhither; 
that  at  least  all  human  things  are,  have  been, 
and  for  ever  will  be,  in  Movement  and  Change ; 
— as,  indeed,  for  beings  that  exist  in  Time,  by 
virtue  of  Time,  and  are  made  of  Time,  might 
have  been  long  since  understood.  In  some 
provinces,  it  is  true,  as  in  Experimental  Sci- 
ence, this  discovery  is  an  old  one ;  but  in  most 
others  it  belongs  wholly  to  these  latter  days. 
How  often,  in  former  ages,  by  eternal  Creeds, 
eternal  Forms  of  Government,  and  the  like, 
has  it  been  attempted,  fiercely  enough,  and 
with  destructive  violence,  to  chain  the  Future 
under  the  Past;  and  say  to  the  Providence, 
whose  ways  with  man  are  mysterious,  and 
through  the  great  Deep:  Hitherto  shalt  thou 
come,  but  no  farther !  A  wholly  insane  attempt ; 
and  for  man  himself,  could  it  prosper,  the 
frightfullest  of  all  enchantments,  a  very  Life- 
in-Death.  Man's  task  here  below,  the  destiny 
of  every  individual  man,  is  to  be  in  turns  Ap- 
prentice and  Workman ;  or  say  rather,  Scholar, 
Teacher,  Discoverer  :  by  nature  he  has  a 
strength  for  learning,  for  imitating ;  but  also  a 
strength  for  acting,  for  knowing  on  his  own 
account.  Are  we  not  in  a  World  seen  to  be 
Infinite;  the  relations  lying  closest  together 
modified  by  those  latest-discovered,  and  lying 
farthest  asunder  1  Could  you  ever  spell-bind 
man  into  a  Scholar  merely,  so  that  he  had  no- 
thing to  discover,  to  correct ;  could  you  ever 
establish  a  Theory  of  the  Universe  that  were 
entire,  unimprovable,  and  which  needed  only 
to  be  got  by  heart;  man  then  were  spiritually 
defunct,  the  species  We  now  name  Man  had 
ceased  to  exist.  But  the  gods,  kinder  to  us 
than  we  are  to  ourselves,  have  forbidden  such 
suicidal  acts.  As  Phlogiston  is  displaced  by 
Oxygen,  and  the  Epicycles  of  Ptolemy  by  the 
Ellipses  of  Kepler;  so  does  Paganism  give 
place  to  Catholicism,  Tyranny  to  Monarchy, 
and  Feudalism  to  Representative  Government, 
— where  also  the  process  does  not  stop.  Per- 
fection of  Practice,  like  completeness  of 
Opinion,  is  always  approaching,  never  arrived; 
Truth,  in  the  words  of  Schiller,  immer  tuird,  nie 
i$t  j  never  is^  always  is  a-being. 


Sad,  truly,  were  our  condition  did  we  know 
but  this,  that  Change  is  universal  and  inevi- 
table. Launched  into  a  dark  shoreless  sea  of 
Pyrrhonism,  what  would  remain  for  us  but  to 
sail  aimless,  hopeless  ;  or  make  madly  merry, 
while  the  devouring  Death  had  not  yet  engulfed 
us  1  As,  indeed,  we  have  seen  many,  and  still 
see  many  do.  Nevertheless  so  stands  it  not. 
The  venerator  of  the  Past  (and  to  what  pure 
heart  is  the  Past,  in  that  "  moonlight  of  me- 
mory," other  than  sad  and  holy?)  sorrows  not 
over  its  departure,  as  one  utterly  bereaved. 
The  true  Past  departs  not,  nothing  that  was 
worthy  in  the  Past  departs  ;  no  Truth  or  Good- 
ness realized  by  man  ever  dies,  or  can  die; 
but  is  all  still  here,  and  recognised  or  not, 
lives  and  works  through  endless  changes.  If 
all  things,  to  speak  in  the  German  dialect,  are 
discerned  by  us,  and  exist  for  us,  in  an  element 
of  Time,  and  therefore  of  Mortality  and  Muta- 
bility ;  yet  Time  itself  reposes  on  Eternity : 
the  truly  Great  and  Transcendental  has  its 
basis  and  substance  in  Eternity;  stands  re- 
vealed to  us  as  Eternity  in  a  vesture  of  Time. 
Thus  in  all  Poetry,  Worship,  Art,  Society,  as 
one  form  passes  into  another,  nothing  is  lost: 
it  is  but  the  superficial,  as  it  were  the  body 
only,  that  grows  obsolete  and  dies ;  under  the 
mortal  body  lies  a  soid  that  is  immortal ;  that 
anew  incarnates  itself  in  fairer  revelation ;  and 
the  Present  is  the  living  sum-total  of  the  whole 
Past. 

In  Change,  therefore,  there  is  nothing  ter- 
rible, nothing  supernatural :  on  the  contrary, 
it  lies  in  the  very  essence  of  our  lot,  and  life 
in  this  world.  To-day  is  not  yesterday:  we 
ourselves  change;  how  can  our  Works  and 
Thoughts,  if  they  are  always  to  be  the  fittest, 
continue  always  the  same  ?  Change,  indeed, 
is  painful;  yet  ever  needful:  and  if  Memory 
have  its  force  and  worth,  so  also  has  Hope. 
Nay,  if  we  look  well  to  it,  what  is  all  Derange- 
ment, and  necessity  of  great  Change,  in  itself 
such  an  evil,  but  the  product  simply  of  in- 
creased resources  which  the  old  methods  can  no 
longer  administer;  of  new  wealth  which  the 
old  coffers  will  no  longer  contain  1  What  is 
it,  for  example,  that  in  our  own  day  bursts 
asunder  the  bonds  of  ancient  Political  Sys- 
tems, and  perplexes  all  Europe  with  the  fear 
of  Change,  but  even  this :  the  increase  of 
social  resources,  which  the  old  social  methods 
will  no  longer  sufficiently  administer?  The 
new  omnipotence  of  the  Steam-engine  is  hew- 
ing asunder  quite  other  mountains  than  the 
physical.  Have  not  our  economical  distresses, 
those  barnyard  Conflagrations  themselves,  the 
frightfullest  madness  of  our  mad  epoch,  their 
rise  also  in  what  is  a  real  increase  :  increase 
of  Men;  of  human  Force  ;  properly,  in  such  a 
Planet  as  ours,  the  most  precious  of  all  in- 
creases 1  It  is  true  again,  the  ancient  methods 
of  administration  will  no  longer  suffice.  Must 
the  indomitable  millions,  full  of  old  Saxon 
energy  and  fire,  lie  cooped  up  in  this  Western 
Nook,  choking  one  another,  as  in  a  Blackhole 
of  Calcutta,  while  a  whole  fertile  untenanted 
Earth,  desolate  for  want  of  the  ploughshare, 
cries  :  Come  and  till  me,  come  and  reap  me  1 
If  the  ancient  Captains  can  no  longer  yield 
guidance,  new  must  be  sought  after:  for  the 


CHARACTERISTICS. 


30$ 


difficulty  lies  not  in  nature,  but  in  artifice :  the 
European  Calcutta-Blackhole  has  no  walls  but 
air  ones,  and  paper  ones. — So,  too,  Skepticism 
itself,  with  its  innumerable  mischiefs,  what  is 
it  but  the  sour  fruit  of  a  most  blessed  increase, 
that  of  Knowledge ;  a  fruit,  too,  that  will  not 
always  continue  sour? 

In  fact,  much  as  we  have  said  and  mourned 
about  the  unproductive  prevalence  of  Meta- 
physics, it  was  not  without  some  insight  into 
the  use  that  lies  in  them.  Metaphysical  Specu- 
lation, if  a  necessary  evil,  is  the  forerunner  of 
much  good.  The  fever  of  Skepticism  must 
needs  burn  itself  out,  and  burn  out  thereby  the 
Impurities  that  caused  it ;  then  again  will  there 
be  clearness,  health.  The  principle  of  Life, 
which  now  struggles  painfully,  in  the  outer, 
thin,  and  barren  domain  of  the  Conscious  or 
Mechanical,  may  then  withdraw  into  its  inner 
Sanctuaries,  its  abysses  of  mystery  and  mi- 
racle; withdraw  deeper  than  ever  into  that 
domain  of  the  Unconscious,  by  nature  infinite 
and  inexhaustible ;  and  creatively  work  there. 
From  that  mystic  region,  and  from  that  alone, 
all  wonders,  all  Poesies,  and  Religions,  and 
Social  Systems  have  proceeded:  the  like  won- 
ders, and  greater  and  higher,  lie  slumbering 
there ;  and,  brooded  on  by  the  spirit  of  the 
waters,  will  evolve  themselves,  and  rise  like 
exhalations  from  the  Deep. 

Of  our  modern  Metaphysics,  accordingly, 
may  not  this  already  be  said,  that  if  they  have 
produced  no  Affirmation,  they  have  destroyed 
much  Negation]  It  is  a  disease  expelling  a 
disease:  the  fire  of  Doubt,  as  above  hinted, 
consuming  away  the  Doubtful;  that  so  the 
Certain  come  to  light,  and  again  lie  visible  on 
the  surface.  English  or  French  Metaphysics, 
in  reference  to  this  last  stage  of  the  speculative 
process,  are  not  what  we  allude  to  here ;  but 
only  the  Metaphysics  of  the  Germans.  In 
France  or  England,  since  the  days  of  Diderot 
and  Hume,  though  all  thought  has  been  of  a 
skeptico-metaphysical  texture,  so  far  as  there 
were  any  Thought,  we  have  seen  no  Meta- 
physics ;  but  only  more  or  less  ineffectual 
questionings  whether  such  could  be.  In  the 
Pyrrhonism  of  Hume  and  the  Materialism  of 
Diderot,  Logic  had,  as  it  were,  overshot  itself, 
overset  itself.  Now,  though  the  athlete,  to  use 
cur  old  figure,  cannot,  by  much  lifting,  lift  up 
his  own  body,  he  may  shift  it  out  of  a  laming 
posture,  and  get  to  stand  in  a  free  one.  Such 
a  service  have  German  Metaphysics  done  for 
man's  mind.  The  second  sickness  of  Specula- 
tion has  abolished  both  itself  and  the  first. 
Friedrich  Schlegel  complains  much  of  the 
fruitlessness,  the  tumult  and  transiency  of 
German  as  of  all  Metaphysics ;  and  with  rea- 
son :  yet  in  that  wide-spreading,  deep-whirling 
vortex  of  Kantism,  so  soon  metamorphosed 
into  Fichteism,  Schellingism,  and  then  as 
Hegelism,  and  Cousinism,  perhaps  finally 
evaporated,  is  not  this  issue  visible  enough, 
that  Pyrrhonism  and  Materialism,  themselves 
necessary  phenomena  in  European  culture, 
have  disappeared;  and  a  Faith  in  Religion 
has  again  become  possible  and  inevitable  for 
the  scientific  mind;  and  the  word  Fw-thinker 
no  longer  means  the  Denier  or  Caviller,  but 
the  Believer,  or  the  Ready  to  believe  1    Nay, 


in  the  higher  Literature  of  Germany,  there 
already  lies,  for  him  that  can  read  it,  the  be- 
ginning of  a  new  revelation  of  the  Godlike ; 
as  yet  unrecognised  by  the  mass  of  the  world; 
but  waiting  there  for  recognition,  and  sure  to 
find  it  when  the  fit  hour  comes.  This  age  also 
is  not  wholly  without  its  Prophets. 

Again,  under  another  aspect,  if  Utilitarian- 
ism, or  Radicalism,  or  the  Mechanical  Philo- 
sophy, or  by  whatever  name  it  is  called,  has 
still  its  long  task  to  do ;  nevertheless  we  can 
now  see  through  it  and  beyond  it :  in  the  bet- 
ter heads,  even  among  us  English,  it  has  be- 
come obsolete;  as  in  other  countries  it  has 
been,  in  such  heads,  for  some  forty  or  even 
fifty  years.  What  sound  mind  among  the 
French,  for  example,  now  fancies  that  men 
can  be  governed  by  "  Constitutions ;"  by  the 
never  so  cunning  mechanizing  of  Self-inte- 
rests, and  all  conceivable  adjustments  of 
checking  and  balancing:  in  a  word,  by  the 
best  possible  solution  of  this  quite  insoluble 
and  impossible  problem.  Given  a  world  of 
Knaves,  to  produce  an  Honesty  from  their  united 
action?  Were  not  experiments  enough  of 
this  kind  tried  before  all  Europe,  and  found 
wanting,  when,  in  that  doomsday  of  France, 
the  infinite  gulf  of  human  Passion  shivered 
asunder  the  thin  rinds  of  Habit ;  and  burst 
forth  all-devouring,  as  in  seas  of  Nether  Fire  1 
Which  cunningly-devised  "  Constitution,"  con- 
stitutional, republican,  democratic,  sans-culot- 
tic,  could  bind  that  raging  chasm  together  ? 
Were  they  not  all  burnt  up,  like  Paper  as 
they  were,  in  its  molten  eddies ;  and  still  the 
fire-sea  raged  fiercer  than  before  1  It  is  not 
by  Mechanism,  but  by  Religion ;  not  by  Self- 
interest,  but  by  Loyalty,  that  men  are  governed 
or  governable. 

Remarkable  it  is,  truly,  how  everywhere 
the  eternal  fact  begins  again  to  be  recognised, 
that  there  is  a  Godlike  in  human  affairs  ;  that 
God  not  only  made  us  and  beholds  us,  but  is 
in  us  and  around  us ;  that  the  Age  of  Mira- 
cles, as  it  ever  was,  now  is.  Such  recogni- 
tion we  discern  on  all  hands,  and  in  all  coun- 
tries :  in  each  country  after  its  own  fashion. 
In  France,  among  the  younger  nobler  minds, 
strangely  enough  ;  where,  in  their  loud  con- 
tention with  the  Actual  and  Conscious,  the 
Ideal  or  Unconscious  is,  for  the  time,  without 
exponent ;  where  Religion  means  not  the  pa- 
rent of  Polity,  as  of  all  that  is  highest,  but 
Polity  itself;  and  this  and  the  other  earnest 
man  has  not  been  wanting,  who  could  whisper 
audibly  :  "  Go  to,  I  will  make  a  religion."  In 
England  still  more  strangely;  as  in  all  things, 
worthy  England  will  have  its  way :  by  the 
shrieking  of  hysterical  women  casting  out  of 
devils,  and  other  "  gifts  of  the  Holy  Ghost.'* 
Well  might  Jean  Paul  say,  in  this  his  twelfth 
hour  of  the  Night,  "  the  living  dream ;"  well 
might  he  say,  "the  dead  walk."  Meanwhile 
let  us  rejoice  rather  that  so  much  has  been 
seen  into,  were  it  through  never  so  diffracting 
media,  and  never  so  madly  distorted ;  that  in 
all  dialects,  though  but  half-articulately,  this 
high  Gospel  begins  to  be  preached:  "Man  is 
still  Man."  The  genius  of  Mechanism,  as 
was  once  before  predicted,  will  not  always  sit 
like  a  choking  incubus  on  our  soul ;  but  at 


310 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


length,  when  by  a  new  magic  Word  the  old 
spell  is  broken,  become  our  slave,  and  as  fa- 
miliar-spirit do  all  our  bidding.  "We  are 
near  awakening  when  we  dream  that  we 
dream." 

■^  He  that  has  an  eye  and  a  heart  can  even 
how  say:  Why  should  I  falter?  Light  has 
come  into  the  world;  to  such  as  love  Light,  so 
as  Light  must  be  loved,  with  a  boundless  all- 
doing,  all-enduring  love.  For  the  rest,  let 
that  vain  struggle  to  read  the  mystery  of  the 
Infinite  cease  to  harass  us.  It  is  a  mystery 
which,  through  all  ages,  we  shall  only  read 
here  a  line  of,  there  another  line  of.  Do  we 
not  already  know  that  the  name  of  the  Infinite 
is  Good,  is  God  \     Here  on  Earth  we  are  as 


Soldiers,  fighting  in  a  foreign  land  ;  that  "un- 
derstand not  the  plan  of  the  campaign,  and 
have  no  need  to  understand  it;  seeing  well 
what  is  at  our  hand  to  be  done.  Let  us  do  it 
like  Soldiers,  with  submission,  with  courage, 
with  a  heroic  joy.  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand 
findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  all  thy  might."  Be- 
hind us,  behind  each  one  of  us,  lie  Six  Thou- 
sand years  of  human  effort,  human  conquest : 
before  us  is  the  boundless  Time,  with  its  as 
yet  uncreated  and  unconquered  Continents 
and  Eldorados,  which  we,  even  we,  have  to 
conquer,  to  create :  and  from  the  bosom  of 
Eternity  shine  for  us  celestial  guiding  stars. 

"My  inheritance  how  wide  and  fair  !  j 

Time  is  my  fair  seed-field,  of  Time  I  'm  heir."  } 


GOETHE'S  PORTRAIT. 

[Fraser's  MAaAziNE,  1832.] 


Reader!  thou  here  beholdest  the  Eidolon  of 
Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe.  So  looks  and 
lives,  now  in  his  eighty-third  year,  afar  in  the 
bright  little  friendly  circle  of  Weimar,  "the 
clearest,  most  universal  man  of  his  time." 
Strange  enough  is  the  cunning  ihat  resides  in 
the  ten  fingers,  especially  what  they  bring  to 
pass  by  pencil  and  pen  !  Him  who  never  saw 
England,  England  now  sees:  from  Fraser's 
"Gallery"  he  looks  forth  here,  wondering, 
doubtless,  how /le  came  into  such  Lichfstrasse 
("light-street,"  or  galaxy ;)  yet  with  kind  recog- 
nition of  all  neighbours,  even  as  the  moon 
looks  kindly  on  lesser  lights,  and,  were  they 
but  fish-oil  cressets,  or  terrestrial  Vauxhall 
stars,  (of  clipped  tin,)  forbids  not  their  shining. 
Nay,  the  very  soul  of  the  man  thou  canst  like- 
wise behold.  Do  but  look  well  in  those  forty 
volumes  of  "musical  wisdom,"  which,  under 
the  title  of  Goethe's  Werke,  Cotta.  of  Tubingen, 
or  Black  and  Young  of  Covent  Garden — once 
ofier  them  a  trifle  of  drink-money — will  cheer- 
fully hand  thee :  greater  sight,  or  more  profit- 
able, thou  wilt  not  meet  with  in  this  generation. 
The  German  language,  it  is  presumable,  thou 
knowest;  if  not,  shouldst  thou  undertake  the 
study  thereof  for  that  sole  end,  it  were  well 
worth  thy  while. 

Croquis  (a  man  otherwise  of  rather  satirical 
turn)  surprises  us,  on  this  occasion,  with  a  fit 
of  enthusiasm.  He  declares  often,  that  here 
is  the  finest  of  all  living  heads;  speaks  much 
of  blended  passion  and  repose;  serene  depths 
of  eyes;  the  brow,  the  temples,  royally  arched, 
a  very  palace  of  thought; — and  so  forth. 

The  writer  of  these  Notices  is  not  without 
decision  of  character,  and  can  believe  what  he 
knows.  He  answers  Brother  Croquis,  that  it 
is  no  wonder  the  head  should  be  royal  and  a 
palace  ;  for  a  most  royal  work  was  appointed 


♦  By  Stieler  of  Munich  ;  the  copy  in  Fraser's  Maga- 
zine proved  a  total  failure  and  involuntary  caricalure, — 
resembling,  as  was  said  at  the  time,  a  wretched  old- 
clothesman  carrying  behind  his  back  a  hat  which  he 
fieemed  to  have  stolen. 


to  be  done  therein.  Reader!  within  that  head 
the  whole  world  lies  mirrored,  in  such  clear, 
ethereal  harmony,  as  it  has  done  in  none  since 
Shakspeare  left  us:  even  this  Rag-fair  of  a 
world,  wherein  thou  painfully  strugglest,  and 
(as  is  like)  stumblest — all  lies  transfigured 
here,  and  revealed  authentically  to  be  still  holy, 
still  divine.  What  alchymy  was  that:  to  find 
a  mad  universe  full  of  skepticism,  discord, 
desperation ;  and  transmute  it  into  a  wise  uni- 
verse of  belief,  and  melody,  and  reverence  ! 
Was  not  there  an  opiis  magny^i,  if  one  ever  was  ] 
This,  then,  is  he  who,  heroically  doing  and  en- 
during, has  accomplished  it. 

In  this  distracted  time  of  ours,  wherein  men 
have  lost  their  old  loadstars,  and  wandered 
after  night-fires  and  foolish  will-o'-wisps ;  and 
all  things,  in  that  "  shaking  of  the  nations," 
have  been  tumbled  into  chaos,  the  high  made 
low  and  the  low  high,  and  ever  and  anon  some 
duke  of  this,  and  king  of  that,  is  gurgled  aloft, 
to  float  there  for  moments ;  and  fancies  him- 
self the  governor  and  head-director  of  it  all, 
and  is  but  the  topmost  froth-bell,  to  burst  again 
and  mingle  with  the  wild  fermenting  mass, — 
in  this  so  despicable  time,  we  say,  there  were 
nevertheless — be  the  bounteous  heavens  ever 
thanked  for  it! — tun)  great  men  sent  among  us. 
The  one,  in  the  island  of  St.  Helena  now 
sleeps  "  dark  and  lone,  amid  the  ocean's  ever- 
lasting lullaby;"  the  other  still  rejoices  in  the 
blessed  sunlight,  on  the  banks  of  the  lime. 

Great  was  the  part  allotted  each,  great  the 
talent  given  him  for  the  same;  yet,  mark  the 
contrast!  Bonaparte  walked  through  the  war- 
convulsed  world  like  an  all-devouring  earth- 
quake, heaving,  thundering,  hurling  kingdom 
over  kingdom  ;  Goethe  was  as  the  mild-shining, 
inaudible  light,  which,  notwithstanding,  can 
again  make  that  chaos  into  a  creation.  Thus, 
too,  we  see  Napoleon,  with  his  Austerlitzes, 
Waterloos,  and  Borodinos,  is  quite  gone — all 
departed,  sunk  to  silence  like  a  tavern-brawl. 
While  this  other! — he  still  shines  with  his 
direct  radiance ;  his  inspired  words  are  to  abide 


BIOGRAPHY. 


311 


in  living  hearts,  as  the  life  and  inspiration  of 
thinkers,  born  and  still  unborn.  Some  fifty 
years  hence,  his  thinking  will  be  found  trans- 
lated, and  ground  down,  even  to  the  capacity 
of  the  diurnal  press ;  acts  of  parliament  will 
be  passed  in  virtue  of  him : — this  man,  if  we 
well  consider  of  it,  is  appointed  to  be  ruler  of 
the  world. 
Reader!  to  thee  thyself,  even  now,  he  has 


one  counsel  to  give,  the  secret  of  his  whole 
poetic  alchymy:  Gedenke  zr  lebex.  Yes, 
"think  of  living!"  Thy  life,  wert  thou  the 
"  pitifullest  of  all  the  sons  of  earth,"  is  no  idle 
dream,  but  a  solemn  reality.  It  is  thy  own ;  it 
is  all  thou  hast  to  front  eternity  with.  Work, 
then,  even  as  he  has  done,  and  does — "Like  a 

STAR     UNHASTING,    TET      UKHESTHSTG." Sic     Va- 

has. 


BIOGRAPHY.* 


[Frazee^s  Magazine,  1832.] 


Maw's  sociality  of  nature  evinces  itself,  in 
spite  of  all  that  can  be  said,  with  abundant 
evidence  by  this  one  fact,  were  there  no  other: 
the  unspeakable  delight  he  takes  in  Biography. 
It  is  written,  "The  proper  study  of  mankind  is 
man  ;"  to  which  study,  let  us  candidly  admit, 
he,  by  true  or  by  false  methods,  applies  him- 
self, nothing  loath.  "Man  is  perennially  inte- 
resting to  man ;  nay,  if  we  look  strictly  to  it, 
there  is  nothing  else  interesting."  How  inex- 
pressibly comfortable  to  know  our  fellow- 
creature  ;  to  see  into  him,  understand  his  goings 
forth,  decipher  the  whole  heart  of  his  mystery: 
nay,  not  only  to  see  into  him,  but  even  to  see 
out  of  him,  to  view  the  world  altogether  as  he 
views  it;  so  that  we  can  theoretically  construe 
him,  and  could  almost  practically  personate 
him;  and  do  now  thoroughly  discern  both 
what  manner  of  man  he  is,  and  what  manner 
of  thing  he  has  got  to  work  on  and  live  on  ! 

A  scientific  interest  and  a  poetic  one  alike 
inspire  us  in  this  matter.  A  scientific  :  because 
every  mortal  has  a  Problem  of  Existence  set 
before  him,  which,  were  it  only,  what  for  the 
most  it  is,  the  Problem  of  keeping  soul  and 
body  together,  must  be  to  a  certain  extent 
original,  unlike  every  other;  and  yet,  at  the 
same  time,  so  like  every  other;  like  our  own, 
therefore ;  instructive,  moreover,  since  we  also 
are  indentured  to  live.  A  poetic  interest  still 
more :  for  precisely  this  same  struggle  of 
human  Free-will  against  material  Necessity, 
which  every  man's  Life,  by  the  mere  circum- 
stance that  the  man  continues  alive,  will  more 
or  less  victoriously  exhibit,— is  that  which 
above  all  else,  or  rather  inclusive  of  all  else, 
calls  the  Sympathy  of  mortal  hearts  into  ac- 
tion ;  and  whether  as  acted,  or  as  represented 
and  written  of,  not  only  is  Poetry,  but  is  the 
sole  Poetry  possible.  Borne  onwards  by  which 
two  all-embracing  interests,  may  the  earnest 
Lover  of  Biography  expand  himself  on  all 
sides,  and  indefinitely  enrich  himself.  Look- 
ing with  the  eyes  of  every  new  neighbour,  he 
can  discern  a  new  world  different  for  each: 
feeling  with  the  heart  of  every  neighbour,  he 
lives  with  every  neighbour's  life,  even  as  with 

♦  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D. :  including  a 
Tour  to  the  Hebrides  :  By  James  Boswell,  Esq.  A  new 
Edition,  with  numerous  Additions  and  Notes.  By  John 
Wilson  Croker,  LL.D.,  F.  R.  S.     5  vols.    London,  1S31. 


his  own.  Of  these  millions  of  living  men  each 
individual  is  a  mirror  to  us:  a  mirror  both 
scientific  and  poetic;  or,  if  you  will,  both  nat- 
ural and  magical; — from  which  one  would  so 
gladly  draw  aside  the  gauze  veil ;  and,  peering 
therein,  discern  the  image  of  his  own  natural 
face,  and  the  supernatural  secrets  that  pro- 
phetically lie  under  the  same  ! 

Observe,  accordingly,  to  what  extent,  in  the 
actual  course  of  things,  this  business  of  Bio- 
graphy is  practised  and  relished.  Define  to 
thyself,  judicious  Reader,  the  real  significance 
of  these  phenomena,  named  Gossip,  Egotism, 
Personal  Narrative,  (miraculous  or  not,)  Scan- 
dal, Raillery,  Slander,  and  such  like ;  the  sum- 
total  of  which  (with  some  fractional  addition 
of  a  better  ingredient,  generally  too  small  to  be 
noticeable)  constitutes  that  other  grand  pheno- 
menon still  called  "  Conversation."  Do  they 
not  mean  wholly:  Biogi-aphy  and  .Autobiography? 
Not  only  in  the  common  Speech  of  men ;  but 
in  all  Art,  too,  which  is  or  should  be  the  con- 
centrated and  conserved  essence  of  what  men 
can  speak  and  show.  Biography  is  almost  the 
one  thing  needful. 

Even  in  the  highest  works  of  Art  our  interest, 
as  the  critics  complain,  is  too  apt  to  be 
strongly  or  even  mainly  of  a  Biographic  sort. 
In  the  Art,  we  can  nowise  forget  the  Artist: 
while  looking  on  the  Transfiguration,  while 
studying  the  Iliad,  we  ever  strive  to  figure  to 
ourselves  what  spirit  dwelt  in  Raphael;  what 
a  head  was  that  of  Homer,  wherein,  woven  of 
Elysian  light  and  Tartarian  gloom,  that  old 
world  fashioned  itself  together,  of  which  these 
written  Greek  characters  are  but  a  feeble 
though  perennial  copy.  The  Painter  and  the 
Singer  are  present  to  us ;  we  partially  and  for 
the  lime  become  the  very  Painter  and  the  very 
Singer,  while  we  enjoy  the  Picture  and  the 
Song.  Perhaps,  too,  let  the  critic  say  what  he 
will,  this  is  the  highest  enjoyment,  the  clearest 
recognition,  we  can  have  of  these.  Art  indeed 
is  Art ;  yet  Man  also  is  Man.  Had  the  Trans- 
figuration been  painted  without  human  hand; 
had  it  grown  merely  on  the  canvas,  say  by 
atmospheric  influences,  as  lichen-pictures  do 
on  rocks, — it  were  a  grand  Picture  doubtless ; 
yet  nothing  like  so  grand  as  the  Picture,  which, 
on  opening  our  eyes,  we  everywhere  in 
Heaven  and  in  Earth  see  painted ;  and  every- 


81S 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


"where  pass  over  with  indifference, — ^because 
the  Painter  was  not  a  Man.  Think  of  this ; 
much  lies  in  it.  The  Vatican  is  great;  yet 
poor  to  Chimborazo  or  the  Peake  of  Teneriffe : 
its  dome  is  but  a  foolish  Big-endian  or  Little- 
endian  chip  of  an  egg-shell,  compared  with 
that  star-fretted  Dome  where  Arcturus  and 
Orion  glance  for  ever;  which  latter,  notwith- 
standing, who  looks  at,  save  perhaps  some  ne- 
cessitous star-gazer  bent  to  make  Almanacs, 
some  thick-quilted  watchman,  to  see  what  wea- 
ther it  will  prove  ]  The  Biographic  interest 
is  wanting:  no  Michael  Angelo  was  He  who 
built  that  "Temple  of  Immensity;"  therefore 
do  we,  pitiful  Littlenesses  as  we  are,  turn  rather 
to  wonder  and  to  worship  in  the  little  toybox 
of  a  Temple  built  by  our  like. 

Still  more  decisively,  still  more  exclusively 
does  the  Biographic  interest  manifest  itself,  as 
we  descend  into  lower  regions  of  spiritual 
communication ;  through  the  whole  range  of 
what  is  called  Literature.  Of  History,  for  ex- 
ample, the  most  honoured,  if  not  honourable 
species  of  composition,  is  not  the  whole  pur- 
port biographic  1  "  History,"  it  has  been  said, 
"is  the  essence  of  innumerable  Biographies." 
Such,  at  least,  it  should  be :  whether  it  is, 
might  admit  of  question.  But,  in  any  case, 
what  hope  have  we  in  turning  over  those  old 
interminable  Chronicles,  with  their  garrulities 
and  insipidities  ;  or  still  worse,  in  patiently  ex- 
amining those  modern  Narrations,  of  the  Phi- 
losophic kind,  where  "  Philosophy,  teaching 
by  Experience,"  must  sit  like  owl  on  house- 
top, seeing  nothing,  understanding  nothing,  ut- 
tering only,  with  solemnity  enough,  her  per- 
petual most  wearisome  hoo-hoo: — what  hope 
have  we,  except  for  the  most  part  fallacious 
one  of  gaining  some  acquaintance  with  our 
fellow-creatures,  though  dead  and  vanished, 
yet  dear  to  us ;  how  they  got  along  in  those  old 
days,  suffering  and  doing;  to  what  extent,  and 
under  what  circumstances,  they  resisted  the 
Devil  and  triumphed  over  him,  or  struck  their 
colours  to  him,  and  were  trodden  under  foot 
by  him;  how,  in  short,  the  perennial  Battle 
went,  which  men  name  Life,  which  we  also  in 
these  new  days,  with  indifferent  fortune,  have 
to  fight,  and  must  bequeath  to  our  sons  and 
grandsons  to  go  on  fighting, — till  the  Enemy 
one  day  be  quite  vanquished  and  abolished,  or 
else  the  great  Night  sink  and  part  the  combat- 
ants ;  and  thus,  either  by  some  Millennium  or 
some  new  Noah's  Deluge,  the  Volume  of  Uni- 
versal History  wind  itself  up  !  Other  hope,  in 
studying  such  Books,  we  have  none :  and  that 
it  is  a  deceitful  hope,  who  that  has  tried  knows 
not?  A  feast  of  widest  Biographic  insight  is 
spread  for  us ;  we  enter  full  of  hungry  antici- 
pation :  alas  !  like  so  many  other  feasts,  which 
Life  invites  us  to,  a  mere  Ossian's  "  feast  of 
shells," — the  food  and  liquor  being  all  emptied 
out  and  clean  gone,  and  only  the  vacant  dishes 
and  deceitful  emblems  thereof  left !  Your 
modern  Historical  Restaurateurs  are  indeed 
little  better  than  high-priests  of  Famine  ;  that 
keep  choicest  china  dinner-sets,  only  no  din- 
ner to  serve  therein.  Yet  such  is  our  Biogra- 
phic appetite,  we  run  trying  from  shop  to 
shop,  with  ever  new  hope;  and,  unless  we 


could  eat  the  wind,  with  ever  new  disappoint- 
ment. 

Again,  consider  the  whole  class  of  Fictitious 
Narratives  ;  from  the  highest  category  of  epic 
or  dramatic  Poetry,  in  Shakspeare  and  Homer, 
down  to  the  lowest  of  froth  Prose  in  the  Fash- 
ionable Novel.  What  are  all  these  but  so 
many  mimic  Biographies  1  Attempts,  here  by 
an  inspired  Speaker,  there  by  an  uninspired 
Babbler,  to  deliver  himself,  more  or  less  inef- 
fectually, of  the  grand  secret  wherewith  all 
hearts  labour  oppressed :  The  significance  of 
Man's  Life; — which  deliverance,  even  as 
traced  in  the  unfurnished  head,  and  printed  at 
the  Minerva  Press,  finds  readers.  For,  ob- 
serve, though  there  is  a  greatest  Fool,  as  a  su- 
perlative in  every  kind ;  and  the  most  Foolish 
man  in  the  Earth  is  now  indubitably  living 
and  breathing,  and  did  this  morning  or  lately 
eat  breakfast,  and  is  even  now  digesting  the 
same;  and  looks  out  on  the  world,  with  his 
dim  horn-eyes,  and  inwardly  forms  some  un- 
speakable theory  thereof:  yet  where  shall  the 
authentically  Existing  be  personally  met  with ! 
Can  one  of  us,  otherwise  than  by  guess,  know 
that  we  have  got  sight  of  him,  have  orally 
communed  with  him  1  To  take  even  the  nar- 
rower sphere  of  this  our  English  metropolis, 
can  any  one  confidently  say  to  himself,  that  he 
has  conversed  with  the  identical,  individual. 
Stupidest  man  now  extant  in  London  1  No 
one.  Deep  as  we  dive  in  the  Profound,  there 
is  ever  a  new  depth  opens :  where  the  ultimate 
bottom  may  lie,  through  what  new  scenes  of 
being  we  must  pass  before  reaching  it,  (except 
that  we  know  it  does  lie  somewhere, and  might 
by  human  faculty  and  opportunity  be  reached,) 
is  altogether  a  mystery  to  us.  Strange,  tan- 
talizing pursuit!  We  have  the  fullest  assu- 
rance, not  only  that  there  is  a  Stupidest  of 
London  men  actually  resident,  with  bed  and 
board  of  some  kind,  in  London;  but  that  seve- 
ral persons  have  been  or  perhaps  are  now 
speaking  face  to  face  with  him :  while  for  us, 
chase  it  as  we  may,  such  scientific  blessedness 
will  too  probably  be  for  ever  denied  ! — But  the 
thing  we  meant  to  enforce  was  this  comforta- 
ble fact,  that  no  known  Head  was  so  wooden, 
but  there  might  be  other  heads  to  which  it 
were  a  genius  and  Friar  Bacon's  Oracle.  Of 
no  given  Book,  not  even  of  a  Fashionable 
Novel,  can  you  predicate  with  certainty  that 
its  vacuity  is  absolute  ;  that  there  are  not  other 
vacuities  which  shall  partially  replenish  them- 
selves therefrom,  and  esteem  it  a  plenum.  How 
knowest  thou,  may  the  distressed  Novelwright 
exclaim,  that  I,  here  where  I  sit,  am  the  Fool- 
ishest  of  existing  mortals;  that  this  my  Long- 
ear  of  a  Fictitious  Biography  shall  not  find 
one  and  the  other,  into  whose  still  longer  ears 
it  may  be  the  means,  under  Providence,  of  in- 
stilling somewhat?  We  answer, None  knows, 
none  can  certainly  know :  therefore,  write  on, 
worthy  Brother,  even  as  thou  canst,  as  it  has 
been  given  thee. 

Here,  however,  in  regard  to  "  Fictitious  Bio- 
graphies," and  much  other  matter  of  like  sort, 
which  the  greener  mind  in  these  days  inditeth, 
we   may   as   well   insert  some  singular  sen- 
i  tences  on  the  importance  and  significance  of 


BIOGRAPHY. 


313 


Reality,  as  they  stand  written  for  us  in  Professor 
Gottfried  Sauerteig's  JEsthetische  Springwiirzel : 
a  Work,  perhaps,  as  yet  new  to  most  English 
readers.  The  Professor  and  Doctor  is  not  a 
man  whom  we  can  praise  without  reservation ; 
neither  shall  we  say  that  his  Springwiirzel  (a  sort 
of  magical  pick-locks,  as  he  affectedly  names 
them)  are  adequate  to  "  start'''  every  bolt  that 
locks  up  an  aesthetic  mystery;  nevertheless, in 
his  crabbed,  one-sided  way,  he  sometimes  hits 
masses  of  the  truth.  We  endeavour  to  trans- 
late faithfully,  and  trust  the  reader  will  find  it 
worth  serious  perusal : 

"  The  significance,  even  for  poetic  purposes," 
says  Sauerteig,  "  that  lies  in  Reality,  is  too 
apt  to  escape  us  ;  is  perhaps  only  now  begin- 
ning to  be  discerned.  When  we  named  Rous- 
seau^s  Confessions  an  elegiaco-didacticPoem,  we 
meant  more  than  an  empty  figure  of  speech; 
we  meant  an  historical  scientific  fact. 

"  Fiction,  while  the  feigner  of  it  knows  that 
he  is  feigning,  partakes,  more  than  we  suspect, 
of  the  nature  of  lying;  and  has  ever  an,  in  some 
degree,  unsatisfactory  character.  All  Mytho- 
logies were  once  Philosophies  ;  were  believed : 
the  Epic  Poems  of  old  time,  so  long  as  they 
continued  epic,  and  had  any  complete  impres- 
siveness,  were  Histories,  and  understood  to  be 
narratives  oi  facts.  In  so  far  as  Homer  em- 
ployed his  gods  as  mere  ornamental  fringes, 
and  had  not  himself,  or  at  least  did  not  expect 
his  hearers  to  have,  a  belief  that  they  were 
real  agents  in  those  antique  doings  ;  so  far  did 
he  fail  to  be  genuine;  so  far  was  he  a  partially 
hjollow  and  false  singer ;  and  sang  to  please  only 
a  portion  of  man's  mind,  not  the  whole  thereof. 

♦'  Imagination  is,  after  all,  but  a  poor  matter 
when  it  must  part  company  with  Understand- 
ing, and  even  front  it  hostilely  in  flat  contra- 
diction. Our  mind  is  divided  in  twain  :  there 
is  contest ;  wherein  that  which  is  weaker  must 
needs  come  to  the  worse.  Now  of  all  feelings, 
states,  principles,  call  it  what  you  will,  in  man's 
mind,  is  not  Belief  the  clearest,  strongest ; 
against  which  all  others  contend  in  vain  1 
Belief  is,  indeed,  the  beginning  and  first  con- 
dition of  all  spiritual  Force  whatsoever:  only 
in  so  far  as  Imagination,  were  it  but  momen- 
tarily, is  believed,  can  there  be  any  use  or  mean- 
ing in  it,  any  enjoyment  of  it.  And  what  is 
momentary  Belief?  The  enjoyment  of  a  mo- 
ment. W^hereas  a  perennial  Belief  were  en- 
joyment perennially,  and  with  the  whole  united 
soul. 

"  It  is  thus  that  I  judge  of  the  Supernatural 
in  an  Epic  Poem ;  and  would  say,  the  instant 
it  had  ceased  to  be  authentically  supernatural, 
and  become  what  you  call 'Machinery;'  sweep 
it  out  of  sight  (schaff'es  mir  vom  Halse)  !  Of  a 
truth,  that  same  '  Machinery,'  about  which  the 
critics  make  such  hubbub,  was  well  named 
Machinery ;  for  it  is  in  very  deed  mechanical,  no- 
wise inspired  or  poetical.  Neither  for  us  is 
there  the  smallest  aesthetic  enjoyment  in  it ; 
save  only  in  this  way  :  that  we  believe  ii  to  have 
been  believed, — by  the  Singer  or  his  Hearers;  into 
whose  case  we  now  laboriously  struggle  to 
transport  ourselves;  and  so,  with  stinted 
enough  result,  catch  some  reflex  of  the  Rea- 
lity, which  for  them  was  wholly  real,  and  vi- 
sible face  to  face.  Whenever  it  has  come  so 
40 


far  that  your  *  Machinery'  is  avowedly  mecha- 
nical and  unbelieved, — what  is  it  else,  if  we 
dare  tell  ourselves  the  truth,  but  a  miserable, 
meaningless  Deception  kept  ap  by  old  use  and 
wont  alone  1  If  the  gods  of  an  Iliad  are  to  us 
no  longer  authentic  Shapes  of  Terror,  heart- 
stirring,  heart-appalling,  but  only  vague-glit- 
tering Shadows, — what  must  the  dead  Pa- 
gan gods  of  an  Epigoniad  be,  the  dead-living 
Pagan-Christian  gods  of  a  Lusiad,  the  concrete- 
abstract,  evangelical-metaphysical  gods  of  a 
Paradise  Lost  ?  Superannuated  lumber !  Cast 
raiment,  at  best ;  in  which  some  poor  mime, 
strutting  and  swaggering,  may  or  may  not  set 
forth  new  noble  Human  Feelings,  (again  a  Rea- 
lity,) and  so  secure,  or  not  secure,  our  pardon 
of  such  hoydenish  masking, — for  which,  in  any 
case,  he  has  a  pardon  to  ask. 

"True  enough,  none  but  the  earliest  Epic 
Poems  can  claim  this  distinction  of  entire  cre- 
dibility, of  Reality:  after  an  Iliad,  a  Shaster,  a 
Km-an,  and  other  the  like  primitive  perform* 
ances,  the  rest  seem,  by  this  rule  of  mine,  to  be 
altogether  excluded  from  the  list.  Accordingly, 
what  are  all  the  rest  from  Virgil's  JEneid  down- 
wards, in  comparison  ? — Frosty,  artificial,  he- 
terogeneous things;  more  of  gumflowers  than 
of  roses ;  at  best,  of  the  two  mixed  incoherently 
together :  to  some  of  which,  indeed,  it  were 
hard  to  deny  the  title  of  Poems ;  yet  to  no  one 
of  which  can  that  title  belong  in  any  sense  even 
resembling  the  old  high  one  it,  in  those  old  days, 
conveyed, — when  the  epithet  *  divine'  or  '  sa- 
cred,' as  applied  to  the  uttered  Word  of  man, 
was  not  a  vain  metaphor,  a  vain  sound,  but  a 
real  name  with  meaning.  Thus,  too,  the  farther 
we  recede  from  those  early  days,  when  Poetry, 
as  true  Poetry  is  always,  was  still  sacred  or 
divine,  and  inspired,  (what  ours,  in  great  part, 
only  pretends  to  be,) — the  more  impossible 
becomes  it  to  produce  any,  we  say  not  true 
Poetry,  but  tolerable  semblance  of  such ;  the 
hollower,  in  particular,  grow  all  manner  of 
Epics;  till  at  length,  as  in  this  generation, the 
very  name  of  Epic  sets  men  a-y awning,  the 
announcement  of  a  new  Epic  is  received  as  a 
public  calamity. 

"  But  what  if  the  impossible  being  once  for  all 
quite  discarded,  the  probable  be  well  adhered  to ; 
how  stands  it  with  fiction  then?  Why,  then,  I 
would  say,  the  evil  is  much  mended,  but  no- 
wise completely  cured.  We  have  then,  in  place 
of  the  wholly  dead  modern  Epic,  the  partially 
living  modern  Novel;  to  which  latter  it  is  much 
easier  to  lend  that  above-mentioned,  so  essen- 
tial 'momentary  credence,' than  to  the  former: 
indeed  infinitely  easier ;  for  the  former  being 
flatly  incredible,  no  mortal  can  for  a  moment 
credit  it,  for  a  moment  enjoy  it.  Thus,  here 
and  there,  a  Tom  Jones,  a  Meister,  a  Crusoe,  will 
yield  no  little  solacement  to  the  minds  of  men: 
though  still  immeasurably  less  than  a  Reality 
would,  were  the  significance  thereof  as  im- 
pressively unfolded,  were  the  genius  that  could 
so  unfold  it  once  given  us  by  the  kind  Heavens. 
Neither  say  thou  that  proper  Realities  are 
wanting:  for  Man's  Life,  now  as  of  old,  is  the 
genuine  work  of  God ;  wherever  there  is  a 
Man,  a  God  also  is  revealed,  and  all  that  is  Grod- 
like  :  a  whole  epitome  of  the  Infinite,  with  its 
meanings,  lies  enfolded  in  the  Life  of  every 


314 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Man.  Only,  alas,  that  the  Seer  to  discern  this 
same  Godlike,  and  with  fit  utterance  Mwfold  it 
for  us,  is  wanting,  and  may  long  be  wanting ! 

"Nay,  a  question  arises  on  us  here,  wherein 
the  whole  German  reading-world  will  eagerly 
join:  Whether  man  can  any  longer  be  so  in- 
terested by  the  spoken  Word,  as  he  often  was 
in  those  primeval  days,  when,  rapt  away  by  its 
inscrutable  power,  he  pronounced  it,  in  such 
dialect  as  he  had,  to  be  transcendental,  (to 
transcend  all  measure,)  to  be  sacred,  prophetic, 
and  the  inspiration  of  a  god  \  For  myself,  I, 
(ich  meines  Ortes,)  by  faith  or  by  insight,  do 
heartily  understand  that  the  answer  to  such 
question  will  be.  Yea  !  For  never,  that  I  could 
in  searching  find  out,  has  Man  been,  by  Time 
which  devours  so  much,  deprivated  of  any  fa- 
culty whatsoever  that  he  in  any  era  was  pos- 
sessed of.  To  my  seeming,  the  babe  born  yester- 
day has  all  the  organs  of  Body,  Soul,  and  Spirit, 
and  in  exactly  the  same  combination  and  en  tire- 
ness,  that  the  oldest  Pelasgic  Greek,  or  Meso- 
potamian  Patriarch,  or  Father  Adam  himself 
could  boast  of.  Ten  fingers,  one  heart  with 
venous  and  arterial  blood  therein,  still  belong 
to  man  that  is  born  of  woman :  when  did  he 
lose  any  of  his  spiritual  Endowments  either: 
above  all,  his  highest  spiritual  Endowment,  that 
of  revealing  Poetic  Beauty,  and  of  adequately 
receiving  the  same  1  Not  the  material,  not  the 
susceptibility  is  wanting ;  only  the  poet,  or  long 
series  of  Poets,  to  work  on  these.  True,  alas 
too  true,  the  Poet  is  still  utterly  wanting,  or  all 
but  utterly:  nevertheless  have  we  not  centuries 
enough  before  us  to  produce  him  in  1  Him  and 
much  else ! — I,  for  the  present,  will  but  predict 
that  chiefly  by  working  more  and  more  on 
Reality,  and  evolving  more  and  more  wisely 
its  inexhaustible  meanings ;  and,  in  brief,  speak- 
ing forth  in  fit  utterance  whatsoever  our  whole 
soul  believes,  and  ceasing  to  speak  forth  what 
thing  soever  our  whole  soul  does  not  believe, — 
will  this  high  emprise  be  accomplished,  or  ap- 
proximated to." 

These  notable,  and  not  unfounded,  though 
partial  and  deep-seeing  rather  than  wide-seeing 
observations  on  the  great  import  of  Reality, 
considered  even  as  a  poetic  material,  we  have 
inserted  the  more  willingly,  because  a  tran- 
sient feeling  to  the  same  purpose  may  often 
have  suggested  itself  to  many  readers;  and, 
on  the  whole,  it  is  good  that  every  reader  and 
every  writer  understand,  with  all  intensity  of 
conviction,  what  quite  infinite  worth  lies  in 
Truth  y  how  all-pervading,  omnipotent,  in 
man's  mind,  is  the  thing  we  name  Belief.  For 
the  rest,  Herr  Sauerteig,  though  one-sided,  on 
this  matter  of  Reality,  seems  heartily  per- 
suaded, and  is  not  perhaps  so  ignorant  as  he 
looks.  It  cannot  be  unknown  to  him,  for  ex- 
ample, what  noise  is  made  about  "  Invention  ;" 
what  a  supreme  rank  this  faculty  is  reckoned 
to  hold  in  the  poetic  endowment.  Great  truly 
is  Invention  ;  nevertheless,  that  is  but  a  poor 
exercise  of  it  with  which  Belief  is  not  con- 
cerned. "An  Irishman  with  whisky  in  his 
head,"  as  poor  Byron  said,  will  invent  you,  in 
this  kind,  till  there  is  enough  and  to  spare. 
Nay,  perhaps,  if  we  consider  well,  the  highest 
exercise  of  Invention  has,  in  very  deed,  nothing 
to  do  with  Fiction  ;  but  is  an  invention  of  new 


Truth,  what  we  can  call  a  Revelation;  which 
last  does  undoubtedly  transcend  all  other  po- 
etic efforts,  nor  can  Herr  Sauerteig  be  too 
loud  in  its  praises.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
whether  such  effort  is  still  possible  for  man, 
Herr  Sauerteig  and  the  bulk  of  the  world  are 
probably  at  issue, — and  will  probably  continue 
so  till  that  same  "  Revelation"  or  new  "Inven- 
tion of  Reality,"  of  the  sort  he  desiderates, 
shall  itself  make  its  appearance. 

Meanwhile,  quitting  these  airy  regions,  let 
any  one  bethink  him  how  impressive  the 
smallest  historical  fact  may  become,  as  con- 
trasted with  the  grandest  fictitious  event ;  what 
an  incalculable  force  lies  for  us  in  this  consi- 
deration :  The  Thing  which  I  here  hold  imaged 
in  ray  mind  did  actually  occur ;  was,  in  very 
truth,  an  element  in  the  system  of  the  All, 
whereof  I  too  form  part;  had  therefore,  and 
has,  through  all  time,  an  authentic  being;  is 
not  a  dream,  but  a  reality!  We  ourselves  can 
remember  reading  in  Lord  Clarendon,  with  feel- 
ings perhaps  somehow  accidentally  opened  to 
it, — certainly  with  a  depth  of  impression 
strange  to  us  then  and  now, — that  insignifi- 
cant looking  passage,  where  Charles,  after  the 
battle  of  Worcester,  glides  down,  with  Squire 
Careless,  from  the  Royal  Oak,  at  night-fall, 
being  hungry:  how,  "making  a  shift  to  get 
over  hedges  and  ditches,  after  walking  at  least 
eight  or  nine  miles,  which  were  the  more 
grievous  to  the  King  by  the  weight  of  his 
boots,  (for  he  could  not  put  them  off,  when  he 
cut  off  his  hair,  for  want  of  shoes,)  before 
morning  they  came  to  a  poor  cottage,  the  owner 
whereof  being  a  Roman  Catholic  was  known  to  Care- 
less." How  this  poor  drudge,  being  knocked 
up  from  his  snoring,  "carried  them  into  a  lit- 
tle barn  full  of  hay,  which  was  a  better  lodg- 
ing than  he  had  for  himself;"  and  by  and  by, 
not  without  difficulty,  brought  his  Majesty  "a 
piece  of  bread  and  a  grea^t  pot  of  butter-milk," 
saying  candidly  that  "he  himself  lived  by  his 
daily  labour,  and  that  what  he  had  brought 
him  was  the  fare  he  and  his  wife  had :"  on 
which  nourishing  diet  his  Majesty,  "  staying 
upon  the  haymow,"  feeds  thankfully  for  two 
days  ;  and  then  departs,  under  new  guidance, 
having  first  changed  clothes  down  to  the  very 
shirt  and  "  old  pair  of  shoes,"  with  his  land- 
lord ;  and  so  as  worthy  Bunyan  has  it,  "  goes 
on  his  way,  and  sees  him  no  more."*  Singu- 
lar enough  if  we  will  think  of  it !  This  then 
was  a  genuine  flesh-and-blood  Rustic  of  the 
year  1651 :  he  did  actually  swallow  bread  and 
butter-milk  (not  having  ale  and  bacon,)  and 
do  field  labour;  with  these  hob-nailed  "shoes" 
has  sprawled  through  mud-roads  in  winter, 
and,  jocund  or  not,  driven  his  team  a-field  in 
summer ;  he  made  bargains ;  had  chafferings 
and  higglings,  now  a  sore  heart,  now  a  glad 
one  ;  was  born  ;  was  a  son,  was  a  father ; — 
I  toiled  in  many  ways,  being  forced  to  it,  till  the 
I  strength  was  all  worn  out  of  him  :  and  then — 
lay  down  "  to  rest  his  galled  back,"  and  sleep 
there  till  the  long-distant  morning  ! — How 
I  comes  it,  that  he  alone  of  all  the  British  rus- 
j  tics  who  tilled    and    lived    along    with    him, 

on  whom  the  blessed  sun  on  that  same  "  fifth 

1 

1  ♦  History  of  the  Rebellion,  iii.  625. 


BIOGRAPHY. 


315 


day  of  September"  was  shining,  should  have 
chanced  to  rise  on  us ;  that  this  poor  pair  of 
clouted  Shoes,  out  of  a  million  million  hides 
that  have  been  tanned,  and  cut,  and  worn, 
should  still  subsist,  and  hang  visibly  together? 
We  see  him  but  for  a  moment ;  for  one  mo- 
ment, the  blanket  of  the  Night  is  rent  asun- 
der, so  that  we  behold  and  see,  and  then 
closes  over  him — for  ever. 

So  too,  in  some  BosiveWs  Life  of  Johnson,  how 
indelible,  and  magically  bright,  does  many  a 
little  Reality  dwell  in  our  remembrance ! 
There  is  no  need  that  the  personages  on  the 
scene  be  a  King  and  Clown ;  that  the  scene 
be  the  Forest  of  the  Royal  Oak,  "  on  the  bor- 
ders of  Staffordshire :"  need  only  that  the 
scene  lie  on  this  old  firm  Earth  of  ours,  where 
we  also  have  so  surprisingly  arrived  ;  that  the 
personages  be  men,  and  seen  with  the  eyes  of  a 
man.  Foolish  enough,  how  some  slight,  per- 
haps mean  and  even  ugly  incident — if  real,  and 
well  presented — will  fix  itself  in  a  susceptive 
memory,  and  lie  ennobled  there;  silvered  over 
with  the  pale  cast  of  thought,  with  the  pathos 
which  belongs  only  to  the  Dead.  For  the 
Past  is  all  holy  to  us ;  the  Dead  are  all  holy, 
even  they  that  were  base  and  wicked  while 
alive.  Their  baseness  and  wickedness  was 
not  They,  was  but  the  heavy  unmanageable 
Environment  that  lay  round  them,  with  which 
they  fought  unprevailing :  they  (the  ethereal 
God-given  Force  that  dwelt  in  them,  and  was 
their  Self)  have  now  shuffled  off  that  heavy 
Environment,  and  are  free  and  pure  :  their 
life-long  Battle,  go  how  it  might,  is  all  ended, 
with  many  wounds  or  with  fewer ;  they  have 
been  recalled  from  it,  and  the  once  harsh-jar- 
ring battle-field  has  become  a  silent  awe-in- 
spiring Golgotha,  and  Gottesacker — Field  of 
God! — Boswell  relates  this  in  itself  smallest 
and  poorest  of  occurrences  :  "  As  we  walked 
along  the  Strand  to-night,  arm  in  arm,  a  wo- 
man of  the  town  accosted  us  in  the  usual  en- 
ticing manner.  'No,  no,  my  girl,'  said  John- 
son ;  '  it  won't  do.'  He,  however,  did  not 
treat  her  with  harshness,  and  we  talked  of  the 
wretched  life  of  such  women."  Strange  power 
of  Reality !  Not  even  this  poorest  of  occur- 
rences, but  now,  after  seventy  years  are  come 
and  gone,  has  a  meaning  for  us.  Do  but  con- 
sider that  it  is  true;  that  it  did  in  very  deed 
occur !  That  unhappy  Outcast,  with  all  her 
sins  and  woes,  her  lawless  desires,  too  com- 
plex mischances,  her  wailings  and  her  riot- 
ings,  has  departed  utterly :  alas !  her  siren 
finery  has  got  all  besmutched ;  ground,  gene- 
rations since,  into  dust  and  smoke,  of  her  de- 
graded body,  and  whole  miserable  earthly 
existence,  all  is  away :  she  is  no  longer  here, 
but  far  from  us,  in  the  bosom  of  Eternity, — 
whence  we  too  came,  whither  we  too  are 
bound  !  Johnson  said,  "  No,  no,  my  girl ;  it 
won't  do  ;"  and  then  "  we  talked  ;" — and  here- 
with the  wretched  one,  seen  but  for  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,  passes  on  into  the  utter  Dark- 
ness. No  high  Calista,  that  ever  issued  from 
Story-teller's  brain,  will  impress  us  more 
deeply  than  this  meanest  of  the  mean ;  and 
for  a  good  reason :  That  she  issued  from  the 
Maker  of  Men. 

It  is  well  worth  the  Artist's  while  to  examine 


for  himself  what  it  is  that  gives  such  pitiful  in- 
cidents their  memorableness ;  his  aim  likewise 
is,  above  all  things,  to  be  memorable.  Half  the 
effect,  we  already  perceive,  depends  on  the 
object,  on  its  being  reaZ,  on  its  being  really  scm. 
The  other  half  will  depend  on  the  observer; 
and  the  question  now  is  :  How  are  real  objects 
to  be  so  seen  ;  on  what  quality  of  observing,  or 
of  style  in  describing,  does  this  so  intense  pic- 
torial power  depend  1  Often  a  slight  circum- 
stance contributes  curiously  to  the  result:  some 
little,  and  perhaps  to  appearance  accidental,  fea- 
ture is  presented  ;  a  light-gleam,  which  instan- 
taneously exdies  the  mind,  and  urges  it  to  com- 
plete the  picture,  and  evolve  the  meaning 
thereof  for  itself.  By  critics,  such  light-gleams 
and  their  almost  magical  influence  have  fre- 
quently been  noted  :  but  the  power  to  produce 
such,  to  select  such  features  as  will  produce 
them,  is  generally  treated  as  a  knack,  or  trick 
of  the  trade,  a  secret  for  being  "graphic;'* 
whereas  these  magical  feats  are,  in  truth, 
rather  inspirations;  and  the  gift  of  performing 
them,  which  acts  unconsciously,  without  fore- 
thought, and  as  if  by  nature  alone,  is  properly 
a  genius  for  description. 

One  grand,  invaluable  secret  there  is,  how- 
ever, which  includes  all  the  rest,  and,  what  is 
comfortable,  lies  clearly  in  every  man's  power: 
To  have  an  open,  loving  heart,  and  what  follows 
from  the  possessio7i  of  such!  Truly  has  it  been 
said,  emphatically  in  these  days  ought  it  to  be 
repeated:  A  loving  heart  is  the  beginning  of 
all  Knowledge.  This  it  is  that  opens  the  whole 
mind,  quickens  every  faculty  of  the  intellect  to 
do  its  fit  work,  that  of  knowing ;  and  therefrom, 
by  sure  consequence,  of  vividly  uttering  forth. 
Other  secret  for  being  "  graphic"  is  there  none, 
worth  having :  but  this  is  an  all-sufficient  one. 
See,  for  example,  what  a  small  Boswell  can 
do  !  Hereby,  indeed,  is  the  whole  man  made  a 
living  mirror,  wherein  the  wonders  of  this  ever- 
wonderful  Universe  are,  in  their  true  light, 
(which  is  ever  a  magical,  miraculous  one,)  re- 
presented, and  reflected  back  on  us.  It  has 
been  said,  "the  heart  sees  farther  than  the 
head:"  but,  indeed,  without  the  seeing  heart 
there  is  no  true  seeing  for  the  head  so  much  as 
possible;  all  is  mere  oversight,  hallucination, 
and  vain  superficial  phantasmagoria,  which 
can  permanently  profit  no  one. 

Here,  too,  may  we  not  pause  for  an  instant, 
and  make  a  practical  reflection  ?  Considering 
the  multitude  of  mortals  that  handle  the  Pen 
in  these  days,  and  can  mostly  spell,  and  write 
without  daring  violations  of  grammar,  the 
question  naturally  arises  :  How  is  it,  then,  that 
no  Work  proceeds  from  them,  bearing  any 
stamp  of  authenticity  and  permanence ;  of 
worth  for  more  than  one  day  ?  Ship-loads  of 
Fashionable  Novels,  Sentimental  Rhymes, 
Tragedies,  Farces,  Diaries  of  Travel,  Tales  by 
flood  and  field,  are  swallowed  monthly  into  the 
bottomless  Pool;  still  does  the  Press  toil:  in- 
numerable Paper-makers,  Compositors,  Print- 
ers' Devils,  Bookbinders,  and  Hawkers  grown 
hoarse  with  loud  proclaiming,  rest  not  from 
their  labour;  and  still,  in  torrents,  rushes  on 
the  great  array  of  Publications,  unpausing,  to 
their  final  home ;  and  still  Oblivion,  like  the 
Grave,  cries :  Give !   Give  !    How  is  it  that  of 


8t6 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


all  these  countless  multitudes,  no  one  can  attain 
to  the  smallest  mark  of  excellence,  or  produce 
ought  that  shall  endure  longer  than  "  snow- 
flake  on  the  river,"  or  the  foam  of  penny-beer  1 
We  answer :  Because  they  are  foam ;  because 
there  is  no  Reality  in  them.  These  Three 
Thousand  men,  women,  and  children,  that 
make  up  the  army  of  British  Authors,  do  not, 
if  we  will  well  consider  it,  see  any  thing  what- 
ever ;  consequently  have  nothing  that  they  can 
record  and  utter,  only  more  or  fewer  things 
that  they  can  plausibly  pretend  to  record.  The 
Universe,  of  Man  and  Nature,  is  still  quite 
shut  up  from  them ;  the  "  open  secret"  still 
utterly  a  secret;  because  no  sympathy  with 
Man  or  Nature,  no  Igve  and  free  simplicity  of 
heart  has  yet  unfolded  the  same.  Nothing 
but  a  pitiful  Image  of  their  own  pitiful  Self, 
with  its  vanities,  and  grudgings,  and  ravenous 
hunger  of  all  kinds,  hangs  for  ever  painted  in 
the  retina  of  these  unfortunate  persons  :  so  that 
the  starry  All,  with  whatsoever  it  embraces, 
does  but  appear  as  some  expanded  magic- 
lantern  shadow  of  that  same  Image, — and  natu- 
rally looks  pitiful  enough. 

It  is  vain  for  these  persons  to  allege  that 
they  are  naturally  without  gift,  naturally  stu- 
pid and  sightless,  and  so  can  attain  to  no 
Icnowledge  of  any  thing;  therefore,  in  writing 
of  any  thing,  must  needs  write  falsehoods  of 
it,  there  being  in  it  no  truth  for  them.  Not  so, 
good  Friends.  The  stupidest  of  you  has  a 
certain  faculty ;  were  it  but  that  of  articulate 
speech,  (say,  in  the  Scottish,  the  Irish,  the 
Cockney  dialect,  or  even  in  "  Governess-Eng- 
lish,") and  of  physically  discerning  what  lies 
under  your  nose.  The  stupidest  of  you  would 
perhaps  grudge  to  be  compared  in  faculty 
with  James  Boswell ;  yet  see  what  he  has  pro- 
duced !  You  do  not  use  your  faculty  honestly ; 
your  heart  is  shut  up ;  full  of  greediness,  ma- 
lice, discontent;  so  your  intellectual  sense 
cannot  be  open.  It  is  vain  also  to  urge  that 
James  Boswell  had  opportunities  ;  saw  great 
men  and  great  things,  such  as  you  can  never 
hope  to  look  on.  What  make  ye  of  Parson 
White  in  Selborne  1  He  had  not  only  no  great 
men  to  look  on,  but  not  even  men ;  merely 
sparrows  and  cock-chafers  :  yet  has  he  left  us 
a  Biography  of  these;  which,  under  its  title 
Natural  History  of  Selborne,  still  remains  valu- 
able to  us  ;  which  has  copied  a  little  sentence 
or  two  faithfully  from  the  inspired  volume  of 
Nature,  and  so  is  itself  not  without  inspiration. 
Go  ye  and  do  likewise.  Sweep  away  utterly 
all  froth! ness  and  falsehood  from  your  heart ; 
struggle  unweariedly  to  acquire,  what  is  pos- 
sible for  every  god-created  Man,  a  free,  open, 
humble  soul :  speak  not  at  all,  in  any  unse,  till 
you  have  somewhat  to  speak ;  care  not  for  the 
reward  of  your  speaking,  but  simply  and  with 
undivided  mind  for  the  truth  of  your  speaking : 
then  be  placed  in  what  section  of  Space  and 
of  Time  soever,  do  but  open  your  eyes,  and 
they  shall  actually  see,  and  bring  you  real 
knowledge,  woi\drous,  worthy  of  belief;  and  in- 


stead of  one  Boswell  and  one  White,  the  world 
will  rejoice  in  a  thousand, — stationed  on  their 
thousand  several  watch-towers,  to  instruct  us 
by  indubitable  documents,  of  whatsoever  in 
our  so  stupendous  world  comes  to  light  and  is  ! 
O,  had  the  Editor  of  this  Magazine  but  a 
magic  rod  to  turn  all  that  not  inconsiderable 
Intellect,  which  now  deluges  us  with  artificial 
fictitious  soap-lather,  and  mere  Lying,  into  the 
faithful  study  of  Reality, — what  knowledge  of 
great,  everlasting  Nature,  and  of  Man's  ways 
and  doings  therein,  would  not  every  year  bring 
us  in  !  Can  we  but  change  one  single  soap- 
latherer  and  mountebank  Juggler,  into  a  true 
Thinker  and  Doer,  that  even  tries  honestly  to 
think  and  do — great  will  be  our  reward. 

But  to  return ;  or  rather  from  this  point  to 
begin  our  journey!  If  now,  what  with  Herr 
Sauerteig's  Springumrzel,  what  with  so  much  lu- 
cubration of  our  own,  it  have  become  apparent 
how  deep,  immeasurable  is  the  "  worth  that  lies 
in  Reality,"  and  farther,  how  exclusive  the  in- 
terest which  man  takes  in  the  Histories  of 
Man, — may  it  not  seem  lamentable,  that  so  few 
genuinely  good  Biographies  have  yet  been  accu- 
mulated in  Literature ;  that  in  the  whole  world, 
one  cannot  find,  going  strictly  to  work,  above 
some  dozen,  or  baker's  dozen,  and  those  chiefly 
of  very  ancient  date  1  Lamentable  ;  yet,  after 
what  we  have  just  seen,  accountable.  An- 
other question  might  be  asked  :  How  comes  it 
that  in  England  we  have  simply  one  good 
Biography,  this  BoswelVs  Johnson:  and  of  good, 
indifferent,  or  even  bad  attempts  at  Biography, 
fewer  than  any  civilized  people  1  Consider 
the  French  and  Germans,  with  their  Moreris, 
Bayles,  Jordenses,  Jochers,  their  innumerable 
Memoires,  and  Schilderungcn,  and  Biographies 
Universelles;  not  to  speak  of  Rousseaus,  Goethes, 
Schubarts,  Jung-Stillings :  and  then  contrast 
with  these  our  poor  Birches,  and  Kippises  and 
Pecks, — the  whole  breed  of  whom,  moreover, 
is  now  extinct ! 

With  this  question,  as  the  answer  might 
lead  us  far,  and  come  out  unflattering  to  patri- 
otic sentiment,  we  shall  not  intermeddle  ;  but 
turn  rather,  v/ith  greater  pleasure,  to  the  fact, 
that  one  excellent  Biography  is  actually  Eng- 
lish ; — and  even  now  lies,  in  Five  new  Volumes, 
at  our  hand,  soliciting  a  new  consideration 
from  us ;  such  as,  age  after  age  (the  Peren- 
nial showing  ever  new  phases  as  our  position 
alters,)  it  may  long  be  profitable  to  bestow  on 
it; — to  which  task  we  here,  in  this  age,  gladly 
address  ourselves. 

First,  however,  Let  the  foolish  April-fool 
day  pass  by ;  and  our  Reader,  during  these 
twenty-nine  days  of  uncertain  weather  that 
will  follow,  keep  pondering,  according  to  con- 
venience, the  purport  of  Biography  in  gene- 
ral :  then,  with  the  blessed  dew  of  May-day, 
and  in  unlimited  convenience  of  space,  shall 
all  that  we  have  written  on  Johnson,  and  Bos- 
welVs Johnson,  and  Croker's  BoswelVs  Johnson,  be 
faithfully  laid  before  him. 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OP  JOHNSON. 


317 


BOSWELFS  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON; 


[Fraser's  Magazine,  1832.] 


.(Esop's  Fly,  sitting  on  the  axle  of  the  cha- 
riot, has  been  much  laughed  at  for  exclaiming  : 
What  a  dust  I  do  raise  !  Yet  which  of  us,  in 
his  way,  has  not  sometimes  been  guilty  of  the 
like  1  Nay,  so  foolish  are  men,  they  often,  stand- 
ing at  ease  and  as  spectators  on  the  highway, 
will  volunteer  to  exclaim  of  the  Fly  (not  being 
tempted  to  it,  as  he  was)  exactly  to  the  same  pur- 
port :  What  a  dust  thou  dost  raise  !  Smallest  of 
mortals,  when  mounted  aloft  by  circumstances, 
come  to  seem  great ;  smallest  of  phenomena 
connected  with  them  are  treated  as  important, 
and  must  be  sedulously  scanned,  and  .com- 
mented upon  with  loud  emphasis. 

That  Mr.  Croker  should  undertake  to  edit 
Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  was  a  praiseworthy 
but  no  miraculous  procedure :  neither  could 
the  accomplishment  of  such  undertaking  be, 
in  an  epoch  like  ours,  anywise  regarded  as  an 
event  in  Universal  History;  the  right  or  the 
wrong  accomplishment  thereof  was,  in  very 
truth,  one  of  the  most  insignificant  of  things. 
However,  it  sat  in  a  great  environment,  on  the 
axle  of  a  high,  fast-rolling,  parliamentary 
chariot;  and  all  the  world  has  exclaimed  over 
it,  and  the  author  of  it :  What  a  dust  thou  dost 
raise  !  List  to  the  Reviews,  and  "  Organs  of 
Public  Opinion,"  from  the  National  Omnibus 
upwards ;  criticisms,  vituperative  and  laudato- 
ry, stream  from  their  thousand  throats  of  brass 
and  leather;  here  chanting  lo  pceans ;  there 
grating  harsh  thunder,  or  vehement  shrew- 
mouse  squeaklets ;  till  the  general  ear  is  filled, 
and  nigh  deafened.  Boswell's  Book  had  a 
noiseless  birth,  compared  wtth  this  Edition  of 
Boswell's  Book.  On  the  other  hand,  consider 
with  what  degree  of  tumult  Paradise  Lost  and 
the  Iliad  were  ushered  in  ! 

To  swell  such  clamor,  or  prolong  it  beyond 
the  time,  seems  nowise  our  vocation  here.  At 
most,  perhaps  we  are  bound  to  inform  simple 
readers,  with  all  possible  brevity,  what  manner 
of  performance  and  Edition  this  is  ;  especial- 
ly, whether,  in  our  poor  judgment,  it  is  worth 
laying  out  three  pounds  sterling  upon,  yea  or 
not.  The  whole  business  belongs  distinctly  to 
the  lower  ranks  of  the  trivial  class. 

Let  us  admit,  then,  with  great  readiness,  that 
as  Johnson  once  said,  and  the  Editor  repeats, 
"  all  works  which  describe  manners,  require 
notes  in  sixty  or  seventy  years,  or  less  ;"  that, 
accordingly,  a  new  Edition  of  Boswell  was  de- 
sirable ;  and  that  Mr.  Croker  has  given  one. 
For  this  task  he  had  various  qualifications: 
his  own  voluntary  resolution  to  do  it;  his  high 
place  in  society  unlocking  all  manner  of  ar- 
chives to  him ;  not  less,  perhaps,  a  certain 
anecdotico-biographic  turn  of  mind,  natural 
or  acquired;  we  mean,  a  love  for  the  minuter 
events  of  History,  and  talent  for  investigating 

♦  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D. :  including  a 
Tour  to  the  Hebrides.  By  James  Boswell,  Esq. — A  new 
Edition,  with  numerous  Additions  and  Notes.  By  John 
Wilson  Croker,  LL.D.,  F.  R.  S.    5  vols.    London,  1831. 


these.  Let  us  admit,  too,  that  he  has  been  very 
diligent ;  seems  to  have  made  inquiries  perse- 
veringly  far  and  near;  as  well  as  drawn  freely 
from  his  own  ample  stores ;  and  so  tells  us  to 
appearance  quite  accurately,  much  that  he  has 
not  found  lying  on  the  highways,  but  has  had  to 
seek  and  dig  for.  Numerous  persons,  chiefly 
of  quality,  rise  to  view  in  these  Notes;  when 
and  also  where  they  came  into  this  world,  re- 
ceived office  or  promotion,  died,  and  were 
buried  (only  what  they  did,  except  digest,  re- 
maining often  too  mysterious,) — is  faithfully 
enough  set  down.  Whereby  all  that  their  va- 
rious and  doubtless  widely-scattered  Tomb- 
stones could  have  taught  us,  is  here  presented, 
at  once,  in  a  bound  Book.  Thus  is  an  indubi- 
table conquest,  though  a  small  one,  gained 
over  our  great  enemy,  the  all-destroyer  Time ; 
and  as  such  shall  have  welcome. 

Nay,  let  us  say  that  the  spirit  of  Diligence, 
exhibited  in  this  department,  seems  to  attend 
the  Editor  honestly  throughout:  he  keeps 
everywhere  a  watchful  outlook  on  his  Text ; 
reconciling  the  distant  with  the  present,  or  at 
least  indicating  and  regretting  their  irrecon- 
cilability; elucidating,  smoothing  down;  in 
all  ways,  exercising,  according  to  ability,  a 
strict  editorial  superintendence.  Any  little 
Latin  or  even  Greek  phrase  is  rendered  into 
English,  in  general  with  perfect  accuracy ; 
citations  are  verified,  or  else  corrected.  On 
all  hands,  moreover,  there  is  a  certain  spirit 
of  Decency  maintained  and  insisted  on  :  if  not 
good  morals,  yet  good  manners,  are  rigidly  in- 
culcated ;  if  not  Religion,  and  a  devout  Chris- 
tian heart,  yet  Orthodoxy,  and  a  cleanly.  Shovel- 
hatted  look, — which,  as  compared  with  flat 
Nothing,  is  something  very  considerable. 
Grant  too,  as  no  contemptible  triumph  of  this 
latter  spirit,  that  though  the  Editor  is  known 
as  a  decided  Politician  and  Party-man,  he  has 
carefully  subdued  all  temptations  to  transgress 
in  that  way :  except  by  quite  involuntary  indi- 
cations, and  rather  as  it  were  the  pervading 
temper  of  the  whole,  you  could  not  discover 
on  which  side  of  the  Political  Warfare  he  is 
enlisted  and  fights.  This,  as  we  said,  is  a 
great  triumph  of  the  Decency-principle:  for 
this,  and  for  these  other  graces  and  perform- 
ances, let  the  Editor  have  all  praise. 

Herewith,  however,  must  the  praise  unfor- 
tunately terminate.  Diligence,  Fidelity,  De- 
cency, are  good  and  indispensable;  yet,  with- 
out Faculty,  without  Light,  they  will  not  do 
the  work.  Along  with  that  Tombstone  infor- 
mation, perhaps  even  without  much  of  it.  we 
could  have  liked  to  gain  some  answer,  in  one 
way  or  other,  to  this  wide  question  :  What  and 
how  was  English  Life  in  Johnson's  time ; 
wherein  has  ours  grown  to  differ  therefrom  1 
In  other  words  :  What  things  have  we  to  for- 
get, what  to  fancy  and  remember,  before  we, 
from  such  distance,  can  put  ourselves  in 
Johnson's  place;  and  so,  in  the  full  sense  of 
2d  2 


318 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  term,  imderstand  him,  his  sayings  and  his 
doings  ?  This  was  indeed  specially  the  prob- 
lem which  a  Commentator  and  Editor  had  to 
solve :  a  complete  solution  of  it  should  have 
Iain  in  him,  his  whole  mind  should  have  been 
filled  and  prepared  with  perfect  insight  into  it ; 
then,  whether  in  the  way  of  express  Disser- 
tation, of  incidental  Exposition  and  Indication, 
opportunities  enough  would  have  occurred  of 
bringing  out  the  same :  what  was  dark  in  the 
figure  of  the  Past  had  thereby  been  enlighten- 
ed; Boswell  had,  not  in  show  and  word  only, 
but  in  very  fact,  been  made  neiv  again,  reada- 
ble to  us  who  are  divided  from  him,  even  as 
he  was  to  those  close  at  hand.  Of  all  which 
very  little  has  been  attempted  here;  accom- 
plished, we  should  say,  next  to  nothing,  or 
altogether  nothing. 

Excuse,  no  doubt,  is  in  readiness  for  such 
omission ;  and,  indeed,  for  innumerable  other 
failings; — as  where,  for  example,  the  Editor 
will  punctually  explain  what  is  already  sun- 
clear  ;  and  then  anon,  not  without  frankness, 
declare  frequently  enough  that  "the  Editor 
does  not  understand,"  that  "  the  Editor  cannot 
guess," — while,  for  most  part,  the  Reader  can- 
not help  both  guessing  and  seeing.  Thus,  if 
Johnson  say,  in  one  sentence,  that  "  English 
names  should  not  be  used  in  Latin  verses  ;*' 
and  then,  in  the  next  sentence,  speak  blamingly 
of  "  Carteret  being  used  as  a  dactyl,"  will  the 
generality  of  mortals  detect  any  puzzle  there  1 
Or  again,  where  poor  Boswell  writes :  "  I 
always  remember  a  remark  made  to  me  by  a 
Turkish  lady,  educated  in  France :  tMa  foi, 
monsieur,  notre  bonheur  depend  de  la  fogon  que  no- 
ire sang  circule  /  " — though  the  Turkish  lady 
here  speaks  English-French,  where  is  the  call 
for  a  Note  like  this :  "  Mr.  Boswell  no  doubt 
fancied  these  words  had  some  meaning,  or  he 
would  hardly  have  quoted  them ;  but  what  that 
meaning  is  the  Editor  cannot  guess  1"  The 
Editor  is  clearly  no  witch  at  a  riddle. — For 
these  and  all  kindred  deficiencies,  the  excuse, 
as  we  said,  is  at  hand ;  but  the  fact  of  their 
existence  is  not  the  less  certain  and  regretable. 
Indeed,  it,  from  a  very  early  stage  of  the 
business,  becomes  afflictively  apparent,  how 
much  the  Editor,  so  well  furnished  with  all 
external  appliances  and  means,  is  from  within 
unfurnished  with  means  for  forming  to  him- 
self any  just  notion  of  Johnson,  or  of  John- 
son's Life;  and  therefore  of  speaking  on  that 
subject  with  much  hope  of  edifying.  Too 
lightly  is  it  from  the  first  taken  for  granted 
that  Hunger,  the  great  basis  of  our  life,  is  also 
its  apex  and  ultimate  perfection ;  that  as 
"Neediness  and  Greediness  and  Vain-glory" 
are  the  chief  qualities  of  most  men,  so  no  man, 
not  even  a  Johnson,  acts  or  can  think  of  acting 
on  any  other  principle.  Whatsoever,  there- 
fore, cannot  be  referred  to  the  two  former  cate- 
gories, (Need  and  Greed,)  is  without  scruple 
ranged  under  the  latter.  It  is  here  properly 
that  our  Editor  becomes  burdensome  ;  and,  to 
the  weaker  sort,  even  a  nuisance.  "  What 
good  is  it,"  will  such  cry,  "  when  we  had  still 
some  faint  shadow  of  belief  that  man  was  bet- 
ter than  a  selfish  Digesting-machine ;  what 
good  is  it  to  poke  in,  at  every  turn,  and  ex- 
plain  how  this   and  that  which  we  thought 


noble  in  old  Samuel,  was  vulgar,  base ;  that 
for  him  too  there  was  no  reality  but  in  the 
Stomach ;  and  except  Pudding,  and  the  finer 
species  of  pudding  which  is  named  Praise,  life 
had  no  pabulum?  Why,  for  instance,  when 
we  know  that  Johnson  loved  his  good  Wife, 
and  says  expressly  that  their  marriage  was  "a 
love-match  on  both  sides," — should  two  closed 
lips  open  to  tell  us  only  this :  *'  Is  it  not  pos- 
sible that  the  obvious  advantage  of  having  a 
woman  of  experience  to  superintend  an  estab- 
lishment of  this  kind  (the  Edial  School)  may 
have  contributed  to  a  match*s^Wsproportionate 
in  point  of  age —  En.  1"  Or  again,  when  in  the 
Text,  the  honest  cynic  speaks  freely  of  his 
former  poverty,  and  it  is  known  that  he  once 
lived  on  fourpence  halfpenny  a-day, — need  a 
Commentator  advance,  and  comment  thus : 
"  When  we  find  Dr.  Johnson  tell  unpleasant 
truths  to,  or  of,  other  men,  let  us  recollect  that 
he  does  not  appear  to  have  spared  himself,  on 
occasions  in  which  he  might  be  forgiven  for 
doing  sol"  "Why  in  short,"  continues  the 
exasperated  Reader,  "should  Notes  of  this 
species  stand  affronting  me,  when  there  might 
have  been  no  Note  at  all?" — Gentle  Reader, 
we  answer.  Be  not  wroth.  What  other  could 
an  honest  Commentator  do,  than  give  thee  the 
best  he  had?  Such  was  the  picture  and 
theorem  he  had  fashioned  for  himself  of  the 
world  and  of  man's  doings  therein:  take  it, 
and  draw  wise  inferences  from  it.  If  there 
did  exist  a  Leader  of  Public  Opinion,  and 
Champion  of  Orthodoxy  in  the  Church  of 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  who  reckoned  that  man's 
glory  consisted  in  not  being  poor;  and  that 
a  Sage,  and  Prophet  of  his  time,  must  needs 
blush  because  the  world  had  paid  him  at  that 
easy  rate  of  fourpence  halfpenny  per  diem, — 
was  not  the  fact  of  such  existence  worth 
knowing,  worth  considering? 

Of  a  much  milder  hue,  yet  to  us  practically 
of  an  all-defacing,  and  for  the  present  enter- 
prise quite  ruinous  character, — is  another 
grand  fundamental  failing;  the  last  we  shall 
feel  ourselves  obliged  to  take  the  pain  of 
specifying  here.  It  is  that  our  Editor  has 
fatally,  and  almost  surprisingly,  mistaken  the 
limits  of  an  Editor's  function  ;  jand  so,  instead 
of  working  on  the  margin  with  his  Pen,  to 
elucidate  as  best  might  be,  strikes  boldly  into 
the  body  of  the  page  with  his  Scissors,  and 
there  clips  at  discretion  !  Four  Books  Mr.  C. 
had  by  him,  wherefrom  to  gather  light  for  the 
fifth,  which  was  Boswell's.  What  does  he  do 
but  now,  in  the  placidest  manner, — slit  the 
whole  five  into  slips,  and  sew  these  together 
into  a  spxtum  quid,  exactly  at  his  own  con- 
venience ;  giving  Boswell  the  credit  of  the 
whole!  By  what  art-magic,  our  readers  ask, 
has  he  united  them  ?  By  the  simplest  of  all  : 
by  Brackets.  Never  before  was  the  full  virtue 
of  the  Bracket  made  manifest.  You  begin  a 
sentence  under  Boswell's  guidance,  thinking 
to  be  carried  happily  through  it  by  the  same : 
but  no ;  in  the  middle,  perhaps  after  your  semi- 
colon, and  some  consequent  "  for," — starts  up 
one  of  these  Bracket-ligatures,  and  stitches 
you  in  from  half  a  page,  to  twenty  or  thirty 
pages  of  a  Hawkins,  Tyers,"  Murphy,  Piozzi; 
so  that  often  one  must  make  the  old  sad  re- 


nn*« 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


819 


flection,^"  where  we  are  we  kjKf^,  whither  we 
are  going  no  raan  knoweth  r  It  is  truly  said 
also,  "There  is  much  between  the  cup  and  the 
lip ;"  but  here  the  case  is  still  sadder :  for  not 
till  after  consideration  can  you  ascertain,  now 
when  the  cup  is  at  the  lip,  what  liquor  is  it 
you  are  imbibing  ;  whether  Boswell's  French 
wine  which  you  began  with,  or  some  Piozzi's 
ginger-beer,  or  Hawkins's  entire,  or  perhaps 
some  other  great  Brewer's  penny-swipes  or 
even  alegar,  which  has  been  surreptitiously 
substituted  instead  thereof.  A  situation  almost 
original;  not  to  be  tried  a  second  time!  But, 
in  fine,  what  ideas  Mr.  Croker  entertains  of  a 
literary  whole  and  the  thing  called  Book,  and 
how  the  very  Printer's  Devils  did  not  rise  in 
mutiny  against  such  a  conglomeration  as  this, 
and  refuse  to  print  it, — may  remain  a  problem. 

But  now  happily  our  say  is  said.  All  faults, 
the  Moralists  tell  us,  are  properly  shortcomings ; 
crimes  themselves  are  nothing  other  than  a 
not  doing  enough ;  a  fighting,  but  with  defective 
vigour.  How  much  more  a  mere  insufficiency, 
and  this  after  good  efforts,  in  handicraft  prac- 
tice !  Mr.  Croker  says  :  "The  worst  that  can 
happen  is  that  all  the  present  Editor  has 
contributed  may,  if  the  reader  so  pleases,  be 
rejected  as  surplusage."  It  is  our  pleasant  duty 
to  take  with  hearty  welcome  what  he  has 
given ;  and  render  thanks  even  for  what  he 
meant  to  give.  Next  and  finally,  it  is  our  pain- 
ful duty  to  declare,  aloud  if  that  be  necessary, 
that  his  gift,  as  weighed  against  the  hard 
money  which  the  Booksellers  demand  for 
giving  it  you,  is  (in  our  judgment)  very  greatly 
the  lighter.  No  portion,  accordingly,  of  our 
small  floating  capital  has  been  embarked  in 
the  business,  or  shall  ever  be ;  indeed,  were 
we  in  the  market  for  such  a  thing,  there  is 
simply  no  Edition  of  Boswell  to  which  this  last 
would  seem  preferable.  And  now  enough,  and 
,  more  than  enough  ! 

We  have  next  a  word  to  say  of  James  Bos- 
'  well.  Boswell  has  already  been  much  com- 
mented upon  ;  but  rather  in  the  way  of  censure 
and  vituperation,  than  of  true  recognition.  He 
was  a  man  that  brought  himself  much  before 
the  world ;  confessed  that  he  eagerly  coveted 
fame,  or  if  that  were  not  possible,  notoriety; 
of  which  latter  as  he  gained  far  more  than 
seemed  his  due,  the  public  were  incited,  not 
only  by  their  natural  love  of  scandal,  but  by  a 
special  ground  of  envy,  to  say  whatever  ill  of 
him  could  be  said.  Out  of  the  fifteen  millions 
that  then  lived,  and  had  bed  and  board,  in  the 
British  Islands,  this  man  has  provided  us  a 
greater  pleasure  than  any  other  individual,  at 
whose  cost  we  now  enjoy  ourselves ;  perhaps 
has  done  us  a  greater  service  than  can  be 
specially  attributed  to  more  than  two  or  three: 
yet,  ungrateful  that  we  are,  no  written  or 
spoken  eulogy  of  James  Boswell  anywhere 
exists;  his  recompense  in  solid  pudding  (so 
far  as  copyright  went)  was  not  excessive  ;  and 
as  for  the  empty  praise,  it  has  altogether  been 
denied  him.  Men  are  unwiser  than  children ; 
they  do  not  know  the  hand  that  feeds. 

Boswell  was  a  person  whose  mean  or  bad 
qualities  lay  open  to  the  general  eye  ;  visible, 
palpable  to  the  dullest.  His  good  qualities 
again,  belonged  not  to  the  Time  he  lived  in ; 


were  far  from  common  then,  indeed,  in  such  a 
degree,  were  almost  unexampled  ;  not  recognis- 
able therefore  by  every  one ;  nay,  apt  even  (so 
strange  had  they  grown)  to  be  confounded  with 
the  very  vices  they  lay  contiguous  to,  and  had 
sprung  out  of.  That  he  was  a  wine-bibber  and 
gross  liver;  gluttonously  fond  of  whatever 
would  yield  him  a  little  solacement,  were  it 
only  of  a  stomachic  character,  is  undeniable 
enough.  That  he  was  vain,  heedless,  a  bab- 
bler; had  much  of  the  sycophant,  alternating 
with  the  braggadocio,  curiously  spiced  too  with 
an  all-pervading  dash  of  the  coxcomb  ;  that  he 
gloried  much  when  the  Tailor,  by  a  court-suit, 
had  made  a  new  man  of  him  ;  that  he  appeared 
at  the  Shakspeare  Jubilee  with  a  riband,  im- 
printed "ConsicA  Boswell,"  round  his  hat; 
and  in  short,  if  you  will,  lived  no  day  of  his 
life  without  doing  and  saying  more  than  one 
pretentious  ineptitude:  all  this  unhappily  is 
evident  as  tlie_sjiiiL  at.noon.  The  very  look  of 
Boswell  seems  to  have  signified  so  much.  In 
that  cocked  nose,  cocked  partly  in  triumph 
over  his  weaker  fellow-creatures,  partly  to 
snuflT  up  the  smell  of  coming  pleasure,  and 
scent  it  from  afar;  in  those  bag-cheeks,  hang- 
ing like  half-filled  wine-skins,  still  able  to  con- 
tain more;  in  that  coarsely  protruded  shelf- 
mouth,  that  fat  dewlapped  chin ;  in  all  this, 
who  sees  not  sensuality,  pretension,  boisterous 
imbecility  enough;  much  that  could  not  have 
been  ornamental  in  the  temper  of  a  great  man's 
overfed  great  man,  (what  the  Scotch  name 
flunky,)  though  it  had  been  more  natural  there. 
The  under  part  of  Boswell's  face  is  of  a  low, 
almost  brutish  character.  ^-^^ 

Unfortunately,  on  the  other  hand,  what  great 
and  genuine  good  lay  in  him  was  nowise  so 
self-evident.  That  Boswell  was  a  hunter  after 
spiritual  Notabilities,  that  he  loved  such,  and 
longed,  and  even  crept  and  crawled  to  be  near 
them ;  that  he  first  (in  old  Touchwood  Auchin- 
leck's  phraseology)  "  took  on  with  Paoli,"  and 
then  being  ofi'with  "the  Corsican landlouper,'* 
took  on  with  a  schoolmaster,  "  ane  that  keeped 
a  schule,  and  ca'd  it  an  academe;"  that  he  did 
all  this,  and  could  not  help  doing  it,  we  account 
a  very  singular  merit.  The  man,  once  for  all, 
had  an  "  open  sense,"  an  open  loving  heart, 
which  so  few  have :  where  Excellence  existed, 
he  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  it;  was 
drawn  towards  it,  and  (let  the  old  sulphur- 
brand  of  a  Laird  say  what  he  liked)  could  not 
but  walk  with  it, — if  not  as  superior,  if  not  as 
equal,  then  as  inferior  and  lackey,  better  so 
than  not  at  all.  If  we  reflect  now  that  this  love 
of  Excellence  had  not  only  smc^  an  evil  naiwre 
to  triumph  over;  but  also  what  an  education 
and  social  position  withstood  it  and  weighed 
it  down,  its  innate  strength,  victorious  overall 
these  things,  may  astonish  us.  Consider  what 
an  inward  impulse  there  must  have  been,  how 
many  mountains  of  impediment  hurled  aside, 
before  the  Scottish  Laird  could,  as  humble 
servant,  embrace  the  knees  (the  bosom  was 
not  permitted  him)  of  the  English  Dominie! 
"  Your  Scottish  Laird,"  says  an  English  na- 
turalist of  these  days,  "  may  be  defined  as  the 
hungriest  and  vainest  of  all  bipeds  yet  known." 
Boswell  too  was  a  Tory;  of  quite  peculiarly 
feudal,  genealogical,  pragmatical  temper,  had 


320 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


been  nurtured  in  an  atmosphere  of  Heraldry ; 
at  the  feet  of  a  very  Gamaliel  in  that  kind; 
within  bare  walls,  adorned  only  with  pedigrees, 
amid  serving-men  in  threadbare  livery ;  all 
things  teaching  him,  from  birth  upwards,  to 
remember,  that  a  Laird  was  a  Laird.  Perhaps 
there  was  a  special  vanity  in  his  very  blood : 
old  Auchinleck  had,  if  not  the  gay,  tail-spread- 
ing, peacock  vanity  of  his  son,  no  little  of  the 
slow-stalking,  contentious,  hissing  vanity  of 
the  gander;  a  still  more  fatal  species.  Scottish 
Advocates  will  yet  tell  you  how  the  ancient 
man,  having  chanced  to  be  the  first  sheritF  ap- 
pointed (after  the  abolition  of  "  hereditary 
jurisdiction ")  by  royal  authority,  was  wont, 
in  dull  pompous  tone,  to  preface  many  a  de- 
liverance from  the  bench,  with  these  words : 
« I,  the  first  king's  Sheriff"  in  Scotland." 

And  now  behold  the  worthy  Bozzy,  so  pre- 
possessed and  held  back  by  nature  and  by  art, 
fly  nevertheless  like  iron  to  its  magnet,  whither 
his  better  genius  called !  You  may  surround 
the  iron  and  the  magnet  with  what  enclosures 
and  encumbrances  you  please, — with  wood, 
with  rubbish,  with  brass :  it  matters  not,  the 
two  feel  each  other,  they  struggle  restlessly 
towards  each  other,  they  mil  be  together.  The 
iron  may  be  a  Scottish  squirelet,  full  of  gulosity 
and  "  gigmanity  ;"*  the  magnet  an  English  ple- 
beian, and  moving  rag-and-dust  mountain, 
coarse,  proud,  irascible,  imperious  :  neverthe- 
less, behold  how  they  embrace,  and  insepara- 
bly cleave  to  one  another !  It  is  one  of  the 
strangest  phenomena  of  the  past  century,  that 
at  a  time  when  the  old  reverent  feeling  of  Dis- 
cipleship  (such  as  brought  men  from  far 
countries,  with  rich  gifts,  and  prostrate  soul, 
to  the  feet  of  the  Prophets)  had  passed  utterly 
away  from  men's  practical  experience,  and 
was  no  longer  surmised  to  exist,  (as  it  does,) 
perennial,  indestructible,  in  man's  inmost  heart, 
— James  Boswell  should  have  been  the  in- 
dividual, of  all  others,  predestined  to  recall  it, 
in  such  singular  guise,  to  the  wondering,  and, 
for  a  long  while,  laughing,  and  unrecognising 
world.  It  has  been  commonly  said,  The  man's 
vulgar  vanity  was  all  that  attached  him  to 
Johnson  ;  he  delighted  to  be  seen  near  him,  to 
be  thought  connected  with  him.  Now  let  it  be 
at  once  granted  that  no  consideration  spring- 
ing out  of  vulgar  vanity  could  well  be  absent 
from  the  mind  of  James  Boswell,  in  this  his 
intercourse  with  Johnson,  or  in  any  consider- 
able transaction  of  his  life.  At  the  same  time 
ask  yourself:  Whether  such  vanity,  and  no- 
thing else,  actuated  him  therein ;  whether  this 
was  the  true  essence  and  moving  principle  of 
the  phenomenon,  or  not  rather  its  outward 
vesture,  and  the  accidental  environment  (and  de- 
facement) in  which  it  came  to  light  1  The  man 
was,  by  nature  and  habit,  vain;  a  sycophant- 
coxcomb,  be  it  granted :  but  had  there  been 
nothing  more  than  vanity  in  him,  was  Samuel 
Johnson  the  man  of  men  to  whom  he  must 
attach  himself?  At  the  date  when  Johnson 
was  a  poor  rusty-coated  "  scholar,"  dwelling 


*  Q  "  What  do  you  mean  by  '  respectable  V—ji.  He 
always  kept  a  gig."— {Thurteirs  T'rftfZ.)— "Thus,"  it 
has  been  said,  "does  society  naturally  divide  itself 
into  four  classes:  Noblemen," Gentlemen,  Gigmen,  and 
Men."  / 


in  Temple-lane,  and  indeed  throughout  their 
whole  intercourse  afterwards,  were  there  not 
chancellors  and  prime  ministers  enough; 
graceful  gentlemen,  the  glass  of  fashion;  hon- 
our-giving noblemen  ;  dinner  giving  rich  men; 
renowned  fire-eaters,  swordsmen,  gownsmen; 
Quacks  and  Realities  of  all  hues, — any  one 
of  whom  bulked  much  larger  in  the  world's 
eye  than  Johnson  ever  did  ]  To  any  one  of 
whom,  by  half  that  submissiveness  and  assi- 
duity, our  Bozzy  might  have  recommended 
himself;  and  sat  there,  the  envy  of  surround- 
ing lickspittles ;  pocketing  now  solid  emolu- 
ment, swallowing  now  well-cooked  viands  and 
wines  of  rich  vintage ;  in  each  case,  also, 
shone  on  by  some  glittering  reflex  of  Renown 
or  Notoriety,  so  as  to  be  the  observed  of  in- 
nlimerable  observers.  To  no  one  of  whom, 
however,  though  otherwise  a  most  diligent 
solicitor  and  purveyor,  did  he  so  attach  him- 
self; such  vulgar  courtierships  were  his  paid 
drudgery,  or  leisure-amusement ;  the  worship 
of  Johnson  was  his  grand,  ideal,  voluntary 
business.  Does  not  the  frothy-hearted  yet 
enthusiastic  man,  doffing  his  Advocate's-wig, 
regularly  take  post,  and  hurry  up  to  London, 
for  the  sake  of  his  Sage  chiefly ;  as  to  a  Feast 
of  Tabernacles,  the  Sabbath  of  his  whole  year  ? 
The  plate-licker  and  wine-bibber  dives  into 
Bolt  Court,  to  sip  mud^y  coffee  with  a  cynical 
old  man,  and  a  sour-tempered  blind  old  woman 
(feeling  the  cups,  whether  they  are  full,  with 
her  finger;)  and  patiently  endured  contradic- 
tions without  end ;  too  happy  so  he  may  but 
be  allowed  to  listen  and  live.  Nay,  it  does 
not  appear  that  vulgar  vanity  could  ever  have 
been  much  flattered  by  Boswell's  relation  to 
Johnson.  Mr.  Croker  says,  Johnson  was,  to 
the  last,  little  regarded  by  the  great  world ; 
from  which,  for  a  vulgar  vanity,  all  honour,  as 
from  its  fountain,  descends.  Bozzy,  even 
among  Johnson's  friends  and  special  admirers, 
seems  rather  to  have  been  laughed  at  than 
envied  :  his  officious,  whisking,  consequential 
ways,  the  daily  reproofs  and  rebuflTs  he  under- 
went, could  gain  from  the  world  no  golden, 
but  only  leaden,  opinions.  His  devout  Dis- 
cipleship  seemed  nothing  more  than  a  mean 
Spanielship,  in  the  general  eye.  His  mighty 
"constellation,"  or  sun,  round  whom  he,  as 
satellite,  observantly  gyrated,  was,  for  the  mass 
of  men,  but  a  huge  ill-snufl^ed  tallow-light,  and 
he  a  weak  night-moth,  circling  foolishly,  dan- 
gerously about  it,  not  knowing  what  he  wanted. 
If  he  enjoyed  Highland  dinners  and  toasts,  as 
henchman  to  a  new  sort  of  chieftain,  Henry 
Erskine,  in  the  domestic  "  Outer-House,"  could 
hand  him  a  shilling  "for  the  sight  of  his  Bear." 
Doubtless  the  man  was  laughed  at,  and  often 
heard  himself  laughed  at  for  his  Johnsonism. 
To  be  envied,  is  the  grand  and  sole  aim  of 
vulgar  vanity;  to  be  filled  with  good  things  is 
that  of  sensuality :  for  Johnson  perhaps  no 
man  living  envied  poor  Bozzy;  and  of  good 
things  (except  himself  paid  for  them)  there 
was  no  vestige  in  that  acquaintanceship.  Had 
nothing  other  or  better  than  vanity  and  sen- 
suality been  there,  Johnson  and  Boswell  had 
never  come  together,  or  had  soon  and  finally 
separated  again. 
In  fact,  the  so  copious  terrestrial  Dross  that 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


321 


welters  chaotically,  as  the  outer  sphere  of  this 
man's  character,  does  but  render  for  us  more 
remarkable,  more  touching,  the  celestial  spark 
of  goodness,  of  light,  and  Reverence  for  Wis- 
dom, which  dwelt  in  the  interior,  and  could 
struggle  through  such  encumbrances,  and  in 
some  degree  illuminate  and  beautify  them. 
There  is  much  lying  yet  undeveloped  in  the 
love  of  Boswell  for  Johnson.  A  cheering 
proof,  in  a  time  which  else  utterly  wanted  and 
still  wants  such,  that  living  Wisdom  is  quite 
infinitely  precious  to  man,  is  the  symbol  of  the 
Godlike  to  him,  which  even  weak  eyes  may 
discern;  that  Loyalty,  Discipleship,  all  that 
was  ever  meant  by  Hero-worship,  lives  peren- 
...Jiially  in  the  human  bosom,  and  waits,  even  in 
these  dead  days,  only  for  occasions  to  unfold 
it,  and  inspire  all  men  with  it,  and  again  make 
the  world  alive !  James  Boswell  we  can  re- 
gard as  a  practical  witness  (or  real  martyr)  to 
this  high,  everlasting  truth.  A  wonderful 
martyr,  if  you  will ;  and  in  a  time  which  made 
such  martyrdom  doubly  wonderful:  yet  the 
time  and  its  martyr  perhaps  suited  each  other. 
For  a  decrepit,  death-sick  Era,  when  Cant  had 
first  decisively  opened  her  poison-breathing 
lips  to  proclaim  that  God-worship  and  Mam- 
mon-worship were  one  and  the  same,  that  Life 
was  a  Lie,  and  the  Earth  Beelzebub's,  which 
the  Supreme  Quack  should  inherit;  and  so  all 
things  were  fallen  into  the  yellow  leaf,  and  fast 
hastening  to  noisome  corruption  :  for  such  an 
Era,  perhaps  no  better  Prophet  than  a  parti- 
coloured Zany-Prophet,  concealing  (from  him- 
self and  others)  his  prophetic  significance  in 
such  unexpected  vestures, — was  deserved,  or 
would  have  been  in  place.  A  precious  medi- 
cine lay  hidden  in  floods  of  coarsest,  most 
composite  treacle :  the  world  swallowed  the 
treacle,  for  it  suited  the  world's  palate;  and 
now,  after  half  a  century,  may  the  medicine 
also  begin  to  show  itself!  James  Boswell  be- 
longed, in  his  corruptible  part,  to  the  lowest 
classes  of  mankind ;  a  foolish,  inflated  creature, 
swimming  in  an  element  of  self-conceit:  but 
in  his  corruptible  there  dwelt  an  incorruptible, 
all  the  more  impressive  and  indubitable  for  the 
strange  lodging  it  had  taken. 

Consider,  too,  with  what  force,  diligence, 
and  vivacity,  he  has  rendered  back,  all  this 
which,  in  Johnson's  neighbourhood,  his  "  open 
sense"  had  so  eagerly  and  freely  taken  in. 
That  loose-flowing,  careless-looking  Work  of 
his  is  as  a  picture  by  one  of  Nature's  own 
Artists;  the  best  possible  resemblance  of  a 
Reality;  like  the  very  image  thereof  in  a  clear 
mirror.  Which  indeed  it  was:  let  but  the 
mirror  be  dear,  this  is  the  great  point ;  the  pic- 
ture must  and  will  be  genuine.  How  the  bab- 
^"Sling  Bozzy,  inspired  only  by  love,  and  the 
recognition  and  vision  which  love  can  lend, 
epitomizes  nightly  the  words  of  Wisdom,  the 
deeds  and  aspects  of  Wisdom,  and  so,  by  little 
and  little,  unconsciously  works  together  for  us 
a  whole  Johmoniad;  a  more  free,  perfect,  sun- 
lit, and  spirit-speaking  likeness,  than  for  many 
N4;enturies  had  been  drawn  by  man  of  man ! 
Scarcely  since  the  days  of  Homer  has  the  feat 
been  equalled:  indeed,  in  many  senses,  this 
also  is  a  kind  of  Heroic  Poem.  The  fit  Odys- 
sey of  our  unheroic  age  was  to  be  written,  not 
41 


sung;  of  a  Thinker,  not  of  a  Fighter;  and  (for 
want  of  a  Homer)  by  the  first  open  soul  that 
might  offer, — looked  such  even  through  the  or- 
gans of  a  Boswell.  We  do  the  man's  intel- 
lectual endowment  great  wrong,  if  we  measure 
it  by  its  mere  logical  outcome ;  though  here, 
too,  there  is  not  wanting  a  light  ingenuity,  a 
figurativeness,  and  fanciful  sport,  with  glimpses 
of  insight  far  deeper  than  the  common.  But 
Boswell's  grand  intellectual  talent  was  (as 
such  ever  is)  an  unconscious  one,  of  far  higher 
reach  and  significance  than  Logic ;  and  showed 
itself  in  the  whole,  not  in  parts.  Here  again 
we  have  that  old  saying  verified,  "The  heart 
sees  farther  than  the  head." 

Thus  does  poor  Bozzy  stand  out  to  us  as  an 
ill-assorted,  glaring  mixture  of  the  highest  and 
the  lowest.  What,  indeed,  is  man's  life  gene- 
rally but  a  kind  of  beast-godhood ;  the  god  in 
us  triumphing  more  and  more  over  the  beast ; 
striving  more  and  more  to  subdue  it  under  his 
feet?  Did  not  the  Ancients,  in  their  wise,  pe- 
rennially significant  way,  figure  Nature  itself, 
their  sacred  All,  or  Pan,  as  a  portentous  com- 
mingling of  these  two  discords;  as  musical, 
humane,  oracular  in  its  upper  part,  yet  ending 
below  in  the  cloven  hairy  feet  of  a  goati  The 
union  of  melodious,  celestial  Freewill  and 
Reason,  with  foul  Irrationality  and  Lust;  in 
which,  nevertheless,  dwelt  a  mysterious  un- 
speakable Fear  and  half-mad  panic  Awe ;  as 
for  mortals  there  well  might !  And  is  not  man 
a  microcosm,  or  epitomized  mirror  of  that 
same  Universe;  or,  rather,  is  not  that  Uni- 
verse even  Himself,  the  reflex  of  his  own  fear- 
ful and  wonderful  being,  "the  waste  fantasy 
of  his  own  dream  1"  No  wonder  that  man,  that 
each  man,  and  James  Boswell  like  the  others, 
should  resemble  it!  The  peculiarity  in  his 
case  was  the  unusual  defect  of  amalgamation 
and  subordination :  the  highest  lay  side  by 
side  with  the  lowest;  not  morally  combined 
with  it  and  spiritually  transfiguring  it;  but 
tumbling  in  half-mechanical  juxtaposition 
with  it,  and  from  time  to  time,  as  the  mad  al- 
ternation chanced,  irradiating  it,  or  eclipsed 
by  it. 

The  world,  as  we  said,  has  been  but  unjust 
to  him;  discerning  only  the  outer  terrestrial 
and  often  sordid  mass;  without  eye,  as  it 
generally  is,  for  his  inner  divine  secret ;  and 
thus  figuring  him  nowise  as  a  god  Pan,  but 
simply  of  the  bestial  species,  like  the  cattle 
on  a  thousand  hills.  Nay,  sometimes  a  strange 
enough  hypothesis  has  been  started  of  him ; 
as  if  it  were  in  virtue  even  of  these  same  bad 
qualities  that  he  did  his  good  work ;  as  if  it 
were  the  very  fact  of  his  being  among  the 
worst  men  in  this  world  that  had  enabled  him 
to  write  one  of  the  best  books  therein  !  Falser 
hypothesis,  we  may  venture  to  say,  never  rose 
in  human  soul.  Bad  is  by  its  nature  negative, 
and  can  do  nothing :  whatsoever  enables  us  to 
do  any  thing  is  by  its  very  nature  good.  Alas, 
that  there  should  be  teachers  in  Israel,  or  even 
learners,  to  whom  this  world-ancient  fact  is 
still  problematical,  or  even  deniable!  Bos- 
well wrote  a  good  Book  because  he  had  a 
heart  and  an  eye  to  discern  Wisdom,  and  an 
utterance  to  render  it  forth  ;  because  of  his  free 
insight,  his  lively  talent,  above  all,  of  his  Love 


323 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  childlike  Open-mindedness.  His  sneaking 
sycophancies,  his  greediness  and  forwardness, 
whatever  was  bestial  and  earthy  in  him,  are 
so  many  blemishes  in  his  Book,  which  still 
disturb  us  in  its  clearness:  wholly  hindrances, 
not  helps.  Towards  Johnson,  however,  his 
feeling  was  not  Sycophancy,  which  is  the  low- 
est, but  Reverence,  which  is  the  highest  of 
human  feelings.  None  but  a  reverent  man 
(which  so  unspeakably  few  are)  could  have 
found  his  way  from  Boswell's  environment  to 
Johnson's :  if  such  worship  for  real  God-made 
superiors  showed  itself  also  as  worship  for 
apparent  Tailor-made  superiors,  even  as  hol- 
low, interested  mouth-worship  for  such, — the 
case,  in  this  composite  human  nature  of  ours, 
was  not  miraculous,  the  more  was  the  pity ! 
But  for  ourselves,  let  every  one  of  us  cling  to 
this  last  article  of  Faith,  and  know  it  as  the 
beginning  of  all  knowledge  worth  the  name  ; 
That  neither  James  Boswell's  good  Book,  nor 
any  other  good  thing,  in  any  time  or  in  any 
place,  was,  is,  or  can  be  performed  by  any 
man  in  virtue  of  his  badness,  but  always  and 
solely  in  spite  thereof. 

As  for  the  Book  itself,  questionless  the  uni- 
versal favour  entertained  for  it  is  well  merited. 
In  worth  as  a  Book  we  have  rated  it  beyond 
any  other  product  of  the  eighteenth  century : 
all  Johnson's  own  Writings,  laborious  and  in 
their  kind  genuine  above  most,  stand  on  a 
quite  inferior  level  to  it;  already,  indeed,  they 
are  becoming  obsolete  for  this  generation  ;  and 
for  some  future  generation,  may  be  valuable 
chiefly  as  Prolegomena  and  expository  Scholia 
to  this  Johnsoniad  of  Bos  well.  Which  of  us 
but  remembers,  as  one  of  the  sunny  spots  in 
his  existence,  the  day  when  he  opened  these 
airy  volumes,  fascinating  him  by  a  true  natural- 
magic  !  It  was  as  if  the  curtains  of  the  Past 
were  drawn  aside,  and  we  looked  mysteriously 
into  a  kindred  country,  where  dwelt  our 
Fathers  ;  inexpressibly  dear  to  us,  but  which 
had  seemed  for  ever  hidden  from  our  eyes. 
For  the  dead  Night  had  engulfed  it;  all  was 
gone,  vanished  as  if  it  had  not  been.  Never- 
theless, wondrously  given  back  to  us,  there 
once  more  it  lay ;  all  bright,  lucid,  blooming ; 
a  little  island  of  Creation  amid  the  circumam- 
bient Void.  There  it  still  lies;  like  a  thing 
stationary,  imperishable,  over  which  change- 
ful Time  were  now  accumulating  itself  in 
vain,  and  could  not,  any  longer,  harm  it,  or 
hide  it. 

If  we  examine  by  what  charm  it  is  that  men 
are  still  held  to  this  Life  of  Johnson,  now  when 
so  much  else  has  been  forgotten,  the  main  part 
of  the  answer  will  perhaps  be  found  in  that 
speculation  "on  the  import  of  Reality,"  com- 
municated to  the  world,  last  Month,  in  this 
Magazine.  The  Johnsoniad  of  Boswell  turns 
on  objects  that  in  very  deed  existed ;  it  is  all 
true.  So  far  other  in  melodiousness  of  tone,  it 
vies  with  the  Odyssey  or  surpasses  it,  in  this 
one  point:  to  us  these  read  pages,  as  those 
chanted  hexameters  were  to  the  first  Greek 
heroes,  are  in  the  fullest,  deepest  sense, 
wholly  credible.  All  the  wit  and  wisdom,  lying 
embalmed  in  Boswell's  Book,  plenteous  as 
these  are,  could  not  have  saved  it.  Far  more 
scientific    instruction    (mere    excitement    and 


enlightenment  of  the  thinking  power)  can  be 
found  in  twenty  other  works  of  that  time,  which 
make  but  a  quite  secondary  impression  on  us. 
The  other  works  of  that  time,  however,  fall 
under  one  of  two  classes  :  Either  they  are  pro- 
fessedly Pid actio  ;  and,  in  that  way,  mere  Ab- 
stractions, Philosophic  Diagrams,  incapable 
of  interesting  us  much  otherwise  than  as 
Euclid's  Elements  may  do :  Or  else,  with  all 
their  vivacity,  and  pictorial  richness  of  colour, 
they  are  Fictions  and  not  Realities.  Deep,  truly, 
as  Herr  Sa'uerteig  urges,  is  the  force  of  this 
consideration:  The  thing  here  stated  is  a  fact; 
these  figures,  that  local  habitation,  are  not 
shadow  but  substance.  In  virtue  of  such  ad- 
vantages, see  how  a  very  Boswell  may  become 
Poetical ! 

Critics  insist  much  on  the  Poet  that  he 
should  communicate  an  "Infinitude"  to  his 
delineation  ;  that  by  intensity  of  conception, 
by  that  gift  of  "  transcendental  Thought," 
which  is  fitly  named  genius,  and  inspiration,  he 
should  inform  the  Finite  with  a  certain  Infini- 
tude of  significance;  or  as  they  sometimes  say, 
ennoble  the  Actual  into  Idealness.  They  are 
right  in  their  precept ;  they  mean  rightly.  But 
in  cases  like  this  of  the  Johnsoniad,  (such  is 
the  dark  grandeur  of  that  "Time-element," 
wherein  man's  soul  here  below  lives  impri- 
soned,) the  Poet's  task  is,  as  it  were,  done  to 
his  hand:  Time  itself,  which  is  the  outer  veil 
of  Eternity,  invests,  of  its  own  accord,  with  an 
authentic,  felt  "  infinitude,"  whatsoever  it  has 
once  embraced  in  its  mysterious  folds.  Con- 
sider all  that  lies  in  that  one  word.  Past! 
What  a  pathetic,  sacred,  in  every  sense  poetic, 
meaning  is  implied  in  it;  a  meaning  growing 
ever  the  clearer,  the  farther  we  recede  in  Time, 
— the  more  of  that  same  Past  we  have  to  look 
through  ! — On  which  ground  indeed  must 
Sauerteig  have  built,  and  not  without  plausi- 
bility, in  that  strange  thesis  of  his  :  "that  His- 
tory after  all  is  the  true  Poetry ;  that  Reality 
if  rightly  interpreted  is  grander  than  Fiction; 
nay,  that  even  in  the  right  interpretation  of 
Reality  and  History  does  genuine  Poetry  con- 
sist." — . 

Thus  for  BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson  has  Time  1 
done,  is  Time  still  doing,  what  no  ornament 
of  Art  or  Artifice  could  have  done  for  it.  Rough 
Samuel  and  sleek  wheedling  James  were,  and 
are  not.  Their  Life  and  whole  personal  Envi- 
ronment has  melted  into  air.  The  Mitre 
Tavern  still  stands  in  Fleet  Street:  but  where 
now  is  its  scot-and-lot  paying,  beef-and-ale 
loving,  cocked-hatted,  potbellied  Landlord;  its 
rosy-faced,  assiduous  Landlady,  with  all  her 
shining  brass-pans,  waxed  tables,  well-filled 
larder-shelves  ;  her  cooks,  and  bootjacks,  and 
errand-boys,  and  watery-mouthed  hangers-on  1 
Gone  !  Gone!  The  becking  waiter,  that  with 
wreathed  smiles,  wont  to  spread  for  Samuel 
and  Bozzy  their  "supper  of  the  gods,"  has  long 
since  pocketed  his  last  sixpence ;  and  vanish- 
ed, sixpences  and  all,  like  a  ghost  at  cock- 
crowing.  The  Bottles  they  drank  out  of  are 
all  broken,  the  Chairs  they  sat  on  all  rotted 
and  burnt;  the  very  Knives  and  Forks  they 
ate  with  have  rusted  to  the  heart,  and  become 
brown  oxide  of  iron,  and  mingled  with  the  in- 
discriminate clay.    All,  all,  has  vanished ;  in 


x: 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE,  OF  JOHNSON. 


very  deed  and  truth,  like  that  baseless  fabric 
of  Prospero's  air-vision.  Of  the  Mitre  Tavern 
nothing  but  the  bare  walls  remain  there:  of 
London,  of  England,  of  the  World,  nothing  but 
the  bare  walls  remain ;  and  these  also  decay- 
ing, (were  they  of  adamant,)  only  slower.  The 
mysterious  River  of  Existence  rushes  on :  a 
new  Billow  thereof  has  arrived,  and  lashes 
wildly  as  ever  round  the  old  embankments ; 
but  the  former  Billow  with  its  loud,  mad  eddy- 
ings,  where  is  it  1 — Where  ! — Now  this  Book 
of  Bosweirs,  this  is  precisely  a  Revocation  of 
the  Edict  of  Destiny ;  so  that  Time  shall  not 
utterly,  not  so  soon  by  several  centuries,  have 
dominion  over  us.  A  little  row  of  Naphtha- 
lamps,  with  its  line  of  Naphtha-light,  burns 
clear  and  holy  through  the  dead  Night  of  the 
Past :  they  who  are  gone  are  still  here ;  though 
hidden  they  are  revealed,  though  dead  they  yet 
speak.  There  it  shines,  that  little  miraculously 
lamp-lit  Pathway;  shedding  its  feebler  and 
feebler  twilight  into  the  boundless  dark  Ob- 
livion, for  all  that  our  Johnson  touched  has 
become  illuminated  for  us  :  on  which  miracu- 
lous little  Pathway  we  can  still  travel,  and  see 
wonders. 

It  is  not  speaking  with  exaggeration,  but 
with  strict  measured  sobriety,  to  say  that  this 
Book  of  Boswell's  will  give  us  more  real  in- 
sight into  the  History  of  England  during  those 
days  than  twenty  other  Books,  falsely  entitled 
"Histories,"  which  take  to  themselves  that 
special  aim.  What  good  is  it  to  me  though 
innumerable  Smolletts  and  Belshams  keep 
dinning  in  my  ears  that  a  man  named  George 
the  Third  was  born  and  bred  up,  and  a  man 
named  George  the  Second  died  ;  that  Walpole, 
and  the  Pelhams,  and  Chatham,  and  Rocking- 
ham, and  Shelburne,  and  North,  with  their 
Coalition  or  their  Separation  Ministries,  all 
ousted  one  another ;  and  vehemently  scrambled 
for  "  the  thing  they  called  the  Rudder  of  Go- 
vernment, but  which  was  in  reality  the  Spigot 
of  Taxation  1"  That  debates  were  held,  and 
infinite  jarring  and  jargoning  took  place  ;  and 
road-bills  and  enclosure-bills,  and  game-bills 
and  India-bills,  and  Laws  which  no  man  can 
number,  which  happily  few  men  needed  to 
trouble  their  heads  with  beyond  the  passing 
moment,  were  enacted,  and  printed  by  the 
King's  Stationer]  That  he  who  sat  in  Chan- 
cery, and  rayed  out  speculation  from  the 
Woolsack,  was  now  a  man  that  squinted,  now 
a  man  that  did  not  squint?  To  the  hungry 
and  thirsty  mind  all  this  avails  next  to  nothing. 
These  men  and  these  things,  we  indeed  know, 
did  swim,  by  strength  or  by  specific  levity,  (as 
apples  or  as  horse-dung,)  on  the  top  of  the 
current ;  but  is  it  by  painfully  noting  the 
courses,  eddyings,  and  bobbings  hither  and 
thither  of  such  drift-articles,  that  you  will  un- 
fold to  me  the  nature  of  the  current  itself;  of 
that  mighty-rolling,  loud-roaring.  Life-current, 
bottomless  as  the  foundations  of  the  Universe, 
mysterious  as  its  Author?  The  thing  I  want 
to  see  is  not  Redbook  Lists,  and  Court  Calen- 
dars, and  Parliamentary  Registers,  but  the 
Life  of  Matt  in  England:  what  men  did, 
thought,  suflfered,  enjoyed  ;  the  form,  especially 
the  spirit,  of  their  terrestrial  existence,  its  out- 
ward environment,  its  inward  principle;  how 


and  what  it  was;  whence  it  proceeded,  whither 
it  was  tending. 

Mournful,  in  truth,  is  it  to  behold  what  the 
business  called  "  History,"  in  these  so  enlight- 
ened and  illuminated  times,  still  continues  to 
be.  Can  you  gather  from  it,  read  till  your 
eyes  go  out,  any  dimmest  shadow  of  an  an- 
swer to  that  great  question :  How  men  lived 
and  had  their  being;  were  it  bwt  economically, 
as  what  wages  they  got,  and  what  they  bought 
with  these?  Unhappily  you  cannot.  History 
will  throw  no  light  on  any  such  matter.  At 
the  point  where  living  memory  fails,  it  is  all 
darkness;  Mr.  Senior  and  Mr.  Sadler  must 
still  debate  this  simplest  of  all  elements  in  the 
condition  of  the  past:  Whether  men  were  bet- 
ter off,  in  their  mere  larders  and  pantries,  or 
were  worse  off  than  now !  History,  as  it  stands 
all  bound  up  in  gilt  volumes,  is  but  a  shade 
more  instructive  than  the  wooden  volumes  of 
a  Backgammon-board.  How  my  Prime  Minis- 
ter was  appointed  is  of  less  moment  to  me 
than  How  my  House  Servant  was  hired.  In 
these  days,  ten  ordinary  Histories  of  Kings 
and  Courtiers  were  well  exchanged  against 
the  tenth  part  of  one  good  History  of  Book- 
sellers. 

For  example,  I  would  fain  know  the  His- 
tory of  Scotland  ;  who  can  tell  it  me  ?  "  Ro- 
bertson," cry  innumerable  voices  ;  "Robertson 
against  the  world."  I  open  Robertson ;  and 
find  there,  through  long  ages  too  confused  for 
narrative,  and  fit  only  to  be  presented  in  the 
way  of  epitome  and  distilled  essence,  a  cun- 
ning answer  and  hypothesis,  not  to  this  ques- 
tion :  By  whom,  and  by  what  means,  when 
and  how,  was  this  fair  broad  Scotland,  with 
its  Arts  and  Manufactures,  Temples,  Schools, 
Institutions,  Poetry,  Spirit,  National  Charac- 
ter, created  and  made  arable,  verdant,  pecu- 
liar, great,  here  as  I  can  see  some  fair  section 
of  it  lying,  kind  and  strong,  (like  some  Bac- 
chus-tamed Lion,)  from  the  Castle-hill  of  Edin- 
burgh ? — but  to  this  other  question  :  How  did 
the  King  keep  himself  alive  in  these  old  days; 
and  restrain  so  many  Butcher-Barons  and 
ravenous  Henchmen  from  utterly  extirpating 
one  another,  so  that  killing  went  on  in  some 
sort  of  moderation  ?  In  the  one  little  Letter 
of  iEneas  Sylvius,  from  old  Scotland,  there  is 
more  of  History  than  in  all  this. — At  length, 
however,  we  come  to  a  luminous  age,  interest- 
ing enough;  to  the  age  of  the  Reformation. 
All  Scotland  is  awakened  to  a  second  higher 
life :  the  Spirit  of  the  highest  stirs  in  every 
bosom,  agitates  every  bosom ;  Scotland  is 
convulsed,  fermenting,  struggling  to  body 
itself  forth  anew.  To  the  herdsman  among 
his  cattle  in  remote  woods ;  to  the  craftsman, 
in  his  rude,  heath-thatched  workshop,  among 
his  rude  guild-brethren  ;  to  the  great  and  to 
the  little,  a  new  light  has  arisen :  in  town  and 
hamlet  groups  are  gathered,  with  eloquent 
looks,  and  governed  or  ungovernable  tongues; 
the  great  and  the  little  go  forth  together  to  do 
battle  for  the  Lord  against  the  mighty.  We 
ask,  with  breathless  eagerness  :  How  was  it ; 
how  went  it  on?  Let  us  understand  it,  let  us 
see  it,  and  know  it ! — In  reply,  is  handed  us  a 
really  graceful,  and  most  dainty  little  Scanda- 
lous Chronicle  (as  for  some  Journal  of  Fash- 


324 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ion)  of  two  persons :  Mary  Stuart,  a  Beauty, 
but  over  lightheaded ;  and  Henry  Darnley,  a 
Booby,  who  had  fine  legs.  How  these  first 
courted, billed  and  cooed,  according  to  nature; 
then  pouted,  fretted,  grew  utterly  enraged,  and 
blew  one  another  up  with  gunpowder:  this, 
and  not  the  History  of  Scotland,  is  what  we 
goodnaturedly  read.  Nay,  by  other  hands, 
something  like  a  horseload  of  other  Books 
have  been  written  to  prove  that  it  was  the 
Beauty  who  blew  up  the  Booby,  and  that  it  was 
not  she.  Who  or  what  it  was,  the  thing  once 
for  all  be^g  so  effectually  done,  concerns  us 
little.  To  know  Scotland,  at  that  great  epoch, 
were  a  valuable  increase  of  knowledge :  to 
know  poor  Darnley  and  see  him  with  burning 
candle,  from  centre  to  skin,  were  no  increase 
of  knowledge  at  all. — Thus  is  History  written. 
Hence,  indeed,  comes  it  that  History,  which 
\  should  be  "the  essence  of  innumerable  Bio- 
I  graphics,"  will  tell  us,  question  it  as  we  like, 
less  than  one  genuine  Biography  may  do, 
pleasantly  and  of  its  own  accord!  The  time 
is  approaching  when  History  will  be  attempted 
on  quite  other  principles;  when  the  Court,  the 
Senate,  and  Battle-field,  receding  more  and 
more  into  the  background,  the  Temple,  the 
Workshop,  and  Social  Hearth,  will  advance 
more  and  more  into  the  foreground  ;  and  His- 
tory will  not  content  itself  with  shaping  some 
answer  to  that  question  :  How  are  men  taxed 
and  kept  quiet  then?  but  will  seek  to  answer 
this  other  infinitely  wider  and  higher  question : 
How  and  what  were  men  then  1  Not  our  Go- 
vernment only,  or  the  ^^  House  wherein  our  life 
was  led,"  but  the  Life  itself  we  led  there,  will 
be  inquired  into.  Of  which  latter  it  may  be 
found  that  Government,  in  any  modern  sense 
of  the  word,  is  after  all  but  a  secondary  con- 
dition :  in  the  mere  sense  of  Taxation  and 
Keeping  quiet,  a  small,  almost  a  pitiful  one. — 
Meanwhile  let  us  welcome  such  Boswells, 
each  in  his  degree,  as  bring  us  any  genuine 
contribution,  were  it  never  so  inadequate,  so 
inconsiderable. 

An  exception  was  early  taken  against  this 
Life  of  Johnson,  and  all  similar  enterprises, 
which  we  here  recommend ;  and  has  been 
transmitted  from  critic  to  critic,  and  repeated 
in  their  several  dialects,  uninterruptedly,  ever 
since  :  That  such  jottings  down  of  careless 
conversation  are  an  infringement  of  social 
privacy ;  a  crime  against  our  highest  Free- 
dom, the  Freedom  of  man's  intercourse  with 
man.  To  this  accusation,  which  we  have 
read  and  heard  oftener  than  enough,  might  it 
not  be  well  for  once  to  oflfer  the  flattest  con- 
tradiction, and  plea  of  Not  at  all  guilty  ?  Not 
that  conversation  is  noted  down,  but  that  con- 
versation should  not  deserve  noting  down,  is 
the  evil.  Doubtless,  if  conversation  be  falsely 
recorded,  then  is  it  simply  a  Lie;  and  w^orthy 
of  being  swept,  with  all  despatch,  to  the  Fa- 
ther of  Lies.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  con- 
versation can  be  authentically  recorded,  and 
any  one  is  ready  for  the  task,  let  him  by  all 
means  proceed  with  it;  let  conversation  be 
kept  in  remembrance  to  the  latest  date  possi- 
ble. Nay,  should  the  consciousness  that  a 
man  may  be  among  us  "taking  notes"  tend, 
in  any  measure,  to  restrict  those  floods  of  idle 


insincere  speech  with  which  the  thougU  of  man- 
kind is  well  nigh  drowned, — were  it  other  than 
the  most  indubitable  benefit]  He  who  speaks 
honestly  cares  not,  needs  not  care,  though  his 
words  be  preserved  to  remotest  time :  for  him 
who  speaks  rfishoneslly,  the  fittest  of  all  punish- 
ments seems  to  be  this  same,  which  the  na- 
ture of  the  case  provides.  The  dishonest 
speaker,  not  he  only  who  purposely  utters 
falsehoods,  but  he  who  does  not  purposely, 
and  with  sincere  heart,  utter  Truth,  and  Truth 
alone ;  who  babbles  he  knows  not  what,  and 
has  clapped  no  bridle  on  his  tongue,  but  lets  it 
run  racket,  ejecting  chatter  and  futility, — is 
among  the  most  indubitable  malefactors  omit- 
ted, or  inserted,  in  the  Criminal  Calendar. 
To  him  that  will  well  consider  it,  idle  speak- 
ing is  precisely  the  beginning  of  all  Hollow- 
ness,  Halfness,  Infidelity,  (want  of  Faithful- 
ness ;)  the  genial  atmosphere  in  which  rank 
weeds  of  every  kind  attain  the  mastery  over 
noble  fruits  in  man's  life,  and  utterly  choke 
them  out:  one  of  the  most  crying  maladies 
of  these  days,  and  to  be  testified  against,  and 
in  all  waj's  to  the  uttermost  withstood.  Wise, 
of  a  wisdom  far  beyond  our  shallow  depth, 
was  that  old  precept :  Watch  thy  tongue ;  out 
of  it  are  the  issues  of  Life  !  "  Man  is  properly 
an  incarnated  tvord ;"  the  word  that  he  speaks  is 
the  man  himself.  Were  eyes  put  into  our 
head,  that  we  might  see;  or  only  that  we  might 
fancy,  and  plausibly  pretend,  we  had  seen? 
Was  the  tongue  suspended  there,  that  it  might 
tell  truly  what  we  had  seen,  and  make  man 
the  soul's  brother  of  man ;  or  only  that  it 
might  utter  vain  sounds,  jargon,  soul-confus- 
ing, and  so  divide  man,  as  by  enchanted  walls 
of  Darkness,  from  union  with  man  ?  Thou 
who  wearest  that  cunning,  Heaven-made  or- 
gan, a  Tongue,  think  well  of  this.  Speak  not, 
I  passionately  entreat  thee,  till  thy  thought 
have  silently  matured  itself,  till  thou  have 
other  than  mad  and  mad-making  noises  to 
emit :  hold  thy  tongue  (thou  hast  it  a-holding) 
till  some  meaning  lie  behind,  to  set  it  wagging. 
Consider  the  significance  of  Silence:  it  is 
boundless,  never  by  meditating  to  be  exhaust- 
ed ;  unspeakably  profitable  to  thee  !  Cease 
that  chaotic  hubbub,  wherein  thy  own  soul 
runs  to  waste,  to  confused  suicidal  dislocation 
and  stupor:  out  of  Silence  comes  thy  strength. 
"  Speech  is  silvern.  Silence  is  golden  ;  Speech 
is  human,  Silence  is  divine."  Fool!  thinkest 
thou  that  because  no  Boswell  is  there  with 
ass-skin  and  black-lead  to  note  thy  jargon,  it 
therefore  dies  and  is  harmless?  Nothing  dies, 
nothing  can  die.  No  idlest  word  thou  speak- 
est  but  is  a  seed  cast  into  Time,  and  grows 
through  all  Eternity  I  The  Recording  Angel, 
consider  it  well,  is  no  fable,  but  the  truest  of 
truths  :  the  paper  tablets  thou  canst  burn  ;  of 
the  "iron  leaf"  there  is  no  burning. — Truly, 
if  we  can  permit  God  Almighty  to  note  down 
our  conversation,  thinking  it  good  enough  for  . 
Him, — any  poor  Boswell  need  not  scruple  to  | 
work  his  will  of  it.  — — .,.| 

Leaving  now  this  our  English  Odyssey,  with 
its  Singer  and  Scholiast,  let  us  come  to  the 
Ulysses;  that  great  Samuel  Johnson  himself, 
the  far-experienced,  "  mxich-enduring   man," 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


325 


T 


whose  labours  and  pilgrimage  are  here  sung. 
A  full-length  image  of  his  Existence  has  been 
preserved  for  us:  and  he,  perhaps  of  all  living 
Englishmen,  was  the  one  who  best  deserved 
that  honour.  For  if  it  is  true  and  now  almost 
proverbial,  that  "  the  Life  of  the  lowest  mortal, 
if  faithfully  recorded,  would  be  interesting  to 
the  highest;"  how  much  more  when  the  mor- 
tal in  question  was  already  distinguished  in 
fortune  and  natural  quality,  so  that  his  think- 
ings and  doings  were  not  significant  of  himself 
only, but  of  large  masses  of  mankind  !  '*  There 
is  not  a  man  whom  I  meet  on  the  streets,"  says 
one,  "but  I  could  like,  were  it  otherwise  con- 
venient, to  know  his  Biography:"  neverthe- 
less, could  an  enlightened  curiosity  be  so  far 
gratified,  it  must  be  owned  the  Biography  of 
most  ought  to  be,  in  an  extreme  degree,  sum- 
mary. In  this  world,  there  is  so  wonderfully 
little  self-subsistence  among  men  ;  next  to  no 
originality,  (though  never  absolutely  none:) 
one  Life  is  too  servilely  the  copy  of  another; 
and  so  in  whole  thousands  of  them  you  find 
little  that  is  properly  new ;  nothing  but  the  old 
song  sung  by  a  new  voice,  with  better  or 
worse  execution,  here  and  there  an  ornamen- 
tal quaver,  and  false  notes  enough :.  but  the 
fundamental  tune  is  ever  the  same ;  and  for 
the  tvords,  these,  all  that  they  meant  stands 
written  generally  on  the  Churchyard  stone : 
Naius  sum :  esuriebam,  qucerebam ;  nunc  replettis 
requiesro.  Mankind  sail  their  Life-voyage  in 
huge  fleets,  following  some  single  whale-fish- 
ing or  herring-fishing  Commodore:  the  log- 
book of  each  differs  not,  in  essential  purport, 
from  that  of  any  other;  nay  the  most  have  no 
legible  log-book  (reflection,  observation  not 
being  among  their  talents ;)  keep  no  reckon- 
ing, only  keep  in  sight  of  the  flagship, — and  fish. 
Read  the  Commodore's  Papers,  (know  his  Life ;) 
and  even  your  lover  of  that  street  Biography 
will  have  learned  the  most  of  w^hat  he  sought 
after. 

Or,  the  servile  imitancy,  and  yet  also  a  nobler 
relationship  and  mysterious  union  to  one 
another  which  lies  in  such  imitancy,  of  Man- 
kind might  be  illustrated  under  the  different 
figure  (itself  nowise  original)  of  a  Flock  of 
Sheep.  Sheep  go  in  flocks  for  three  reasons  : 
First,  because  they  are  of  a  gregarious  temper, 
and  love  to  be  together:  Secondly,  because  of 
their  cowardice ;  they  are  afraid  to  be  left 
alone :  Thirdly,  Ijecause  the  common  run  of 
them  are  dull  of  sight,  to  a  proverb,  and  can 
have  no  choice  in  roads ;  sheep  can  in  fact  see 
nothing;  in  a  celestial  Luminary,  and  a  scour- 
ed pewter  Tankard,  would  discern  only  that 
both  dazzled  them,  and  were  of  unspeakable 
glory.  How  like  their  fellow-creatures  of  the 
human  species!  Men,  too,  as  was  from  the 
first  maintained  here,  are  gregarious:  then 
surely  faint-hearted  enough,  trembling  to  be 
left  by  themselves:  above  all,  dull-sighted, 
down  to  the  verge  of  utter  blindness.  Thus 
are  we  seen  ever  running  in  torrents,  and 
mobs,  if  we  run  at  all ;  and  after  what  foolish 
scoured  Tankards,  mistaking  them  for  Suns  ! 
Foolish  Turnip-lanterns  likewise,  to  all  ap- 
pearance supernatural,  keep  whole  nations 
quaking,  their  hair  on  end.  Neither  know 
we,  except  by  blind  habit,  where  the  good  pas- 


tures lie :  solely  when  the  sweet  grass  is  be- 
tween our  teeth,  we  know  it,  and  chew  it;  also 
when  grass  is  bitter  and  scant,  we  know  it, — 
and  bleat  and  butt:  these  last  two  facts  we 
know  of  a  truth,  and  in  very  deed. — Thus  do 
Men  and  Sheep  play  their  parts  on  this  Nether 
Earth ;  wandering  restlessly  in  large  masses, 
they  know  not  whither;  for  most  part,  each 
following  his  neighbour,  and  his  own  nose. 

Nevertheless,  not  always ;  look  better,  you 
shall  find  certain  that  do,  in  some  small  de- 
gree, know  whither.  Sheep  have  their  Bell- 
wether; some  ram  of  the  folds,  endued  with 
more  valour,  with  clearer  vision  than  other 
sheep ;  he  leads  them  through  the  wolds,  by 
height  and  hollow,  to  the  woods  and  water- 
courses, for  covert  or  for  pleasant  provender; 
courageously  marching,  and  if  need  be,  leap- 
ing, and  with  hoof  and  horn  doing  battle,  in 
the  van:  him  they  courageously,  and  with  as- 
sured heart,  follow.  Touching  it  is,  as  every 
herdsman  will  inform  you,  with  what  chival- 
rous devotedness  these  woolly  Hosts  adhere  to 
their  Wether;  and  rush  after  him,  through 
good  report  and  through  bad  report,  were  it 
into  safe  shelters  and  green  thymy  nooks,  or 
into  asphaltic  lakes  and  the  jaws  of  devouring 
lions.  Ever  also  must  we  recall  that  fact 
which  we  owe  Jean  Paul's  quick  eye:  "If  you 
hold  a  stick  before  the  Wether,  so  that  he,  by 
necessity,  leaps  in  passing  you,  and  then  with- 
draw your  stick,  the  Flock  will  nevertheless 
all  leap  as  he  did ;  and  the  thousandth  sheep 
shall  be  found  impetuously  vauhing  over  air, 
as  the  first  did  over  an  otherwise  impassable 
barrier."  Reader,  would st  thou  understand 
Society,  ponder  well  those  ovine  proceedings; 
thou  wilt  find  them  all  curiously  significant. 

Now  if  sheep  always,  how  much  more  must 
men  always,  have  their  Chief,  their  Guide ! 
Man,  too,  is  by  nature  quite  thoroughly  grega- 
rious :  nay,  ever  he  struggles  to  be  something 
more,  to  be  social;  not  even  when  Society  has 
become  impossible,  does  that  deep-seated  ten- 
dency and  effort  forsake  him.  Man,  as  if  by 
miraculous  magic,  imparts  his  Thoughts,  his 
Mood  of  mind  to  man;  an  unspeakable  com- 
munion binds  all  past,  present,  and  future  men 
into  one  indissoluble  whole,  almost  into  one 
living  individual.  Of  which  high,  mysterious 
Truth,  this  disposition  to  imitate,  to  lead  and 
be  led,  this  impossibility  not  to  imitate,  is  the 
most  constant,  and  one  of  the  simplest  mani- 
festations. To  "  imitate  !"  which  of  us  all  can 
measure  the  significance  that  lies  in  that  one 
wordi  By  virtue  of  which  the  infant  Man, 
born  at  Woolsthorpe,  grows  up  not  to  be  a 
hairy  Savage,  and  chewer  of  Acorns,  but  an 
Isaac  Newton,  and  Discoverer  of  Solar  Sys- 
tems ! — Thus  both  in  a  celestial  and  terrestrial 
sense,  are  we  a  Flock,  such  as  there  is  no 
other:  nay,  looking  away  from  the  base  and 
ludicrous  to  the  sublime  and  sacred  side  of  the 
matter,  (since  in  every  matter  there  are  two 
sides,)  have  not  we  also  a  Shepherd,  "if  we 
will  but  hear  his  voice  1"  Of  those  stupid 
multitudes  there  is  no  one  but  has  an  immor- 
tal Soul  within  him  ;  a  reflex,  and  living  image 
of  God's  whole  Universe:  strangely,  from  its 
dim  environment,  the  light  of  the  Highest 
looks  through  him ;  for  which  reason,  indeed, 
2  £ 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


it  is  that  we  claim  a  brotherhood  with  him, 
and  so  love  to  know  his  History,  and  come 
into  clearer  and  clearer  union  with  all  that  he 
feels,  and  says,  and  does. 

However,  the  chief  thing  to  be  noted  was 
this :  Amid  those  dull  millions,  who,  as  a  dull 
flock,  roll  hither  and  thither,  whithersoever  they 
are  led,  and  seem  all  sightless  and  slavish,  ac- 
complishing, attempting  little  save  what  the 
animal  instinct  (in  its  somewhat  higher  kind) 
might  teach,  (to  keep  themselves  and  their 
young  ones  alive,) — are  scattered  here  and 
there  superior  natures,  whose  eye  is  not  desti- 
tute of  free  vision,  nor  their  heart  of  free  voli- 
tion. These  latter,  therefore,  examine  and 
determine,  not  what  others  do,  but  what  it  is 
'  right  to  do;  towards  which,  and  which  only, 
will  they,  with  such  force  as  is  given  them, 
resolutely  endeavour:  for  if  the  Machine, 
living  or  inanimate,  is  merely  fed,  or  desires 
to  be  fed,  and  so  works ;  the  Person  can  will, 
and  so  do.  These  are  properly  our  Men,  our 
Great  Men  ;  the  guides  of  the  dull  host, — which 
follows  them  as  by  an  irrevocable  decree. 
They  are  the  chosen  of  the  world :  they  had 
this  rare  faculty  not  only  of  "supposing"  and 
"inclining  to  think,"  but  oi knowing  and  believ- 
ing; the  nature  of  their  being  was,  that  they 
lived  not  by  Hearsay  but  by  clear  Vision ; 
while  others  hovered  and  swam  along,  in  the 
grand  Vanity-fair  of  the  World,  blinded  by  the 
mere  "  Shows  of  things,"  these  saw  into  the 
Things  themselves,  and  could  walk  as  men 
having  an  eternal  load-star,  and  with  their  feet 
on  sure  paths.  Thus  was  there  a  Reality  in 
their  existence;  something  of  a  perennial 
character ;  in  virtue  of  which  indeed  it  is  that 
the  memory  of  them  is  perennial.  Whoso 
belongs  only  to  his  own  age,  and  reverences 
only  its  gilt  Popinjays  or  soot-smeared  Mum- 
bojumbos,  must  needs  die  with  it;  though  he 
have  been  crowned  seven  times  in  the  Capitol, 
or  seventy  and  seven  times,  and  Rumour  have 
blown  his  praises  to  all  the  four  winds,  deafen- 
ing every  ear  therewith, — it  avails  not;  there 
.,  was  nothing  universal,  nothing  eternal  in  him; 
he  must  fade  away,  even  as  the  Popinjay- 
gildings  and  Scarecrow-apparel,  which  he 
could  not  see  through.  The  great  man  does, 
in  good  truth,  belong  to  his  own  age ;  nay, 
more  so  than  any  other  man  ;  being  properly 
the  synopsis  and  epitome  of  such  age  with  its 
interests  and  influences  :  but  belongs  likewise 
to  all  ages,  otherwise  he  is  not  great.  What 
was  transitory  in  him  passes  away;  and  an 
immortal  part  remams,  the  significance  of 
-  which  is  in  strict  speech  inexhaustible, — as 
I  that  of  every  real  object  is.  Aloft,  conspicuous, 
*  on  his  enduring  basis,  he  stands  there,  serene, 
unallering;  silently  addresses  to  every  new 
generation  a  new  lesson  and  monition.  Well 
is  his  Life  worth  writing,  worth  interpreting ; 
and  ever,  in  the  new  dialect  of  new  times,  of 
re-writing  and  re-interpreting. 

Of  such  chosen  men  was  Samuel  Johnson  : 

not  ranking  among  the  highest,  or  even  the 

high,  yet  distinctly  admitted  into  that  sacred 

band;  whose  existence  was  no   idle  Dream, 

•  but  a  Reality  which  he  transacted  awake  ;\no- 

vj  wise  a  Clothes-horse  and  Patent  Digester,  but 

jka  genuine  Man.    By  nature  he  was  gifted  for 


the  noblest  of  earthly  tasks,  that  of  Priesthood, 
and  Guidance  of  mankind ;  by  destiny,  more- 
over, he  was  appointed  to  this  task,  and  did 
actually,  according  to  strength,  fulfil  the  same ;/' 
so  that  always  the  question,  How;  in  what 
spirit ;  under  what  shape  ?  remains  for  us  to  be 
asked  and  answered  concerning  him.  For  as 
the  highest  Gospel  was  a  Biography,  so  is  the 
Life  of  every  good  man  still  an  indubitable 
Gospel,  and  preaches  to  the  eye  and  heart  and 
whole  man,  that  Devils  even  must  believe  and 
tremble,  these  gladdest  tidings:  "Man  is 
heaven-born  ;  not  the  thrall  of  Circumstances, 
of  Necessity,  but  the  victorious  subduer 
thereof:  behold  how  he  can  become  the 
'Announcer  of  himself  and  of  his  Freedom;* 
and  is  ever  what  the  Thinker  has  named  him, 
'  the  Messias  of  Nature !'  " — Yes,  Reader,  all 
this  that  thou  hast  so  often  heard  about  "  force 
of  circumstances,"  "  the  creature  of  the  time," 
"  balancing  of  motives,"  and  who  knows  what 
melancholy  stuff  to  the  like  purport,  wherein 
thou,  as  in  a  nightmare  Dream,  sittest  paralyz- 
ed, and  hast  no  force  left, — was  in  very  truth, 
if  Johnson  and  waking  men  are  to  be  credited, 
little  other  than  a  hag-ridden  vision  of  death- 
sleep  :  some  half'fa.ct,  more  fatal  at  times  than 
a  whole  falsehood.  Shake  i.t  off;  awake ;  up 
and  be  doing,  even  as  it  is  given  thee ! 

The  Contradiction  which  yawns  wide  enough 
in  every  Life,  which  it  is  the  meaning  and  task 
of  Life  to  reconcile,  was  in  Johnson's  wider 
than  in  most.  ^Seldom,  for  any  man,  has  the 
contrast  between  the  ethereal  heavenward  side 
of  things,  and  the  dark  sordid  earthward,  been 
more  glaring:  ^whether  we  look  at  Nature's 
work  with  htm  or  Fortune's,  from  first  to  last, 
heterogeneity,  as  of  sunbeams  anij  miry  clay, 
is  on  all  hands  manifest.  Whereby  indeed, 
only  this  was  declared,  That(nnich  Life  hsid 
been  given  him ;  many  things  to  triumph  over, 
a  great  work  to  do.  ^Happily  also  he  did  it; 
better  than  the  most. 

Nature  had  given  him  a  high,  keen-visioned, 
almost  poetic  soul ;  yet  M'ithal  imprisoned  it  in 
an  inert,  unsightly  body:  he  that  -could  never 
rest  had  not  limbs  that  would  move  with  him, 
but  only  roll  and  waddle :  the  inward  eye,  all- 
penetrating,  all  embracing,  must  look  through 
bodily  windows  that  were  dim,  half-blinded  ; 
he  so  loved  men,  and  "  never  r)nce  jsuw  the 
human  face  divine  !"  Not  less  did  he  prize  the 
love  of  men;  he  was  eminently  social;  the 
approbation  of  his  fellows  was  dear  to  him, 
"  valuable,"  as  he  owned,  "  if  from  the  meanest 
of  human  beings:"  yet  the  first.impression  he 
produced  on  every  man  waj  to  be  bne'of  aver- 
sion, almost  of  disgust.  By  Nature^  it  was 
farther  ordered  that  the  imperious  Johnson 
should  be  born  poor:  the  ruler-soul,  strong  in 
its  native  royalty,  generous,  uncontrollable, 
like  the  lion  of  the  woods,  was  to  be  housed, 
then,  in  such  a  dwelling-place:  of  Disfigure- 
ment, Disease,  and  lastly  of  a  Poverty  which 
itself  made  him  the  servant  of  servants.  Thus 
was  the  born  King  likewise  a  born  Slave:  the 
divine  spirit  of  Music  must  awake  imprisoned 
amid  dull-croaking  universal  Discords;  the 
Ariel  finds  himself  encased  in  the  coarse  hulls 
of  a  Caliban.  So  is  it  more  or  less,  we  know, 
(and  thou,0  Reader,  knowest  and  feelest  even 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


327 


now,)  with  all  men  :  yet  with  the  fewest  men 
in  any  such  degree  as  with  Johnson. 

Fortune,  moreover,  which  had  so  managed 
his  first  appearance  in  the  world,  lets  not  her 
hand  lie  idle,  or  turn  the  other  way,  but  works 
nnweariedly  in  the  same  spirit,  while  he  is 
journeying  through  the  world.  What  such  a 
mind,  stamped  of  Nature's  noblest  metal, 
though  in  so  ungainly  a  die,  was  specially 
and  best  of  all  fitted  for,  might  still  be  a  ques- 
tion. To  none  of  the  world's  few  Incorporated 
Guilds  could  he  have  adjusted  himself  without 
difficulty,  without  distortion ;  in  none  been  a 
Guild-Brother  well  at  ease.  Perhaps,  if  we 
look  to  the  strictly  practical  nature  of  his 
faculty,  to  the  strength,  decision,  method  that 

^...jnanifests  itself  in  him,  we  may  say  that  his 
calling  was  rather  towards  Active  than  Specu- 
lative life ;  that  as  Statesman,  (in  the  higher, 
now  obsolete  sense,)  Lawgiver,  Ruler:  in 
short,  as  Doer  of  the  Work,  he  had  shone  even 
more  than  as  Speaker  of  the  Word.  His  hon- 
esty of  heart,  his  courageous  temper,  the  value 
he  set  on  things  outward  and  material,  might 
have  made  him  a  King  among  Kings.  Had 
the  golden  age  of  those  new  French  Prophets, 
when  it  shall  be  :  A  chacun  selon  sa  capacite ;  a 

-^'-ehaqiie  capacite  selon  ses  (Euvres,  but  arrived  !  In- 
1  deed  even  in  our  brazen  and  Birmijigham-lacker 
r  age,  he  hirnself  regrettea  that  he  had  TiUl  Pe- 
come  a  Lawyer,  and  risen  to  be  Chancellor, 
which  he  might  well  have  done.  However,  it 
was  otherwise  appointed.  To  no  man  does 
Fortune  throw  open  all  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world,  and  say :  It  is  thine ;  choose  where  thou 
wilt  dwell !  To  the  most  she  opens  hardly  the 
smallest  cranny  or  doghutch,  and  says,  not 
without  asperity:  There,  that  is  thine  whilst 
thou  canst  keep  it:  nestle  thyself  there,  and 
bless  Heaven  !  Alas,  men  must  fit  themselves 
into  many  things :  some  forty  years  ago,  for 
instance,  the  noblest  and  ablest  man  in  all  the 
British  lands  might  be  seen  not  swaying  the 
royal  sceptre,  or  the  pontiff's  censer,  on  the 
pinnacle  of  the  World,  but  gauging  ale-tubs  in 
the  little  burgh  of  Dumfries  !  Johnson  came  a 
little  nearer  the  mark  than  Burns :  but  with 
him  too,  "Strength  was  mournfully  denied  its 
arena;"  he  too  had  to  fight  Fortune  at  strange 
odds,  all  his  life  long. 

Johnson's  disposition  for  royalty,  (had  the 
Fates  so  ordered  it,)  is  well  seen  in  early  boy- 
hood. "  His  favourites,"  says  Boswell,  "  used 
to  receive  very  liberal  assistance  from  him  ; 
and  such  was  the  submission  and  deference 
with  which  he  was  treated,  that  three  of  the 
boys,  of  whom  Mr.  Hector  was  sometimes  one, 
used  to  come  in  the  morning  as  his  humble 
attendants,  and  carry  him  to  school.  One  in 
the  middle  stooped,  while  he  sat  upon  his  back, 
and  one  on  each  side  supported  him  ;  and  thus 

^   was  he  borne  triumphant."  (  The^^£urfij,  sand- 

/^  blind  lubber  and  blubber,  with"  his  open  mouth 
and  his  face  of  bruised  honeycomb:  yet  al- 
ready dominant,  imperial,  and  irresistible  !  Not 
in  the  "  King's  chair"  (of  human  arms)  as  we 
see,  do  his  three  satellites  carry  him  along: 
rather  on  the  TyranCs-saddle,  the  back  of  his 
fellow-creature,  must  he  ride  prosperous  ! — 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man.  He  who  had 
seen  fifty  years  into  coming  Time,  would  have 


felt  that  little  spectacle  of  mischievous  school- 
boys to  be  a  great  one.  For  us,  who  look  back 
on  it,  and  what  followed  it,  now  from  afar,  there 
arise  questions  enough :  How  looked  these 
urchins]  What  jackets  and  galligaskins  had 
they ;  felt  headgear,  or  of  dogskin  leather!  What 
was  old  Lichfield  doing  then  ;  what  thinking] 
— and  so  on,  through  the  whole  series  of  Cor- 
poral Trim's  "  auxiliary  verbs."  A  picture  of 
it  all  fashions  itself  together ; — only  unhappily 
we  have  no  brush,  and  no  fingers. 

Boyhood  is  now  past;  the  ferula  of  Peda- 
gogue waves  harmless,  in  the  distance:  Sam- 
uel has  struggled  up  to  uncouth  bulk  and 
youthhood,  wrestling  with_fiisease  ajod^J^cy-  ' 
erty,  all  the  way ;  wFucTTTwo  coritmuie  still  his 
companions.  At  College  we  see  little  of  him: 
yet  thus  much,  that  things  went  not  well.  A 
rugged  wild-man  of  the  desert,  awakened  to 
the  feeling  of  himself;  proud  as  the  proudest, 
poor  as  the  poorest :  stoically  shut  up,  silently 
enduring  the  incurable  :  what  a  world  of  black- 
est gloom,  with  sun-gleams,  and  pale,  tearful 
moon-gleams,  and  flickerings  of  a  celestial  and 
an  infernal  splendour,  was  this  that  now  opened 
for  him  !  But  the  weather  is  wintry;  and  the 
toes  of  the  man  are  looking  through  his  shoes. 
His  muddy  features  grow  of  a  purple  and  sea- 
green  colour;  a  flood  of  black  indignation 
mantling  beneath.  {^A  truculeiLt,  raw-boned 
figure !  Meat  he  has  probably  little ;  hope  he  " 
has  less  ;  his  feet,  as  we  said,  have  come  into 
brotherhood  with  the  cold  mire. 

*'  Shall  I  be  particular,"  inquires  Sir  John 
Hawkins,  "  and  relate  a  circumstance  of  his 
distress,  that  cannot  be  imputed  to  him  as  an 
effect  of  his  own  extravagance  or  irregularity, 
and  consequently  reflects  no  disgrace  on  his 
memory  1  He  had  scarce  any  change  of  rai- 
ment, and,  in  a  short  time  after  Corbet  left  him, 
but  one  pair  of  shoes,  and  those  so  old  that  his 
feet  were  seen  through  them  :  a  gentleman  of 
his  college,  the  father  of  an  eminent  clergy- 
man now  living,  directed  a  servitor  one  morn- 
ing to  place  a  new  pair  at  the  door  of  Johnson's 
chamber;  who  seeing  them  upon  his  first 
going  out,  so  far  forgot  himself  and  the  spirit 
which  must  have  actuated  his  unknown  bene- 
factor, that,  with  all  the  indignation  of  an  in- 
sulted man,  he  threw  them  away." 

How  exceedingly  surprising  ! — The  Rev.  Dr. 
Hall  remarks  :  "  As  far  as  we  can  judge  from 
a  cursory  view  of  the  weekly  account  in  the 
buttery  books,  Johnson  appears  to  have  lived 
as  well  as  other  commoners  and  scholars." 
Alas!  such  "<iursory  view  of  the  buttery 
books,"  now  from  the  safe  distance  of  a  cen- 
tury, in  the  safe  chair  of  a  College  Mastership, 
is  one  thing  ;  the  continual  view  of  the  empty 
(or  locked)  buttery  itself  was  quite  a  different 
thing.  But  hear  our  Knight,  how  he  farther 
discourses.  "  Johnson,"  quoth  Sir  John, "  could 
not  at  this  early  period  of  his  life  divest  him- 
self of  an  idea  that  poverty  was  disgraceful ; 
and  was  very  severe  in  his  censures  of  that 
economy  in  both  our  Universities,  which  ex- 
acted at  meals  the  attendance  of  poor  scholars, 
under  the  several  denominations  of  Servitors 
in  the  one  and  Sizers  in  the  other :  he  thought 
that  the  Scholar's,  like  the  Christian  life,  le- 
.  veiled  all  distinctions  of  rank  and  worldly  pre- 


328 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


A  eminence  ;  but  in  this  he  was  mistaken :  civil 
polity,"  &c.,  &c.-fToo  true !  it  is  man's  lot  to 
err.  ' 

However,  Destiny,  in  all  ways,  means  to 
prove  the  mistaken  Samuel,  and  see  what  stuff 
is  in  him.  He  must  leave  these  butteries  of 
Oxford,  Want  like  an  armed  man  compelling 
him ;  retreat  into  his  father's  mean  home ; 
and  there  abandon  himself  for  a  season  to  in- 
action, disappointment,  shame,  and  nervous 
melancholy  nigh  run  mad ;  he  is  probably  the 
wretchedest  man  in  wide  England.  In  all 
ways,  he  too  must  "  become  perfect  through 
suffering.^' — High  thoughts  have  visited  him ; 
his  College  Exercises  have  been  praised 
~  beyond  the  walls  of  College;  Pope  himself 
has  seen  that  Translation,  and  approved  of  it : 
Samuel  had  whispered  to  himself:  I  too  am 
"  one  and  somewhat."  False  thoughts  ;  that 
leave  only  misery  behind!  The  fever-fire  of 
Ambition  is  too  painfully  extinguished  (but  not 
cured)  in  the  frost-bath  of  Poverty.  Johnson 
has  knocked  at  the  gate,  as  one  having  a 
right;  but  there  was  no  opening:  the  world 
lies  all  encircled  as  with  brass  ;  nowhere  can 
he  find  or  force  the  smallest  entrance.  An 
ushership  at  Market  Bosworth,  and  "a  dis- 
agreement between  him  and  Sir  Wolstan  Dixie, 
the  Patron  of  the  school,"  yields  him  bread  of 
affliction  and  water  of  affliction ;  but  so  bitter, 
that  unassisted  human  nature  cannot  swallow 
them,  (young  Samson  will  grind  no  more  in 
the  Philistine  mill  of  Bosworth  ;  quits  hold  of 
Sir  Wolstan  and  the  "  domestic  chaplaincy,  so 
far  at  least  as  to  say  grace  at  table,"  and  also 
to  be  "  treated  with  what  he  represented  as 
intolerable  harshness;"  and  so,  after  "some 
months  of  such  complicated  misery,"  feeling 
doubtless  that  there  are  worse  things  in  the 
world  than  quick  death  by  Famine,  "relin- 
quishes a  situation,  which  all  his  life  after- 
wards he  recollected  with  the  strongest  aver- 
sion, and  even  horror."  Men  like  Johnson  are 
properly  called  the  Forlorn  Hope  of  the  World : 
judge  whether  his  hope  was  forlorn  or  not,  by 
this  letter  to  a  dull  oily  Printer,  who  called 
hinuself  Sylvanus  Urban: 

"  Sir, — As  you  appear  no  less  sensible  than 
your  readers,  of  the  defect  of  your  poetical 
article,  you  will  not  be  displeased  if  (in  order 
to  the  improvement  of  it)  I  communicate  to 
you  the  sentiments  of  a  person  who  will  under- 
take, on  reasonable  terms,  sometimes  to  fill  a 
column. 

"  His  opinion  is,  that  the  public  would," 
♦fee,  &c. 

"  If  such  a  correspondence  will  be  agreeable 
to  you,  be  pleased  to  inform  me  in  two  posts, 
what  the  conditions  are  on  which  you  shall 
expect  it.  Your  late  offer  (for  a  Prize  Poem) 
gives  me  no  reason  to  distrust  your  generosity. 
If  you  engage  in  any  literary  projects  besides 
this  paper,  I  have  other  designs  to  impart." 

Reader,  the  generous  person,  to  whom  this 
Letter  goes  addressed,  is  "  Mr.  Edmund  Cave, 
at  St.  John's  Gate,  London;"  the  addresser  of 
it  is  Samuel  Johnson,  in  Birmingham,  War- 
wickshire. 

Nevertheless,  Life  rallies  in  the  man  ;  re-as- 
serts its  right  to  be  lived,  even  to  be  enjoyed. 
«  Better  a  small  bush,"  say  the  Scotch,  "  than 


no  shelter :"( John  son  learns  to  be  contented 
with  humble  human  things  ;  and  is  there  not 
already  an  actually  realized  human  Existence, 
all  stirring  and  living  on  every  hand  of  him  ? 
Go  thou  and  do  likewise !  In  Birmingham 
itself,  with  his  own  purchased  goose-quill,  he 
can  earn  "  five  pounds ;"  nay,  finally,  the 
choicest  terrestrial  good :  a  Friend,  who  will  .y< 
be  Wife  to  him  !  Johnson's  marriage  with  the 
good  Widow  Porter  has  been  treated  with  ridi- 
cule by  many  mortals,  who  apparently  had  no 
understanding  thereof.  That  the  purblind, 
seamy-faced  Wildman,  stalking  lonely,  wo- 
stricken,  like  some  Irish  Gailow-glass  with 
peeled  club,  whose  speech  no  man  knew, 
whose  look  all  men  both  laughed  at  and  shud- 
dered at,  should  find  any  brave  female  heart, 
to  acknowledge,  at  first  sight  and  hearing  of 
him,  "  This  is  the  most  sensible  man  I  ever 
met  with  ;"  and  then,  with  generous  courage, 
to  take  him  to  itself,  and  say,  Be  thou  mine  ; 
be  thou  warmed  here,  and  thawed  int.a Ufie! — 
in  all  this,  in  the  kind  Widow's  love  and  pity 
for  him,  in  Johnson's  love  and  gratitude,  there 
is  actually  no  matter  for  ridicule.  Their  wed- 
ded life,  as  is  the  common  lot,  was  made  up  of 
drizzle  and  dry  weather;  but  innocence  and 
worth  dwelt  in  it;  and  when  death  had  ended 
it,  a  certain  sacredness :  Johnson's  deathless 
affection  for  his  Tetty  was  always  venerable 
and  noble.  However,  be  this  as  it  might, 
Johnson  is  now  minded  to  wed  ;  and  will  live 
by  the  trade  of  Pedagogy,  for  by  this  also  may 
life  be  kept  in.  Let  the  world  therefore  take 
notice:  "Jit  Edial  near  Lichfield,  in  Stafford- 
shire, young  gendemen  are  boarded,  and  taught  the 
Latin  and  Greek  languages,  by  Samvet.  JoHssoy." 
|Had  this  Edial  enterprise  prospered,  how  dif- 
ferent might  the  issue  have  been  !  Johnsoi^ 
had  lived  a  life  of  unnoticed  nobleness,  or 
swoln  into  some  amorphous  Dr.  Parr,  of  no 
avail  to  us ;  Bozzy  would  have  dwindled  into 
official  insignificance,  or  risen  by  some  other 
elevation  ;  old  Auchinleck  had  never  been  af- 
flicted with  "  ane  that  kept  a  schule,"  or  obliged 
to  violate  hospitality  by  a  "  Cromwell  do  ?  God, 
sir,  he  gart  kings  ken  that  there  was  a  lith  in 
their  neck  I"  But  the  Edial  enterprise  did  not 
prosper;  Destiny  had  other  work  appointed  for 
Samuel  Johnson;  and  young  gentlemen  got 
board  where  they  could  elsewhere  find  it. 
This  man  was  to  become  a  Teacher  of  grown 
gentlemen,  in  the  most  surprising  way;  a 
man  of  Letters,  and  Ruler  of  the  British 
Nation  for  some  time, — not  of  their  bodies 
merely,  but  of  their  minds;  not  over  them, 
but  in  them. 

The  career  of  Literature  could  not,  in  John- 
son's day,  any  more  than  now,  be  said  to  lie 
along  the  shores  of  a  Pactolus  :  whatever  else 
might  be  gathered  there,  gold-dust  was  nowise 
the  chief  produce.  The  world,  from  the  times 
of  Socrates,  St.  Paul,  and  far  earlier,  has  al- 
ways had  its  Teachers ;  and  always  treated 
them  in  a  peculiar  way.  A  shrewd  Town- 
clerk,  (not  of  Ephesus,)  once,  in  founding 
a  Burgh-Seminary,  when  the  question  came. 
How  the  Schoolmasters  should  be  maintained] 
delivered  this  brief  counsel:  "D — n  them, 
keep  them  poor  /"     Considerable  wisdom  may 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


339 


lie  in  this  aphorism.  At  all  events,  we  see,  the 
world  has  acted  on  it  long,  and  indeed  im- 
proved on  it, — putting  many  a  Schoolmaster 
of  its  great  Burgh-Seminary  to  a  death,  which 
even  cost  it  something.  The  world,  it  is  true, 
had  for  some  time  been  too  busy  to  go  out  of 
its  way,  andpttf  any  Author  to  death;  however, 
the  old  sentence  pronounced  against  them  was 
found  to  be  pretty  sufficient.  {  The  first  Writers 
(being  Monks)  were  sworn  to  a  vow  of  Po- 
verty; the  modern  Authors  had  no  need  to 
swear  to  it.  ^  This  was  the  epoch  when  an 
Otway  could  still  die  of  hunger:  not  to  speak 
of  your  innumerable  Scrogginses,  whom  "  the 
Muse  found  stretched  beneath  a  rug,"  with 
"rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire,"  stocking- 
nightcap,  sanded  floor,  and  all  the  other  es- 
cutcheons of  the  craft,  time  out  of  mind  the 
heirlooms  of  Authorship.  Scroggins,  how- 
ever, seems  to  have  been  but  an  idler ;  not  at  all 
so  diligent  as  worthy  Mr.  Boyce,  whom  we 
might  have  seen  sitting  up  in  bed  with  his 
wearing  apparel  of  Blanket  about  him,  and  a 
hole  slit  in  the  same,  that  his  hand  might  be  at 
liberty  to  work  in  its  vocation.  The  worst 
was,  that  too  frequently  a  blackguard  reckless- 
ness of  temper  ensued,  incapable  of  turning 
to  account  what  good  the  gods  even  here  had 
provided :  your  Boyces  acted  on  some  stoico- 
epicurean  principle  of  carpe  diem,  as  men  do 
in  bombarded  towns,  and  seasons  of  raging 
pestilence; — and  so  had  lost  not  only  their 
life,  and  presence  of  mind,  but  their  status  as 
persons  of  respectability.  The  trade  of  Au- 
thor was  about  one  of  its  lowest  ebbs,  when 
Johnson  embarked  on  it. 

Accordingly  we  find  no  mention  of  Illumi- 
nations in  the  city  of  London,  when  this  same 
Ruler  of  the  British  nation  arrived  in  it :  no 
cannon-salvoes  are  fired;  no  flourish  of  drums 
and  trumpets  greets  his  appearance  on  the 
scene.  He  enters  quite  quietly,  with  some 
copper  half-pence  in  his  pocket;  creeps  into 
lodgings  in  Exeter  Street,  Strand ;  and  has  a. 
Coronation  Poniifif  also,  of  not  less  peculiar 
equipment,  whom,  with  all  submissiveness,  he 
must  wait  upon,  in  his  Vatican  of  St.  John's  Gate. 
This  is  the  dull  oily  Printer  alluded  to  above. 

"Cave's  temper,"  says  our  Knight  Hawkins, 
"was  phlegmatic:  though  he  assumed,  as  the 
publisher  of  the  Magazine,  the  name  of  Syl- 
vanus  Urban,  he  had  few  of  those  qualities 
that  constitute  urbanity.  Judge  of  his  want 
of  them  by  this  question,  which  he  once  put 

to  an  author:  "Mr. ,  I  hear  you  have  just 

published  a  pamphlet,  and  am  told  there  is  a 
very  good  paragraph  in  it  upon  the  subject  of 
music:  did  you  write  that  yourself!"  His 
discernment  was  also  slow ;  and  as  he  had 
already  at  his  command  so'me  writers  of  prose 
and  verse,  who,  in  the  language  of  Booksellers, 
are  called  good  hands,  he  was  the  backwarder 
in  making  advances,  or  courting  an  intimacy 
with  Johnson.  Upon  the  first  approach  of  a 
stranger,  his  practice  was  to  continue  sitting  ; 
a  posture  in  which  he  was  ever  to  be  found, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  to  continue  silent:  if  at 
any  time  he  was  inclined  to  begin  the  discourse, 
it  was  generally  by  putting  a  leaf  of  the  Maga- 
zine, then  in  the  press,  into  the  hand  of  his  visi- 
tor, and  asking  his  opinion  of  it.  *  •  * 
42 


"  He  was  so  incompetent  a  judge  of  John- 
son's abilities,  that  meaning  at  one  time  to 
dazzle  him  with  the  splendourof  some  of  those' j 
luminaries  in  Literature,  who  favoured  him 
with  their  correspondence,  he  told  him  that  \ 
if  he  would,  in  the  evening,  be  at  a  certain  * 
alehouse  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Clerken- 
well,  he  might  have  a  chance  of  seeing  Mr. 
Browne  and  another  or  two  of  those  illustri- 
ous contributors :  Johnson  accepted  the  invi- 
tation; and  being  introduced  by  Cave,  dressed 
in  a  loose  horseman's  coat,  and  such  a  great 
bushy  wig  as  he  constantly  wore,  to  the  sight 
of  Mr.  Browne,  whom  he  found  sitting  at  the 
upper  end  of  a  long  table,  in  a  cloud  of  to- 
bacco-smoke, had  his  curiosity  gratified." — 
Haivkins,  46 — 50. 

In  fact,  if  we  look  seriously  into  the  condi- 
tion of  Authorship  at  that  period,  we  shall  find 
that  Johnson  had  undertaken  one  of  the  rug- 
gedest  of  all  possible  enterprises  ;  that  here,  as 
eTsewTiere,  Fortune  had  given  him  unspeaka- 
ble Contradictions  to  reconcile.  For  a  man 
of  Johnson's  stamp,  the  Problem  was  twofold  :  ^ 
First,  not  only  as  the  humble  but  indispensa- 
ble condition  of  all  else,  to  keep  himself,  if  so\ 
might  he,  alive;  but  secondly,  to  keep  himself 
alive  by  speaking  forth  the  Truth  that  was  in; 
him,  and  speaking  it  truly,  that  is,  in  the  clear-'. 
est  and  fittest  utterance  the  Heavens  had  ena- 
bled him  to  give  it,  let  the  earth  say  to  this 
what  she  liked.  Of  which  twofold  Problem 
if  it  be  hard  to  solve  either  member  separate- 
ly, how  incalculably  more  so  to  solve  it,  when 
both  are  conjoined,  and  work  with  endless 
complication  into  one  another  !  He  that  finds 
himself  already  kept  alive  can  sometimes  un- 
happily not  always  speak  a  little  truth;  he 
that  finds  himself  able  and  willing,  to  all 
lengths,  to  speak  lies,  may,  by  watching  how 
the  wind.  si-tSj.  scrape  together  a  livelihood, 
sometimes  of  great  splendour:  he,  again, who 
finds  himself  provided  with  weif/tcr  endowment, 
has  but  a  ticklish  game  to  play,  and  shall  have 
praises  if  he  win  it.  Let  us  look  a  little  at 
both  faces  of  the  matter ;  and  see  what  front 
they  then  offered  our  Adventurer,  what  front 
he  offered  them. 

At  the  time  of  Johnson's  appearance  on  the 
field.  Literature,  in  many  senses,  was  in  a  , 
transitional  state;  chiefly  in  this  sense,  as 
respects  the  pecuniary  subsistence  of  its  cul- 
tivators. It  was  in  the  very  act  of  passing 
from  the  protection  of  Patrons  into  that  of  the 
Public;  no  longer  to  supply  its  necessities  by 
laudatory  Dedications  to  the  Great,  but  by 
judicious  Bargains  with  the  Booksellers.  This 
happy  change  has  been  much  sung  and  cele- 
brated; many  a  "lord  of  the  lion  heart  and 
eagle-eye"  looking  back  with  scorn  enough  on 
the  bygone  system  of  Dependency :  so  that  now 
it  were  perhaps  well  to  consider,  for  a  moment, 
what  good  might  also  be  in  it,  what  gratitude 
we  owe  it.  That  a  good  was  in  it,  admits  not 
of  doubt.  Whatsoever  has  existed  has  had  its-  ^ 
value  :  withouTSmJieTrutirand  worthlymg  Hp^ 
it,  the  thing  could  not  have  hung  together,  ana 
been  the  organ  and  sustenance,  and  method  of 
action,  for  men  that  reasoned  and  were  alive. 
Translate  a  Falsehood  which  is  wholly  false 
into  Practice,  the  result  comes  out  zero;  there 
2  £2 


380 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


is  no  fruit  or  issue  to  be  derived  from  it.  That 
in  an  age,  when  a  Nobleman  was  still  noble, 
still,  with  his  wealth  the  protector  of  worthy 
and  humane  things, and  still  venerated  as  such, 
a  poor  man  of  Genius,  his  brother  in  noble- 
ness, should,  with  unfeigned  reverence,  ad- 
dress him  and  say:  "I  have  found  Wisdom 
here,  and  would  fain  proclaim  it  abroad ;  wilt 
thou,  of  thy  abundance,  afford  me  the  means  ?" 
— in  all  this  there  was  no  baseness;  it  was 
wholly  an  honest  proposal,  which  a  free  man 
might  make,  and  a  free  man  listen  to.  So 
might  a  Tasso,  with  a  Gerusakmme  in  his  hand 
or  in  his  head,  speak  to  a  Duke  of  Ferrara; 
so  might  a  Shakspeare  to  his  Southampton ; 
and  Continental  Artists  generally  to  their  rich 
Protectors, — in  some  countries,  down  almost 
to  these  days.  It  was  only  when  the  reverence 
hec&me  feigned,  that  baseness  entered  into  the 
transaction  on  both  sides ;  and,  indeed,  flou- 
rished there  with  rapid  luxuriance,  till  that  be- 
came disgraceful  for  a  Dryden,  which  a  Shak- 
speare could  once  practise  without  offence. 

Neither,  it  is  very  true,  was  the  new  way 
of  Bookseller  Maecenasship  worthless  ;  which 
opened  itself  at  this  juncture,  for  the  mpst  im- 
portant of  all  transport-trades,  now  when(the  old 
way  had  become  too  miry  and  impassable^  Re- 
mark, moreover,  how  this  second  sort  of  MaEsce- 
nasship,  after  carrying  us  through  nearly  a  cen- 
tury of  Literary  Time,  appears  now  to  have 
wellnigh  discharged  its  functions  also;  and  to 
be  working  pretty  rapidly  towards  some  third 
method,  the  exact  conditions  of  which  are  yet 
nowise  visible.  Thus  all  things  have  their 
end;  and  we  should  part  with  them  all,  not  in 
anger  but  in  peace.  The  Bookseller  System, 
during  its  peculiar  century,  the  whole  of  the 
eighteenth,  did  carry  us  handsomely  along; 
and  many  good  Works  it  has  left  us,  and 
many  good  Men  it  maintained :  if  it  is  now 
expiring,  by  Puffebt,  as  the  Patronage  System 
did  by  Flatteiiy,  (for  Lying  is  ever  the  fore- 
runner of  Death,  nay  is  itself  Death,)  let  us 
not  forget  its  benefits ;  how  it  nursed  Litera- 
ture through  boyhood  and  school-years,  as 
Patronage  had  wrapped  it  in  soft  swaddling- 
bands; — till  now  we  see  it  about  to  put  on  the 
toga  virilis,  could  it  hut  fmd  any  such! 

There  is  tolerable  travelling  on  the  beaten 
road,  run  how  it  may;  only  on  the  new  road, 
not  yet  levelled  and  paved,  and  on  the  old 
road,  all  broken  into  ruts  and  quagmires,  is 
the  travelling  bad  or  impracticable.  The 
difficulty  lies  always  in  the  transition  from  one 
method  to  another.  In  which  state  it  was  that 
Johnson  now  found  Literature;  and  out  of 
which,  let  us  also  say,  he  manfully  carried  it. 
What  remarkable  mortal  first  paid  copyright  in 
England  we  have  not  ascertained ;  perhaps 
for  almost  a  century  before,  some  scarce  visi- 
ble or  ponderable  pittance  of  wages  had  occa- 
sionally been  yielded  by  the  Seller  of  Books  to 
the  Writer  of  them :  the  original  Covenant, 
stipulating  to  produce  Paradise  Lost  on  the  one 
hand,  and  Five  Pounds  Sterling  on  the  other, 
stiil  lies,  (we  have  been  told,)  in  black-on- 
white  for  inspection  and  purchase  by  the 
curious,  at  a  Bookshop  in  Chancery  Lane. 
Thus  had  the  matter  gone  on,  in  a  mixed,  con- 
fused way.  for  some  threescore   years; — as 


ever,  in  such  things,  the  old  system  overlaps 
the  new,  by  some  generation  or  two,  and  only 
dies  quite  out  when  the  new  has  got  a  com- 
plete organization,  and  weather-worthy  surface 
of  its  own.  Among  the  first  authors,  the  very 
first  of  any  significance,  who  lived  by  the  I 
day's  wages  of  his  craft,  and  composedly 
faced  the  world  on  that  basis,  was  Samuel  / 
Johnson. 

At  the  time  of  Johnson's  appearance,  there 
were  still  two  ways,  on  which  an  Author  might 
attempt  proceeding;  there  were  the  Mascenases 
proper  in  the  West  End  of  London ;  and  the 
Maecenases  virtual  of  St.  John's  Gale  and 
Paternoster  Row.  To  a  considerate  man  it 
might  seem  uncertain  which  methods  were 
preferable:  neither  had  very  high  attractions; 
the  Patron's  aid  was  now  wellnigh  necessarily 
polluted  by  sycophancy,  before  it  could  come 
to  hand ;  the  Bookseller's  was  deformed  with 
greedy  stupidity,  not  to  say  entire  wooden- 
headedness  and  disgust,  (so  that  an  Osborne 
even  required  to  be  knocked  down,  by  an 
author  of  spirit,)  and  could  barely  keep  the 
thread  of  life  together.  The  one  was  the 
wages  of  suffering  and  poverty;  the  other, 
unless  you  gave  strict  heed  to  it,  the  wages  of 
sin.  In  time,  Johnson  had  opportunity  of 
looking  into  both  methods,  and  ascertaining 
what  they  were;  but  found,  at  first  trial,  that 
the  former  would  in  no  wise  do  for  him.  Lis- 
ten, once  again,  to  that  far-famed  Blast  of 
Doom,  proclaiming  into  the  ear  of  Lord  Ches- 
terfield, and,  through  him,  of  the  listening 
world,  that  Patronage  should  be  no  more! 

"  Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  passed, 
since  I  waited  in  your  outward  rooms,  or  was 
repulsed  from  your  door;  during  which  time 
I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work*  through 
difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain, 
and  have  brought  it  at  last  to  the  verge  of 
publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,f 
one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of 
favour. 

"  The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  ac- 
quainted with  Love,  and  found  him  a  native 
of  the  rocks. 

"  Is  not  a  patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks 
with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for  life 
in  the  water,  and  when  he  has  reached  ground, 
encumbers  him  with  help  1  The  notice  which 
you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours, 
had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind:  but  it  has 
been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent  and  cannot 
enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary  and  cannot  impart 
it;  till  I  am  known  and  do  not  want  it.  I 
hope,  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity,  not  to  con- 
fess obligations,  where  no  benefit  has  been 
received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public 
should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron 
which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for 
myself. 


*  The  Rnglish  Dictionary. 

I  Were  time  and  printer's  space  of  no  value,  it  were 
easy  to  wash  away  certain  foolish  soot-stains  dropped 
here  as  "  Notes  ;"  especiaJly  two  :  the  one  on  this  word 
(and  on  Boswell's  Note  to  it ;)  the  other  on  th?  para- 
graph which  follows.  Let  "Ed."  look  a  second  time; 
he  will  find  that  Johnson's  sacred  regard  for  Truth  is 
the  only  thinjr  to  be  "noted."  in  the  former  case;  also, 
in  the  latter,  that  this  of  "  Love's  being  a  native  of  the 
rocks"  actually  has  a  "meaning." 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


831^ 


"  Having  carried  on  my  Work  thus  far  with 
so  little  obligation  to  any  favourer  of  learning ; 
I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  I  should 
conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less :  for 
I  have  long  been  awakened  from  that  dream 
of  hope,  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself  with 
so  much  exultation. 

"  My  Lord,  your  Lordship's  most  humble, 
most  obedient  servant, 

"  Sam.  JoHxsoir." 
And  thus  must  the  rebellious  "  Sam.  Johnson" 
turn  him  to  the  Bookselling  guild,  and  the 
wondrous  chaos  of  "  Author  by  trade ;"  and, 
though  ushered  into  it  only  by  that  dull  oily 
Printer,  "  with  loose  horseman's  coat,  and  such 
a  great  bushy  wig  as  he  constantly  wore,"  and 
only  as  subaltern  to  some  commanding-officer, 
•^Browne,  sitting  amid  tobacco-smoke  at  the 
head  of  a  long  table  in  the  akhouse  at  Clerk- 
enwell," — gird  himself  together  for  the  war- 
fare; having  no  alternative! 

Little  less  contradictory  was  that  other  branch 
of  the  two-fold  Problem  now  set  before  John- 
son :  the  speaking  forth  of  Truth.  Nay,  taken 
by  itself,  it  had  in  those  days  become  so  com- 
plex as  to  puzzle  strongest  heads,  with  nothing 
else  imposed  on  them  for  solution ;  and  even 
to  turn  high  heads  of  that  sort  into  mere  hollow 
vizards,  speaking  neither  truth  nor  falsehood, 
nor  any  thing  but  what  the  Prompter  and  Player 
(CvcK^irk)  put  into  them.  Alas !  for  poor 
Johnson,  Contradiction  abounded ;  in  spirituals 
and  in  temporals,  within  and  without.  Born 
with  the  strongest  unconquerable  love  of  just 
Insight,  he  must  begin  to  live  and  learn  in  a 
scene  where  Prejudice  flourishes  with  rank 
luxuriance.  England  was  all  confused  enough, 
sightless  and  yet  restless,  take  it  where  you 
would  ;  but  figure  the  best  intellect  in  England 
nursed  up  to  manhood  in  the  idol-cavern  of  a 
poor  Tradesman's  house,  in  the  cathedral  city 
of  Lichfield  !  What  is  Truth  ]  said  jesting 
Pilate  ;  What  is  Truth  ]  might  earnest  John- 
son much  more  emphatically  say.  Truth,  no 
longer,  like  the  Phoenix,  in  rainbow  plumage, 
"poured,  from  her  glittering  beak,  such  tones 
of  sweetest  melody  as  took  captive  every  ear:" 
the  Phoenix  (waxing  old)  had  wellnigh  ceased 
her  singing,  and  empty  wearisome  Cuckoos, 
and  doleful  monotonous  Owls,  innumerable 
Jays  also,  and  twittering  Sparrows  on  the 
housetop,  pretended  they  were  repeating  her. 

It  was  wholly  a  divided  age,  that  of  Johnson  ; 
Unity  existed  nowhere,  in  its  Heaven,  or  in  its 
Earth.  Society,  through  every  fibre,  was  rent 
asunder;  all  things,  it  was  then  becoming 
visible,  but  could  not  then  be  understood,  were 
moving  onwards,  with  an  impulse  received 
ages  before,  yet  now  first  with  a  decisive  ra- 
pidity, towards  that  great  chaotic  gulf,  where, 
whether  in  the  shape  of  French  Revolutions, 
Reform  Bills,  or  what  shape  soever,  bloody  or 
bloodless,  the  descent  and  engulfment  assume, 
we  now  see  them  weltering  and  boiling.  Al- 
ready Cant,  as  once  before  hinted,  had  begun 
to  play  its  wonderful  part  (for  the  hour  was 
come)  :  two  ghastly  Apparitions,  unreal  simu- 
lacra both,  Hypocrisy  and  Atheism,  are  al- 
ready, in  silence,  parting  the  world.  Opinion 
and  Action,  which  should  live  together  as 
wedded  pair,  "  one  flesh,"  more  properly  as 


Soul  and  Body,  have  commenced  their  open 
quarrel,  and  are  suing  for  a  separate  mainte- 
nance,— as  if  they  could  exist  separately.  To 
the  earnest  mind,  in  any  position,  firm  footing 
and  a  life  of  Truth  was  becoming  daily  more 
difficult:  in  Johnson's  position,  it  was  more 
difficult  than  in  almost  any  other. 

If,  as  for  a  devout  nature  was  inevitable  and  -<" 
indispensable,  he  looked  up  to  Religion,  as  to  \ 
the  pole-star  of  his  voyage,  already  there  was 
no  fixed  pole-star  any  longer  visible  ;  but  two 
stars,  a  whole  constellation  of  stars,  each  pro- 
claiming itself  as  the  true.  There  was  the  red 
portentous  comet-star  of  Infidelity ;  the  dim- 
mer and  dimmer-burning  fixed-star  (uncertain 
now  whether  not  an  atmospheric  meteor)  of 
Orthodoxy;  which  of  these  to  choose  1  The 
keener  intellects  of  Europe  had,  almost  with- 
out exception,  ranged  themselves  under  the 
former:  for  some  half-century,  it  had  been 
the  general  effort  of  European  Speculation  to 
proclaim  that  Destruction  of  Falsehood  was 
the  only  Truth ;  daily  had  Denial  waxed 
stronger  and  stronger.  Belief  sunk  more  and 
more  into  decay.  From  our  Bolingbrokes  and 
Tolands,  the  skeptical  fever  had  passed  into 
France,  into  Scotland;  and  already  it  smoul- 
dered, far  and  wide,  secretly  eating  out  the 
heart  of  England.  Bayle  had  played  his  part ; 
Voltaire,  on  a  wider  theatre,  was  playing  his, — 
Johnson's  senior  by  some  fifteen  years  :  Hume 
and  Johnson  were  children  of  the  same  year. 
To  this  keener  order  of  intellects  did  Johnson's 
indisputably  belong:  washe  to  join  them  1  Was 
he  to  oppose  them?  A  complicated  question: 
for,  alas  !  the  Church  itself  is  no  longer,  even  to 
him,  wholly  of  true  adamant,  but  of  adamant 
and  baked  mud  conjoined :  the  zealously  De- 
vout must  find  his  Church  tottering ;  and 
pause  amazed  to  see,  instead  of  inspired 
Priest,  many  a  swine-feeding  TruUiber  minis- 
tering at  her  altar.  It  is  not  the  least  curious 
of  the  incoherences  which  Johnson  had  to 
reconcile,  that,  though  by  nature  contemp- 
tuous and  incredulous,  he  was,  at  that  time 
of  day,  to  find  his  safety  and  glory  in  defend-  ^ 
ing,  with  his  whole  might,  the  traditions  of  the 
elders. 

Not  less  perplexingly  intricate,  and  on  both 
sides  hollow  or  questionable,  was  the  aspect 
of  Politics.  Whigs  struggling  blindly  for- 
ward, Tories  holding  blindly  back;  each  with 
some  forecast  of  a  half  truth;  neither  with 
any  forecast  of  the  whole  !  Admire  here  this 
other  Contradiction  in  the  life  of  Johnson: 
that,  though  the  most  ungovernable,  and  in 
practice  the  most  independent  of  men,  he  must  •, 
be  a  Jacobite,  and  worshipper  of  the  Divine  I' 
Right.  In  politics  also  there  are  Irreconcila- 
bles  enough  for  him.  As,  indeed,  how  could 
it  be  otherwise  1  For  when  religion  is  torn 
asunder,  and  the  very  heart  of  man's  exist- 
ence set  against  itself,  then,  in  all  subordinate 
departments  there  must  needs  be  hollowness, 
incoherence.  The  English  Nation  had  re- 
belled against  a  Tyrant;  and,  by  the  hands  of 
religious  tyrannicides,  exacted  stern  vengeance 
of  him :  Democracy  had  risen  iron-sinewed, 
and  "like  an  infant  Hercules,  strangled  ser- 
pents in  its  cradle."  But  as  yet  none  knew 
the  meaning  or  extent  of  the  phenomenon. 


332 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Europe  was  not  ripe  for  it;  not  to  be  ripened 
for  it,  but  by  the  culture  and  various  experi- 
ence of  another  century  and  half.  And  now, 
when  the  King-killers  were  all  swept  away, 
and  a  milder  second  picture  was  painted  over 
the  canvas  of  the'Jirst,  and  betitled  "  Glorious 
Revolution,"  who  doubted  but  the  catastrophe 
was  over,  th«  whole  business  finished,  and 
Democracy  gone  to  its  long  sleep?  Yet  was 
it  like  a  business  finished  and  not  finished  ;  a 
lingering  uneasiness  dwelt  in  all  minds:  the 
deep-lying,  resistless  Tendency,  which  had 
still  to  be  obeyed,  could  no  longer  be  recognised; 
thus  was  there  half-ness,  insincerity,  uncer- 
tainty in  men's  ways ;  instead  of  heroic  Puritans 
and  heroic  Cavaliers,  came  now  a  dawdling 
set  of  argumentative  Whigs,  and  a  dawdling 
set  of  deaf-eared  Tories;  each  half-foolish, 
each  half-false.  The  Whigs  were  false  and 
without  basis  ;  inasmuch  as  their  whole  object 
was  Resistance,  Criticism,  Demolition, — they 
knew  not  why,  or  towards  what  issue.  In 
Whiggism,  ever  since  a  Charles  and  his 
Jefiries  had  ceased  to  meddle  with  it,  and  to 
have  any  Russel  or  Sidney  to  meddle  with, 
there  could  be  no  divineness  of  character;  not 
till,  in  these  latter  days,  it  took  the  figure  of  a 
thorough-going,  all-defying  Radicalism,  was 
there  any  solid  footing  for  it  to  stand  on.  Of 
the  like  uncertain,  half-hollow  nature  had 
Toryism  become, in  Johnson's  time;  preaching 
forth  indeed  an  everlasting  truth,  the  duty  of 
Loyalty ;  yet  now  (ever  since  the  final  expul- 
sion of  the  Stuarts),  having  no  Person  but  only 
an  Office  to  be  loyal  to,  no  living  Soul  to  wor- 
ship, but  only  a  dead  velvet-cushioned  Chair. 
Its  attitude,  therefore,  was  stiff-necked  refusal 
to  move  ;  as  that  of  Whiggism  was  clamorous 
command  to  move, — let  rhyme  and  reason,  on 
both  hands,  say  to  it  what  they  might.  The 
consequence  was:  Immeasurable  floods  of 
contentious  jargon,  tending  nowhither;  false 
conviction;  false  resistance  to  conviction; 
decay  (ultimately  to  become  decease)  of  what- 
soever was  once  understood  by  the  words. 
Principle,  or  Honesty  of  heart ;  the  louder  and 
louder  triumph  of  Half-ness  and  Plausibility 
over  Whole-ness  and  Truth ; — at  last,  this  all- 
overshadowing  efflorescence  of  Quackery, 
which  we  now  see,  with  all  its  deadening  and 
killing  fruits,  in  all  its  innumerable  branches, 
down  to  the  lowest.  How,  between  these  jar- 
ring extremes,  wherein  the  rotten  lay  so  inex- 
tricably intermingled  with  the  sound,  and  as 
yet  no  eye  could  see  through  the  ulterior 
meaning  of  the  matter,  was  a  faithful  and  true 
man  to  adjust  himself? 

That  Johnson,  in  spite  of  all  drawbacks, 
adopted  the  Conservative  side ;  stationed  him- 
self as  the  unyielding  opponent  of  Innovation, 
resolute  to  hold  fast  the  form  of  sound  words, 
could  not  but  increase,  in  no  small  measure, 
the  difficulties  he  had  to  strive  with.  We 
mean,  the  moral  difficulties ;  for  in  economical 
respects,  it  might  be  pretty  equally  balanced  ; 
the  Tory  servant  of  the  Public  had  perhaps 
about  the  same  chance  of  promotion  as  the 
Whig:  and  all  the  promotion  Johnson  aimed 
at  was  the  privilege  to  live.  But,  for  what, 
though  unavowed,  was  no  less  indispensable, 
for  his  peace  of  conscience,  and  the  clear 


ascertainment  and  feeling  of  his  Duty  as  an 
inhabitant  of  God's  world,  the  case  was  hereby 
rendered  much  more  complex.  To  resist  In- 
novation is  easy  enough  on  one  condition  :  that 
you  resist  Inquiry.  This  is,  and  was,  the 
common  expedient  of  your  common  Conserva- 
tives ;  but  it  would  not  do  for  Johnson  :  he  was 
a  zealous  recommender  and  practiser  of  In- 
quiry; once  for  all,  could  not  and  would  not 
believe,  much  less  speak  and  act,  a  Falsehood; 
the  form  of  sound  words,  which  he  held  fast, 
must  have  a  meaning  in  it.  Here  lay  the  diffi- 
culty:  to  behold  a  portentous  mixture  of  True 
and  False,  and  feel  that  he  must  dwell  and 
fight  there;  yet  to  love  and  defend  only  the 
True.  How  worship,  when  you  cannot  and 
will  not  be  an  idol|ter;  yet  cannot  help  dis- 
cerning that  the  Symbol  of  your  Divinity  has 
half  become  idolatrous?  This  was  the  ques- 
tion, which  Johnson,  the  man  both  of  clear  eye 
and  devout  believing  heart,  must  answer, — at 
peril  of  his  life.  The  Whig  or  Skeptic,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  a  much  simpler  part  to  play. 
To  him  only  the  idolatrous  side  of  things, 
nowise  the  divine  one,  lay  visible :  not  worship, 
therefore,  nay  in  the  strict  sense  not  heart- 
honesty,  only  at  most  lip,  and  hand-honesty,  is 
required  of  him.  What  spiritual  force  is  his, 
he  can  conscientiously  employ  in  the  work  of 
cavilling,  of  pulling  down  what  is  False.  For 
the  rest,  that  there  is  or  can  be  any  Truth  of  a 
higher  than  sensual  nature,  has  not  occurred 
to  him.  The  utmost,  therefore,  that  he  as  man 
has  to  aim  at,  is  Respectability,  the  suffrages 
of  his  fellow-men.  Such  suffrages  he  may 
weigh  as  well  as  count;  or  count  only:  ac- 
cording as  he  is  a  Burke,  or  a  Wilkes.  But 
beyond  these  there  lies  nothing  divine  for  him ; 
these  attained,  all  is  attained.  Thus  is  his 
whole  world  distinct  and  rounded  in  ;  a  clear 
goal  is  set  before  him  ;  a  firm  path,  rougher  or 
smoother ;  at  worst  a  firm  region  wherein  to 
seek  a  path:  let  him  gird  up  his  loins,  and 
travel  on  without  misgivings  !  For  the  honest 
Conservative,  again,  nothing  is  distinct,  nothing 
rounded  in:  Respectability  can  nowise  be 
his  highest  Godhead;  not  one  aim,  but  two 
conflicting  aims  to  be  continually  reconciled 
by  him,  has  he  to  strive  after.  A  difficult  posi- 
tion, as  we  said ;  which  accordingly  the  most 
did,  even  in  those  days,  but  half  defend, — by 
the  surrender,  namely,  of  their  own  too  cum- 
bersome honesty  or  even  understanding ;  after 
which  the  completest  defence  was  worth  little. 
Into  this  difficult  position  Johnson,  neverthe- 
less, threw  himself:  found  it  indeed  full  of 
difficulties ;  yet  held  it  out  manfully,  as  an 
honest-hearted,  open-sighted  man,  while  the 
life  was  in  him. 

Such  was  that  same  "  twofold  Problem"  set 
before  Samuel  Johnson.  Consider  all  these 
moral  difficulties ;  and  add  to  them  the  fearful 
aggi'avation,  which  lay  in  that  other  circum- 
stance, that  he  needed  a  continual  appeal  to 
the  Public,  must  continually  produce  a  certain 
impression  and  conviction  on  the  Public;  that 
if  he  did  not,  he  ceased  to  have  "provision  for 
the  day  that  was  passing  over  him,"  he  could 
not  any  longer  live !  How  a  vulgar  character, 
onc6^aunched  into  this  wild  element;  driven 
onwards  by  Fear  and  Famine :  without  other 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


aim  than  to  clutch  what  Provender  (of  Enjoy- 
ment in  any  kind)  he  could  get,  always  if  pos- 
sible keeping  quite  clear  of  the  Gallows  and 
Pillory,  (that  is  to  say,  minding  heedfully  both 
"  person"  and  "  character,") — would  have 
floated  hither  and  thither  in  it ;  and  contrived  to 
eat  some  three  repasts  daily,  and  wear  some 
three  suits  yearly,  and  then  to  depart,  and  dis- 
appear, having  consumed  his  last  ration:  all 
this  might  be  worth  knowing,  but  were  in 
itself  a  trivial  knowledge.  How  a  noble  man, 
resolute  for  the  Truth,  to  whom  Shams  and 
Lies  were  once  for  all  an  abomination, — was 
to  act  in  it :  here  lay  the  mystery.  By  what 
methods,  by  what  gifts  of  eye  and  hand,  does 
a  heroic  Samuel  Johnson,  now  when  cast  forth 
into  that  waste  Chaos  of  Authorship,  maddest 
of  things,  a  mingled  Phlegethon  and  Fleet- 
ditch,  with  its  floating  lumber,  and  sea-krakens, 
and  mud-spectres, — shape  himself  a  voyage ; 
of  the  transient  driftwood,  and  the  enduring  iron, 
built  him  a  seaworthy  Life-boat,  and  sail  there- 
in, undrowned,  unpolluted,  through  the  roaring 
"mother  of  dead  dogs,"  onwards  to  an  eternal 
Landmark,  and  City  that  hath  foundations  ? 
This  high  question  is  even  the  one  answered 
in  Bos  well's  Book;  which  Book  we,  therefore 
not  so  falsely,  have  named  a  Heroic  Poem;  for 
in  it  there  lies  the  whole  argument  of  such. 
Glory  to  our  brave  Samuel !  He  accomplished 
this  wonderful  Problem ;  and  now  through 
long  generations,  we  point  to  him,  and  say: 
Here  also  was  a  Man ;  let  the  world  once  more 
have  assurance  of  a  Man  ! 

Had  there  been  in  Johnson,  now  when  afloat 
on  that  confusion  worse  confounded  of  grandeur 
and  squalor,  no  light  but  an  earthly  outward 
one,  he  too  must  have  made  shipwreck.  With 
his  diseased  body,  and  vehement  voracious 
heart,  how  easy  for  him  to  become  a  carpc-diem 
Philosopher,  like  the  rest,  and  live  and  die  as 
miserably  as  any  Boyce  of  that  Brotherhood ! 
But  happily  there  was  a  higher  light  for  him ; 
shining  as  a  lamp  to  his  path ;  which,  in  all 
paths,  would  teach  him  to  act  and  walk  not  as 
a  fool,  but  as  wise  in  those  evil  days  also, 
"redeeming  the  time."  Under  dimmer  or 
clearer  manifestations,  a  Truth  had  been  re- 
,  vealed  to  him :  I  also  am  a  Man ;  even  in  this 
'unutterable  element  of  Authorship,  I  may  live 
as  beseems  a  Man  !  That  Wrong  is  not  only 
diflerent  from  Right,  but  that  it  is  in  strict 
scientific  terms,  infinitely  different;  even  as  the 
gaining  of  the  whole  world  set  against  the 
losing  of  one's  own  soul,  or  (as  Johnson  had 
it)  a  Heaven  set  against  a  Hell ;  that  in  all 
situations  (out  of  the  Pit  of  Tophet),  wherein 
a  living  Man  has  stood  or  can  stand,  there  is 
actually  a  Prize  of  quite  infinite  value  placed 
within  his  reach,  namely  a  Duty  for  him  to  do: 
this  highest  Gospel,  which  forms  the  basis  and 
worth  of  all  other  Gospels  whatsoever,  had 
been  revealed  to  Samuel  Johnson ;  and  the 
man  had  believed  it,  and  laid  it  faithfully  to 
heart.  Such  knowledge  of  the  transcendental,  im- 
measurable characterof  Duty,  we  call  the  basis 
of  all  Gospels,  the  essence  of  all  Religion :  he 
who  with  his  whole  soul  knows  not  this,  as  yet 
knows  nothing,  as  yet  is  properly  nothing. 

This,  happily  for  him,  Johnson  was  one  of 
those   that  knew :   under  a  certain   authentic 


Symbol,  it  stood  for  ever  present  to.  his  eyes : 
a  Symbol,  indeed,  waxing  old  as  doth  a  gar- 
ment; yet  which  had  guided  forward,  as  their 
Banner  and  celestial  Pillar  of  Fire,  innumer- 
able saints  and  witnesses,  the  fathers  of  our  mo- 
dern world ;  and  for  him  also  had  still  a  sacred 
significance.  It  does  not  appear  that,  at  any 
time,  Johnson  was  what  we  call  irreligious : 
but  in  his  sorrows  and  isolation,  when  hope 
died  away,  and  only  a  long  vista  of  suffering 
and  toil  lay  before  him  to  the  end,  then  first 
did  Religion  shine  forth  in  its  meek,  everlast- 
ing clearness  ;  even  as  the  stars  do  in  black 
night,  which  in  the  daytime  and  dusk  were 
hidden  by  inferior  lights.  How  a  true  man, 
in  the  midst  of  errors  and  uncertainties,  shall 
work  out  for  himself  a  sure  Life-truth  ;  and 
adjusting  the  transient  to  the  eternal,  amid 
the  fragments  of  ruined  Temples  build  up, 
with  toil  and  pain,  a  little  Altar  for  himself, 
and  worship  there ;  how  Samuel  Johnson,  in 
the  era  of  Voltaire,  can  purify  and  fortify  his 
soul,  and  hold  real  communion  with  the  High- 
est, "  in  the  Church  of  St.  Clement  Danes:'* 
this  too  stands  all  unfolded  in  his  Biography, 
and  is  among  the  most  touching  and  me- 
morable things  there;  a  thing  to  be  looked 
at  with  pity,  admiration,  awe.  Johnson's 
Religion  was  as  the  light  of  life  to  him ;  with- 
out it,  his  heart  was  all  sick,  dark,  and  had 
no  guidance  left. 

He  is  now  enlisted,  or  impressed,  into  that  ^ 
unspeakable  shoe-black  seraph  Army  of  Ao-  v 
thors  ;  but  can  feel  hereby  that  he  fights  under 
a  celestial  flag,  and  will  quit  him  like  a  man. 
The  first  grand  requisite,  an  assured  heart, 
he  therefore  has :  what  his  outward  equip- 
ments and  accoutrements  are,  is  the  next 
question ;  an  important,  though  inferior  one. 
His  intellectual  stock,  intrinsically  viewed,  is 
perhaps  inconsiderable  :  the  furnishings  of  an 
English  School  and  English  University  ;  good 
knowledge  of  the  Latin  tongue,  a  more  uncer- 
tain one  of  Greek :  this  is  a  rather  slender 
stock  of  Education  wherewith  to  front  the 
world.  But  then  it  is  to  be  remembered  that 
his  world  was  England;  that  such  was  the 
culture  England  commonly  supplied  and  ex- 
pected. Besides,  Johnson  has  been  a  vora- 
cious reader,  though  a  desultory  one,  and  often- 
est  in  strange  scholastic,  too  obsolete  Libra- 
ries ;  he  has  also  rubbed  shoulders  with  the 
press  of  actual  Life,  for  some  thirty  years 
now :  views  or  hallucinations  of  innumerable 
things  are  weltering  to  and  fro  in  him.  Above 
all,  be  his  weapons  what  they  may,  he  has  an 
arm  that  can  wield  them.  Nature  has  given 
him  her  choicest  gifl :  an  open  eye  and  heart. 
He  will  look  on  the  world,  wheresoever  he 
can  catch  a  glimpse  of  it,  with  eager  curi- 
osity :  to  the  last,  we  find  this  a  striking  cha- 
racteristic of  him  :  for  all  human  interests  he 
has  a  sense ;  the  meanest  handicraftsman 
could  interest  him,  even  in  extreme  age,  by 
speaking  of  his  craft :  the  ways  of  men  are 
all  interesting  to  him ;  any  human  thing,  that 
he  did  not  know,  he  wished  to  know.  Reflec- 
tion, moreover,  Meditation,  was  what  he  prac- 
tised incessantly,  with  or  without  his  will:  for 
the  mind  of  the  man  was  earnest,  deep  as  well 
as   humane.      Thus    would  the   world,  such 


334 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


fragments  of  it  as  he  could  survey,  form  itself, 
or  continually  tend  to  form  itself,  into  a  cohe- 
rent Whole ;  on  any  and  on  all  phases  of  which, 
his  vote  and  voice  must  be  well  worth  listen- 
ing to.  As  a  Speaker  of  the  Word,  he  will 
speak  real  words ;  no  idle  jargon,  no  hollow 
triviality  will  issue  from  him.  His  aim  too  is 
clear,  attainable,  that  of  working  for  his  wages ; 
let  him  do  this  honestly,  and  all  else  will  fol- 
low of  its  own  accord. 

With  such  omens,  into  such  a  warfare,  did 
Johnson  go  forth.  A  rugged,  hungry  Kerne, 
or  Gallowglass,  as  we  called  him  :  yet  indomi- 
table ;  in  whom  lay  the  true  spirit  of  a  Soldier. 
With  giant's  force  he  toils,  since  such  is  his 
appointment,  were  it  but  at  hewing  of  wood 
and  drawingof  water  for  old  sedentary,  bushy- 
wigged  Cave  ;  distinguishes  himself  by  mere 
quantity,  if  there  is  to  be  no  other  distinction. 
He  can  write  all  things  ;  frosty  Latin  verses, 
if  these  are  the  saleable  commodity;  Book- 
prefaces,  Political  Philippics,  Review  Articles, 
Parliamentary  Debates :  all  things  he  does 
rapidly ;  still  more  surprising,  all  things  he 
does  thoroughly  and  well.  How  he  sits  there, 
in  his  rough-hewn,  amorphous  bulk,  in  that 
upper  room  at  St.  John's  Gate,  and  trundles 
off  sheet  after  sheet  of  those  Senate-of-Lilliput 
Debates,  to  the  clamorous  Printer's  Devils 
waiting  for  them,  with  insatiable  throat,  down 
stairs  ;  himself  perhaps  impransus  all  the 
while  !  Admire  also  the  greatness  of  Litera- 
ture ;  how  a  grain  of  mustard-seed  cast  into 
its  Nile-waters,  shall  settle  in  the  teeming 
mould,  and  be  found,  one  day,  as  a  Tree,  in 
whose  branches  all  the  fowls  of  heaven  may 
lodge.  Was  it  not  so  with  these  Lilliput  De- 
bates 1  In  that  small  project  and  act,  began 
the  stupendous  Foukth  Estate  ;  whose  wide 
world-embracing  influences  what  eye  can  take 
in ;  in  whose  boughs  are  there  not  already 
fowls  of  strange  feather  lodged  1  Such  things, 
and  far  stranger,  were  done  in  that  wondrous 
old  Portal,  even  in  latter  times.  And  then 
figure  Samuel  dining  "behind  the  screen," 
from  a  trencher  covertly  handed  in  to  him,  at  a 
preconcerted  nod  from  the  "great  bushy  wig;" 
Samuel,  too  ragged  to  show  face,  yet  "  made  a 
happy  man  of"  by  hearing  his  praise  spoken. 
If  to  Johnson  himself,  then  much  more  to  us, 
may  that  St.  John's  Gate  be  a  place  we  can 
"never  pass  without  veneration."* 


♦  All  Johnson's  places  of  resort  and  abode  are  vene- 
rable, and  now  indeed  to  the  many  as  well  as  to  the 
few ;  for  his  name  has  become  great ;  and,  as  we  must 
often  with  a  kind  of  sad  admiration  recotrnise,  there  is, 
even  to  the  rudest  man,  no  greatness  so  venerable  as 
intellectual,  as  spiritual  greatness;  nay  properly  there 
is  no  other  venerable  at  all.  For  example,  what  soul- 
subduing  magic,  for  the  very  clown  or  craftsman  of  our 
England,  lies  in  the  word  "  Scholar !"  "  He  is  a  Scho- 
lar :"  he  is  a  man  wiser  than  we  ;  of  a  wisdom  to  us 
Aoimd/ess,  infinite  :  who  shall  speak  his  worth!  Such 
things,  we  say,  fill  us  with  a  certain  pathetic  admira- 
tion of  defaced  and  obstructed  yet  glorious  man  ;  arch- 
angel though  in  ruins,— or  rather,  though  in  rubbish,  of 
encumbrances  and  mud-incrustations,  which  also  are 
not  to  be  perpetual. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mad-whirling  all-forgetting  Lon- 
don, the  haunts  of  the  mighty  that  were,  can  seldom 
without  a  strange  difficulty  be  discover'ed.  Will  any 
man,  for  instance,  tell  us  which  bricks  it  was  in  Lin- 
coln's Inn  Buildings,  that  Ben  Jonson's  hand  and 
trowel  laid  1  No  man,  it  is  to  be  feared, — and  also 
grumbled  at.  With  Samuel  Johnson  may  it  p'rove  other- 
wise !    A  Gentleman  of  the  British  Museum  is  said  to 


Poverty,  Distress,  and  as  yet  Obscurity,  are 
his  companions:  so  poor  is  he  that  his  Wife 
must  leave  him,  and  seek  shelter  among  other 
relations ;  Johnson's  household  has  accom- 
modation for  one  inmate  only.  To  all  his 
ever-varying,  ever-recurring  troubles,  more- 
over, must  be  added  this  continual  one  of  ill 
health,  and  its  concomitant  depressiveness  :  a 
galling  load,  which  would  have  crushed  most 
common  mortals  into  desperation,  is  his  ap- 
pointed ballast  and  life-burden ;  he  "  could  not 
remember  the  day  he  had  passed  free  from 
pain."  Nevertheless,  Life,  as  we  said  before, 
is  always  Life:  a  healthy  soul,  imprison  it  as 
you  will,  in,  squalid  garrets,  shabby  coat, 
bodily  sickness,  or  whatever  else,  will  assert 
its  heaven-granted  indefeasible  Freedom,  its 
right  to  conquer  difficulties,  to  do  work,  even 
to  feel  gladness.  Johnson  does  not  whine  over 
his  existence,  but  manfully  makes  the  most 
and  best  of  it.  "  He  said,  a  man  might  live  in 
a  garret  at  eighteen-pence  a  week;  few  people 
would  inquire  where  he  lodged;  and  if  they 
did,  it  was  easy  to  say,  'Sir,  I  am  to  be  found 
at  such  a  place.'  By  spending  threepence  in 
a  coffee-house,  he  might  be  for  some  hours 
every  day  in  very  good  company;  he  might 
dine  for  sixpence,  breakfast  on  bread  and  milk 
for  a  penny,  and  do  without  supper.  On 
clean-shirt -(fay  he  went  abroad,  and  paid  visits." 
Think  by  whom,  and  of  whom  this  was  uttered, 
and  ask  then.  Whether  there  is  more  pathos 
in  it  than  in  a  whole  circulating-library  of 
Giaours  and  Hay-olds,  or  less  pathos  ]  On 
another  occasion,  "when  Dr.  Johnson,  one  day, 
read  his  own  Satire,  in  which  the  life  of  d. 
scholar  is  painted  with  the  various  obstruc- 
tions thrown  in  his  way  to  fortune  and  to  fame, 
he  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears:  Mr.  Thrale's 
family  and  Mr.  Scott  only  were  present,  who, 
in  a  jocose  way,  clapped  him  on  the  back,  and 
said,  'What's  all  this,  my  dear  sir?  Why 
you,  and  I,  and  Hercules,  you  know,  were  all 
troubled  with  melancholy*  He  was  a  very 
large  man,  and  made  out  the  triumvirate  with 
Johnson  and  Hercules  comically  enough." 
These  were  sweet  tears ;  the  sweet  victorious 
remembrance  lay  in  them  of  toils  indeed  fright- 
ful, yet  never  flinched  from,  and  now  triumphed 
over.  "One  day  it  shall  delight  you  to  re- 
have  made  drawings  of  all  his  residences  :  the  blessing 
of  Old  Mortality  be  upon  him!  We  ourselves,  not 
without  labour  and  risk,  lately  discovered  Gough 
Square,  between  Fleet  Street  and  Holborn  (adjoining 
both  to  Bolt  Court  and  Johnson's  Court;)  and, 
on  the  second  day  of  search,  the  very  House  there, 
wherein  the  English  Dictionary  was  composed.  It  is 
the  first  or  corner  house  on  the  rieht  hand,  as  you  enter 
through  the  arched  way  from  the  North-west.  The  ac- 
tual occupant,  an  elderly,  well-washed,  decent-looking 
man,  invited  us  to  enter;  and  courteously  undertook  to 
be  cicerone  ;  though  in  his  memory  lay  nothing  but  the 
foolishest  jumble  and  hallucination.  It  is  a  stout  old- 
fashioned,  oak-balustraded  house  :  "  I  have  spent  many 
a  pound  and  penny  on  it  since  then,"  said  the  worthy 
Landlord  :  "  here,  you  see,  this  Bedroom  was  the  Doc- 
tor's study;  that  was  the  garden"  (a  plot  of  delved 
ground  somewhat  larger  than  a  bed-quilt)  "  where  he 
walked  for  exercise;  these  three  garret  Bedrooms" 
(where  his  three  Copyists  sat  and  wrote)  "were  the 
place  he  kept  h\s— Pupils  in!"  Tempvs  ednx  rerum .' 
Yet  ferax  also  :  for  our  friend  now  added,  with  a  wist- 
ful look,  which  strove  to  seem  merely  historical :  "I  let 
it  all  in  Lodgings,  to  respectable  gentlemen;  by  the 
quarter,  or  the  month;  it  's  all  one  to  me."— "To  me 
also,"  whispered  the  Ghost  of  Samuel,  as  we  went  pen- 
sively our  ways. 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


333 


member  labour  done  !" — Neither,  though  John- 
son is  obscure  and  poor,  need  the  highest 
enjoyment  of  existence,  that  of  heart  freely 
communing  with  heart,  be  denied  him.  Sa- 
vage and  he  wander  homeless  through  the 
streets ;  without  bed,,  yet  not  without  friendly 
converse ;  such  another  conversation  not,  it  is 
like,  producible  in  the  proudest  drawing-room 
of  London.  Nor,  under  the  void  Night,  upon 
the  hard  pavement,  are  their  own  woes  the 
only  topic:  nowise;  they  "will  stand  by  their 
country,"  the  two  "Back-woods-men"  of  the 
Brick  Desart ! 

Of  all  outward  evils  Obscurity  is  perhaps  in 
itself  the  least.  To  Johnson,  as  to  a  healthy- 
minded  man,  the  fantastic  article,  sold  or  given 
under  the  title  of  Fame,  had  little  or  no  value 
but  its  intrinsic  one.  He  prized  it  as  the 
means  of  getting  him  employment  and  good 
wages  ;  scarcely  as  any  thing  more.  His  light 
and  guidance  came  from  a  loftier  source;  of 
which,  in  honest  aversion  to  all  hypocrisy  or 
pretentious  talk,  he  spoke  not  to  men;  nay, 
perhaps,  being  of  a  healthy  mind,  had  never 
spoken  to  himself.  We  reckon  it  a  striking 
fact  in  Johnson's  history,  this  carelessness  of 
his  tn  Fame.  Most  authors  speak  of  their 
"Fame"  as  if  it  were  a  quite  priceless  matter; 
the  grand  ultimatum,  and  heavenly  Constan- 
tine's-Banner  they  had  to  follow,  and  conquer 
under. — Thy  "  Fame  !"  Unhappy  mortal,  where 
will  it  and  thou  both  be  in  some  fifty  years  1 
Shakspeare  himself  has  lasted  but  two  hun- 
dred; Homer  (partly  by  accident)  three  thou- 
sand :  and  does  not  already  an  Eternity 
encircle  every  Me  and  every  Thee?  ('ease, 
then,  to  sit  feverishly  hatching  on  that "  Fame" 
of  thine;  and  flapping,  and  shrieking  with 
fierce  hisses,  like  brood-goose  on  her  last  e^^, 
if  man  shall  or  dare  approach  it!  Quarrel 
not  with  me,  hate  me  not,  my  Brother:  make 
what  thou  canst  of  thy  egg,  and  welcome  :  God 
knows,  I  will  not  steal  it ;  I  believe  it  to  be 
addle. — Johnson,  for  his  part,  was  no  man  to 
be  killed  "by  a  review;"  concerning  which 
matter,  it  was  said  by  a  benevolent  person : 
"If  any  author  can  be  reviewed  to  death,  let  it 
be,  with  all  convenient  despatch,  done.*^  John- 
son thankfully  receives  any  word  spoken  in 
his  favour  ;  is  nowise  disobliged  by  a  lampoon, 
but  will  look  at  it,  if  pointed  out  to  him,  and 
show  how  it  might  have  been  done  better :  the 
lampoon  itself  is  indeed  nothitig,  a  soap-bubble 
that,  next  moment,  will  become  a  drop  of  sour 
suds  ;  but  in  the  meanwhile,  if  it  do  any  thing, 
it  keeps  him  more  in  the  world's  eye,  and  the 
next  bargain  will  be  all  the  richer:  "Sir,  if 
they  should  cease  to  talk  of  me,  I  must  starve." 
Sound  heart  and  understanding  head !  these 
fail  no  man,  not  even  a  man  of  Letters. 

Obscurity,  however,  was,  in  Johnson's  case, 
whether  a  light  or  heavy  evil,  hkely  to  be  no 
lasting  one.  He  is  animated  by  the  spirit  of  a 
true  workman,  resolute  to  do  his  work  well ; 
and  he  does  his  work  well ;  all  his  work,  that 
of  writing,  that  of  living.  A  man  of  this 
stamp  is  unhappily  not  so  common  in  the 
literary  or  in  any  other  department  of  the 
world,  that  he  can  continue  always  unnoticed. 
By  slow  degrees,  Johnson  emerges  ;  looming, 
at  first,  huge  and  dim  in  the  eye  of  an  observant 


few;  at  last  disclosed,  in  his  real  proportions, 
to  the  eye  of  the  whole  world,  and  encircled 
with  a  "  light-nimbus"  of  glory,  so  that  whoso 
is  not  blind  must  and  shall  behold  him.  By 
slow  degrees,  we  said ;  for  this  also  is  notable  ; 
slow  but  sure :  as  his  fame  waxes  not  by  ex- 
aggerated clamour  of  what  he  seems  to  be,  but 
by  better  and  better  insight  of  what  he  is,  so  it 
will  last  and  stand  wearing,  being  genuine.  . 
Thus  indeed  is  it  always,  or  nearly  always,  \ 
with  true  fame.  The  heavenly  Luminary  rises  ; 
amid  vapours  :  star-gazers  enough  must  scan 
it,  with  critical  telescopes ;  it  makes  no  blaz- 
ing, the  world  can  either  look  at  it,  or  forbear 
looking  at  it;  not  till  after  a  time  and  times, 
does  its  celestial,  eternal  nature  become  indu- 
bitable. Pleasant,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the 
blazing  of  a  Tarbarrel  ;  the  crowd  dance 
merrily  round  it,  with  loud  huzzaing,  universal 
ihree-times-three,  and,  like  Homer's  peasants, 
"  bless  the  useful  light :"  but  unhappily  it  so 
soon  ends  in  darkness,  foul  choking  smoke, 
and  is  kicked  into  the  gutters,  a  nameless 
imbroglio  of  charred  staves,  pitch-cinders,  and 
vomissement  du  Diable  ! 

But  indeed,  from  the  old,  Johnson  has  enjoyed 
all  or  nearly  all  that  Fame  can  yield  any  man : 
the  respect,  the  obedience  of  those  that  are 
about  him  and  inferior  to  him ;  of  those  whose 
opinion  alone  can  have  any  forcible  impres- 
sion on  him.  A  little  circle  gathers  round  the 
Wise  man;  which  gradually  enlarges  as  the 
report  thereof  spreads,  and  more  can  come  to 
see,  and  to  believe ;  for  Wisdom  is  precious, 
and  of  irresistible  attraction  to  all.  "  An  in- 
spired-idiot," Goldsmith,  hangs  strangely  about 
him  ;  though,  as  Hawkins  says,  "  he  loved  not 
Johnson,  but  rather  envied  him  for  his  parts  ; 
and  once  entreated  a  friend  to  desist  from 
praising  him,  'for  in  doing  so,'  said  he,  'you 
harrow  up  my  very  soul !' "  Yet  on  the  whole, 
there  is  no  evil  in  the  "  gooseberry-fool ;"  but 
rather  much  good;  of  a  finer,  if  of  a  weaker, 
sort  than  Johnson's;  and  all  the  more  ^nuine 
that  he  himself  could  never  become  conscious 
of  it, — though  unhappily  never  cease  attempting 
to  become  so  :  the  Author  of  the  genuine  Vicar 
of  Wakefield,  nill  he,  will  he,  must  needs  fly 
towards  such  a  mass  of  genuine  Manhood; 
and  Dr.  Minor  keep  gyrating  round  Dr.  Major, 
alternately  attracted  and  repelled.  Then  there 
is  the  chivalrous  Topham  Beauclerk,  with  his 
sharp  wit,  and  gallant,  courtly  ways :  there  is 
Bennet  Langton,  an  orthodox  gentleman,  and 
worthy ;  though  Johnson  once  laughed,  louder 
almost  than  mortal,  at  his  last  will  and  testa- 
ment ;  and  "  could  not  stop  his  merriment,  but 
continued  it  all  the  way  till  he  got  without  the 
Temple-gate;  then  burst  into  such  a  fit  of 
laughter  that  he  appeared  to  be  almost  in  a 
convulsion;  and,  in  order  to  support  himself, 
laid  hold  of  one  of  the  posts  at  the  side  of  the 
foot-pavement,  and  sent  forth  peals  so  loud 
that,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  his  voice 
seemed  to  resound  from  Temple-bar  to  Fleet- 
ditch  !"  Lastly  comes  his  solid-thinking,  solid- 
feeding  Thrale,  the  well-beloved  man;  with 
Thralia,  a  bright  papilionaceous  creature, 
whom  the  elephant  loved  to  play  with,  and 
wave  to  and  fro  upon  his  trunk.  Not  to  speak 
of  a  reverent  Bozzy,  for  what  need  is  there 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


farther! — Or  of  the  spiritual  Luminaries,  with 
tongue  or  pen,  who  made  that  age  remarkable; 
or  of  Highland  Lairds  drinking,  in  fierce 
usquebaugh,  "  Your  health,  Toctor  Shonson !" 
— still  less  of  many  such  as  that  poor  "  Mr.  F. 
Lewis,"  older  in  date,  of  whose  birth,  death, 
and  whole  terrestrial  res  gestce,  this  only,  and 
strange  enough  this  actually,  survives :  "  Sir, 
'ne  lived  in  London,  and  hung  loose  upon 
society !"  stat  Parvi  nominis  umbra. — 

In  his  fifty-third  year,  he  is  beneficed,  by  the 
"T^royal  bounty,  with  a  Pension  of  three  hundred 
'  pounds.  Loud  clamour  is  always  more  or  less 
insane:  but  probably  the  insanest  of  all  loud 
clamours  in  the  eighteenth  century,  was  this 
that  was  raised  about  Johnson's  Pension.  Men 
seem  to  be  led  by  the  noses ;  but  in  reality,  it 
is  by  the  ears, — as  some  ancient  slaves  were, 
who  had  their  ears  bored  ;  or  as  some  modern 
quadrupeds  may  be,  whose  ears  are  long.  Very 
falsely  was  it  said,  "Names  do  not  change 
Things ;"  Names  do  change  Things;  nay  for 
most  part  they  are  the  only  substance,  which 
mankind  can  discern  in  Things.  The  whole 
sum  that  Johnson,  during  the  remaining  twenty- 
two  years  of  his  life,  drew  from  the  public 
funds  of  England,  would  have  supported  some 
Supreme  Priest  for  about  half  as  many  weeks; 
it  amounts  very  nearly  to  the  revenue  of  our 
poorest  Church-Overseer  for  one  twelvemonth. 
Of  secular  Administrators  of  Provinces,  and 
Horse-subduers,  and  Game-destroyers,  we  shall 
not  so  much  as  speak :  but  who  were  the 
Primates  of  England,  and  the  Primates  of  all 
England,  during  Johnson's  days  1  No  man 
has  remembered.  Again,  is  the  Primate  of 
all  England  something,  or  is  he  nothing? 
If  something,  then  what  but  the  man  who, 
in  the  supreme  degree,  teaches  and  spiritu- 
ally edifies,  and  leads  towards  Heaven  by 
guiding  wisely  through  the  Earth,  the  living 
souls  that  inhabit  England  1  We  touch  here 
upon  deep  matters ;  which  but  remotely  con- 
cern us,  and  might  lead  us  into  still  deeper  : 
clear,  in  the  meanwhile,  it  is  that  the  true 
Spiritual  Edifier  and  Soul's-Father  of  all  Eng- 
land was,  and  till  very  lately  continued  to  be, 
the  man  named  Samuel  Johnson, — whom  this 
scot-and-lot-paying  world  cackled  reproachfully 
to  see  remunerated  like  a  Supervisor  of  Excise ! 
{  If  Destiny  had  beaten  hard  on  poor  Samuel, 
^y.(,and  did  never  cease  to  visit  him  too  roughly, 
yet  the  last  section  of  his  Life  might  be  pro- 
nounced victorious,  and  on  the  whole  happy.  He 
was  not  Idle ;  but  now  no  longer  goaded  on  by 
want;  the  light  which  had  shone  irradiating  the 
dark  haunts  of  Poverty,  now  illuminates  the 
circles  of  Wealth,  of  a  certain  culture  and  ele- 
gant intelligence  ;  he  who  had  once  been  ad- 
mitted to  speak  with  Edmund  Cave  and  To- 
bacco Browne,  now  admits  a  Reynolds  and  a 
Burke  to  speak  with  him.  Loving  friends  are 
there ;  Listeners,  even  Answerers :  the  fruit 
of  his  long  labours  lies  round  him  in  fair 
legible  Writings,  of  Philosophy,  Eloquence, 
Morality,  Philology ;  some  excellent,  all  worthy 
and  genuine  Works ;  for  which,  too,  a  deep, 
earnest  murmur  of  thanks  reaches  him  from 
all  ends  of  his  Fatherland.  Nay,,  there  are 
works  of  Goodness,  of  undying  Mercy,  which 
even   he   has    possessed   the    power    to   do  : 


"What  I  gave  I  have ;  what  I  spent  I  had  !" 
Early  friends  had  long  sunk  into  the  grave ; 
yet  in  his  soul  they  ever  lived,  fresh  and  clear, 
with  soft  pious  breathings  towards  them,  not 
without  a  still  hope  of  one  day  meeting  them 
again  in  purer  union.  Such  was  Johnson's 
Life :  the  victorious  Battle  of  a  free,  true 
Man.  Finally  he  died  the  death  of  the  free 
and  true :  a  dark  cloud  of  Death,  solemn,  and 
not  untinged  with  haloes  of  immortal  Hope 
"  took  him  away,"  and  our  eyes  could  no  longer 
behold  him ;  but  can  still  behold  the  trace  and 
impress  of  his  courageous,  honest  spirit,  deep- 
legible  in  the  World's  Business,  wheresoever 
he  walked  and  was. 

To  estimate  the  quantity  of  Work  that  John- 
soft  performed,  how  much  poorer  the  World 
were  had  it  wanted  him,  can,  as  in  all  such 
cases,  never  be  accurately  done ;  cannot,  till 
after  some  longer  space,  be  approximately 
done.  All  work  is  as  seed  sown  ;  it  grows 
and  spreads,  and  sows  itself  anew,  and  so,  in 
endless  palingenesia,  lives  and  works.  To 
Johnson's  Writings,  good  and  solid,  and  still 
profitable  as  they  are,  we  have  already  rated 
his  Life  and  Conversation  as  superior.  By  the 
one  and  by  the  other,  who  shall  compute  what 
efl!ects  have  been  produced,  and  are  still,  and 
into  deep  Time,  producing? 

So  much,  however,  we  can  already  see  :  It  is 
now  some  three  quarters  of  a  century  that 
Johnson  has  been  the  Prophet  of  the  English; 
the  man  by  whose  light  the  English  people, 
in  public  and  in  private,  more  than  by  any 
other  man's,  have  guided  their  existence. 
Higher  light  than  that  immediately  practical 
one ;  higher  virtue  than  an  honest  Prudence, 
he  could  not  then  communicate;  nor  perhaps 
could  they  have  received :  such  light,  such 
virtue,  however,  he  did  communicate.  How  to 
thread  this  labyrinthic  Time,  the  fallen  and 
falling,  Ruin  of  Times;  to  silence  vain  Scru- 
ples, hold  firm  to  the  last  the  fragments  of  old 
Belief,  and  with  earnest  eye  still  discern  some 
glimpses  of  a  true  path,  and  go  forward  there- 
on, "  in  a  world  where  there  is  much  to  be  done, 
and  little  to  be  known :"  this  is  what  Samuel 
Johnson,  by  act  and  word,  taught  his  nation, 
what  his  nation  received  and  learned  of  him, 
more  than  of  any  other.  We  can  view  him  as 
the  preserver  and  transmitter  of  whatsoever 
was  genuine  in  the  spirit  of  Toryism  ;  which 
genuine  spirit,  it  is  now  becoming  manifest, 
must  again  imbody  itself  in  all  new  forms  of 
Society,  be  what  they  may,  that  are  to  exist, 
and  have  continuance — elsewhere  than  on 
Paper.  The  last  in  many  things,  Johnson  was 
the  last  genuine  Tory;  the  last  of  Englishmen 
who,  with  strong  voice,  and  wholly-believing 
heart,  preached  the  Doctrine  of  Standing  still; 
who,  without  selfishness  or  slavishness,  reve- 
renced the  existing  Powers,  and  could  assert 
the  privileges  of  rank,  though  himself  poor,  neg- 
lected, and  plebeian ;  who  had  heart-devout- 
ness  with  heart-hatred  of  cant,  was  orthodox- 
religious  with  his  eyes  open  ;  and  in  all  things 
and  everywhere  spoke  out  in  plain  English, 
from  a  soul  wherein  Jesuitism  could  find  no 
harbour,  and  with  the  front  and  tone  not  of  a 
diplomatist  but  of  a  man. 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


337 


This  last  of  the  Tories  was  Johnson :  not 
Burke,  as  is  often  said;  Burke  was  essentially 
a  Whig,  and  only,  on  reaching  the  verge  of  the 
chasm  towards  which  Whiggism  from  the  first 
was  inevitably  leading,  recoiled ;  and,  like  a  man 
vehement  rather  than  earnest,  a  resplendent  far- 
sighted  Rhetorician  rather  than  a  deep  sure 
Thinker,  recoiled  with  no  measure,  convul- 
sively, and  damaging  what  he  drove  back 
with  him. 

In  a  world  which  exists  by  the  balance  of 
Antagonisms,  the  respective  merit  of  the  Con- 
servator and  the  Innovator  must  ever  remain 
debateable.  Great,  in  the  meanwhile,  and  un- 
doubted, for  both  sides,  is  the  merit  of  him  who, 
in  a  day  of  Change,  walks  wisely,  honestly. 
Johnson's  aim  was  in  itself  an  impossible  one; 
this  of  stemming  the  eternal  Flood  of  Time; 
of  clutching  all  things,  and  anchoring  them 
down,  and  saying.  Move  not ! — how  could  it,  or 
should  it,  ever  have  success  1  The  strongest 
man  can  hut  retard  the  current  partially  and 
for  a  short  hour.  Yet  even  in  such  shortest 
retardation,  may  not  an  estimable  value  lie?  If 
England  has  escaped  the  blood-bath  of  a  French 
Revolution ;  and  may  yet,  in  virtue  of  this  delay 
and  of  the  experience  it  has  given,  work  out  her 
deliverance  calmly  into  a  new  Era,  let  Samuel 
Johnson,  beyond  all  contemporary  or  succeed- 
ing men,  have  the  praise  for  it.  We  said  above 
that  he  was  appointed  to  be  Ruler  of  the  British 
nation  fora  season :  whoso  will  look  beyond  the 
surface,  into  theheart  of  the  world's  movements, 
may  find  that  all  Pitt  Administrations,  and  Con- 
tinental Subsidies, and  Waterloo  victories,  rest- 
ed on  the  possibility  of  making  England,  yet  a 
little  while,  Toryish,  Loyal  to  the  Old;  and  this 
again  on  the  anterior  reality,  that  the  Wise  had 
found  such  Loyalty  still  practicable,  and  recom- 
mendable.  England  had  its  Hume,  as  France 
had  its  Voltaires  and  Diderots ;  but  the  John- 
son was  peculiar  to  us. 

If  we  ask  now  by  what  endowment  it  mainly 
was  that  Johnson  realized  such  a  Life  for  him- 
self and  others  ;  what  quality  of  character  the 
main  phenomena  of  his  Life  may  be  most  na- 
turally deduced  from,  and  his  other  qualities 
most  naturally  subordinated  to,  in  our  concep- 
tion of  him,  perhaps  the  answer  were :  The 
quality  ofCourage,  of  Valour;  that  Johnson  was 
&  Brave  Man.  The  Courage  that  can  go  forth, 
once  and  away,  to  Chalk-Farm,  and  have  itself 
shot,  and  snuffed  out,  with  decency,  is  nowise 
wholly  what  we  mean  here.  Such  Courage 
we  indeed  esteem  an  exceeding  small  matter ; 
capable  of  coexisting  with  a  life  full  of  false- 
hood, feebleness,  poltroonery,  and  despicability. 
Nay  oftener  it  is  Cowardice  rather  that  pro- 
duces the  result:  for  consider.  Is  the  Chalk- 
Farm  Pistoleer  inspired  with  any  reasonable 
Belief  and  Determination  ;  or  is  he  hounded  on 
by  haggard,  indefinable  Fear, — how  he  will  be 
cut  at  public  places,  and  "  plucked  geese  of  the 
neighbourhood"  will  wag  their  tongues  at  him 
a  plucked  goose  1  If  he  go  then,  and  be  shot 
without  shrieking,  or  audible  uproar,  it  is  well 
for  him :  nevertheless  there  is  nothing  amazing 
in  it.  Courage  to  manage  all  this  has  not  per- 
haps been  denied  to  any  man,  or  to  any  woman 
Thus,  do  not  recruiting  sergeants  drum  through 
43 


the  streets  of  manufacturing  towns,  and  collect 
ragged  losels  enough;  every  one  of  whom,  if 
once  dressed  in  red,  and  trained  a  little,  will  re- 
ceive fire  cheerfully  for  the  small  sum  of  one 
shilling  per  diem,  and  have  the  soul  blown  out 
of  him  at  last,  with  perfect  propriety.  The 
Courage  that  dares  only  die,  is  on  the  whole  no 
sublime  affair;  necessary  indeed,  yet  univer- 
sal :  pitiful  when  it  begins  to  parade  itself.  On 
this  Globe  of  ours,  there  are  some  thirty-six 
persons  that  manifest  it,  seldom  with  the  small- 
est failure,  during  every  second  of  time.  Nay 
look  at  Newgate ;  do  not  the  offscourings  of 
Creation,  when  condemned  to  the  gallows,  as 
if  they  were  not  men  but  vermin,  walk  thither 
with  decency,  and  even  to  the  scowls  and  hoot- 
ings  of  the  whole  Universe  give  their  stern  good- 
night in  silence?  What  is  to  be  undergone 
only  once,  we  may  undergo;  what  must  be, 
comes  almost  of  its  own  accord.  Considered 
as  Duelist,  what  a  poor  figure  does  the  fiercest 
Irish  Whiskerando  make,  compared  with  any 
English  Game-cock,  such  as  you  may  buy  for 
fifteen-pence ! 

The  Courage  we  desire  and  prize  is  not  the^^ 
Courage  to  die  decently,  but  to  live  manfully.  , 
This,  when  by  God's  grace  it  has  been  given, 
lies  deep  in  the  soul ;  like  genial  heat,  fosters 
all  other  virtues  and  gifts;  without  it  they 
could  not  live.  In  spite  of  our  innumerable 
Waterloos  and  Peterloos,  and  such  campaign- 
ing as  there  has  been,  this  Courage  we  allude 
to,  and  call  the  only  true  one,  is  perhaps  rarer 
in  these  last  ages,  than  it  has  been  in  any 
other  since  the  Saxon  Invasion  under  HengisL 
Altogether  extinct  it  can  never  be  among  men; 
otherwise  the  species  Man  were  no  longer  for 
this  world :  here  and  there,  in  all  times,  under 
various  guises,  men  are  sent  hither  not  only 
to  demonstrate  but  exhibit  it,  and  testify,  as 
from  heart  to  heart,  that  it  is  still  possible, 
still  practicable. 

Johnson,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  as 
Man  of  Letters,  was  one  of  such ;  and,  in  good 
truth,  "  the  bravest  of  the  brave."  What  mortal 
could  have  more  to  war  with  1  Yet,  as  we 
saw,  he  yielded  not,  faltered  not;  he  fought, 
and  even,  such  was  his  blessedness,  prevailed. 
Whoso  will  understand  what  it  is  to  have  a 
man's  heart,  may  find  that,  since  the  time  of 
John  Milton,  no  braver  heart  had  beat  in  any 
English  bosom  than  Samuel  Johnson  now 
bore.  Observe  too  that  he  never  called  him- 
self brave,  never  felt  himself  to  be  so ;  the 
more  completely  was  so.  No  Giant  Despair, 
no  Golgotha-Death-dance  or  Sorcerer's-Sab- 
bath  of  "Literary  Life  in  London,"  appals  this 
pilgrim;  he  works  resolutely  for  deliverance; 
in  still  defiance,  steps  stoutly  along.  The  thing 
that  is  given  him  to  do  he  can  make  himself  do ; 
what  is  to  be  endured  he  can  endure  in  silence. 

How  the  great  soul  of  old  Samuel,  consum- 
ing daily  his  own  bitter  unalleviable  allotment 
of  misery  and  toil,  shows  beside  the  poor  flimsy 
little  soulof  young  Bos  well;  one  day  flaunting 
in  the  ring  of  vanity,  tarrying  by  the  wine-cup, 
and  crying.  Aha,  the  wine  is  red;  the  next 
day  deploring  his  downpressed,  night-shaded, 
quite  poor  estate;  and  thinking  it  unkind 
that  the  whole  movement  of  the  Universe 
should  go  on,  while  his  digestive-apparatus  had 
2F 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


stopped!  We  reckon  Johnson's  "talent  of  si- 
lence" to  be  among  his  great  and  too  rare  gifts. 
Whefe"there  is  nothing  farther  to  be  done,  there 
shall  nothing  farther  be  said  :  like  his  own  poor 
blind  Welshwoman,  he  accomplished  some- 
what, and  also  "  endured  fifty  years  of  wretched- 
ness with  unshaken  fortitude."  How  grim  was 
Life  to  him ;  a  sick  Prison-house  and  Doubt- 
ing-castle !  "  His  great  business,"  he  would 
profess,  "  was  to  escape  from  himself."  Yet 
towards  all  this  he  has  taken  his  position  and 
resolution ;  can  dismiss  it  all  "  with  frigid  in- 
difference, having  little  to  hope  or  to  fear." 
Friends  are  stupid  and  pusillanimous  and  parsi- 
monious ;  "  wearied  of  his  stay,  yet  offended  at 
his  departure  :"  it  is  the  manner  of  the  world. 
"By  popular  delusion,"  remarks  he  with  a 
gigantic  calmness,  "  illiterate  writers  will  rise 
into  renown :"  it  is  portion  of  the  History  of 
English  Literature ;  a  perennial  thing,  this 
same  popular  delusion ;  and  will — alter  the 
character  of  the  Language. 

Closely  connected  with  this  quality  of  Valour, 
partly  as  springing  from  it,  partly  as  protected 
by  it,  are  the  more  recognisable  qualities  of 
Truthfulness  in  word  and  thought,  and  Hones- 
ty in  action.  There  is  a  reciprocity  of  in- 
fluence here:  for  as  the  realizing  of  Truthful- 
ness and  Honesty  is  the  Life-light  and  great 
aim  of  Valour,  so  without  Valour  they  cannot, 
in  anywise,  be  realized.  Now,  in  spite  of  all 
practical  shortcomings,  no  one  that  sees  into 
the  significance  of  Johnson,  will  say  that  his 
prime  object  was  not  Truth.  In  conversation, 
doubtless,  you  may  observe  him,  on  occasion, 
fighting  as  if  for  victory; — and  must  pardon 
these  ebulliences  of  a  careless  hour,  which 
were  not  without  temptation  and  provocation. 
Remark  likewise  two  things;  that  such  prize- 
arguings  were  ever  on  merely  superficial  debat- 
able questions ;  and  then  that  they  were  argued 
generally  by  the  fair  laws  of  battle,  and 
logic-fence,  by  one  cunning  in  that  same.  If 
their  purpose  was  excusable,  their  effect  was 
harmless,  perhaps  beneficial :  that  of  taming 
noisy  mediocrity,  and  showing  it  another  side 
of  a  debatable  matter ;  to  see  both  sides  of 
which  was,  for  the  first  time,  to  see  the  Truth 
of  it.  In  his  Writings  themselves,  are  errors 
enough,  crabbed  prepossessions  enough,  yet 
these  also  of  a  quite  extraneous  and  accidental 
nature ;  nowhere  a  wilful  shutting  of  the  eyes 
to  the  Truth.  Nay,  is  there  not  everywhere 
a  heartfelt  discernment,  singular,  almost  ad- 
mirable, if  we  consider  through  what  confused 
conflicting  lights  and  hallucinations  it  had  to 
be  attained,  of  the  highest  everlasting  Truth, 
and  beginning  of  all  Truths:  this,  namely,  that 
man  is  ever,  and  even  in  the  age  of  Wilkes 
and  Whitfield,  a  Revelation  of  God  to  man ; 
and  lives,  moves,  and  has  his  being  in  Truth 
only;  is  either  true,  or,  in  strict  speech,  is  not 
atain 

Quite  spotless,  on  the  other  hand,  is  John- 
son's love  of  Truth,  if  we  look  at  it  as  ex- 
pressed in  Practice,  as  what  we  have  named 
Honesty  of  action.  "  Clear  your  mind  of  Cant ;" 
clear  it,  throw  Cant  utterly  away :  such  was 
his  emphatic,  repeated  precept ;  and  did  not  he 
himself  faithfully  conform  to  it  1  The  Life  of 
this  man  has  been,  as  it  were,  turned  inside 


out,  and  examined  with  microscopes  by  friend 
and  foe ;  yet  was  there  no  Lie  found  in  him. 
His  Doings  and  Writings  are  not  shouts  but^er- 
formances :  you  may  weigh  them  in  the  balance, 
and  they  will  stand  weight.  Not  a  line,  not  a 
sentence  is  dishonestly  done,  is  other  than  it 
pretends  to  be.  Alas !  and  he  wrote  not  out 
of  inward  inspiration,  but  to  earn  his  wages  : 
and  with  that  grand  perennial  tide  of  "  popular 
delusion"  flowing  by;  in  whose  waters  he 
nevertheless  refused  to  fish,  to  whose  rich 
oyster-beds  the  dive  was  too  muddy  for  him. 
Observe,  again,  with  what  innate  hatred  of 
Cant,  he  takes  for  himself,  and  offers  to  others 
the  lowest  possible  view  of  his  business,  which 
he  followed  with  such  nobleness.  Motive  for 
writing  he  had  none,  as  he  often  said,  but 
money ;  and  yet  he  wrote  so.  Into  the  region 
of  Poetic  Art  he  indeed  never  rose  ;  there  was 
no  ideal  without  him  avowing  itself  in  his 
work:  the  nobler  was  that  unavowed  ideal 
which  lay  within  him,  and  commanded,  saying. 
Work  out  thy  Artisanship  in  the  spirit  of  an 
Artist!  They  who  talk  loudest  about  the  dig- 
nity of  Art,  and  fancy  that  they  too  are  Artistic 
guild-brethren,  and  of  the  Celestials, — let  them 
consider  well  what  manner  of  man  this  was, 
who  felt  himself  to  be  only  a  hired  day-labourer. 
A  labourer  that  was  worthy  of  his  hire ;  that 
has  laboured  not  as  an  eye-servant,  but  as  one 
found  faithful  !  Neither  was  Johnson  in  those 
days  perhaps  wholly  a  unique.  Time  was 
when,  for  money,  you  might  have  ware :  and 
needed  not,  in  all  departments,  in  that  of  the 
Epic  Poem,  in  that  of  the  Blacking  Bottle,  to 
rest  content  with  the  mere  persuasion  that  you 
had  ware.  It  was  a  happier  time.  But  as  yet 
the  seventh  Apocalyptic  Bladder  (of  Puffeky) 
had  not  been  rent  open, — to  whirl  and  grind,  as 
in  a  West-Indian  Tornado,  all  earthly  trades 
and  things  into  wreck,  and  dust,  and  consum- 
mation,— and  regeneration.  Be  it  quickly,  since 
it  must  be  ! — 

That  Mercy  can  dwell  only  with  Valour,  is 
an  old  sentiment  or  proposition ;  which,  in 
Johnson,  again  receives  confirmation.  Few 
men  on  record  have  had  a  more  merciful,  ten- 
derly affectionate  nature  than  old  Samuel.  He 
was  called  the  Bear;  and  did  indeed  too  often 
look,  and  roar,  like  one  ;  being  forced  to  it  in 
his  own  defence:  yet  within  that  shaggy  ex- 
terior of  his,  there  beat  a  heart  warm  as  a 
mother's,  soft  as  a  little  child's.  Nay  general- 
ly, his  very  roaring  was  but  the  anger  of 
affection  :  the  rage  of  a  Bear,  if  you  will ;  but 
of  a  Bear  bereaved  of  her  whelps.  Touch  his 
Religion,  glance  at  the  Church  of  England,  or 
the  Divine  Right;  and  he  was  upon  you! 
These  things  were  his  Symbols  of  all  that  was 
good,  and  precious  for  men  ;  his  very  Ark  of 
the  Covenant:  whoso  laid  hand  on  them  tore 
asunder  his  heart  of  hearts.  Not  out  of  hatred 
to  the  opponent,  but  of  love  to  the  thing  opposed, 
did  Johnson  grow  cruel,  fiercely  contradictory: 
this  is  an  important  distinction ;  never  to  be 
forgotten  in  our  censure  of  his  conversational 
outrages.  But  observe  also  with  what  hu- 
manity, what  openness  of  love,  he  can  attach 
himself  to  all  things :  to  a  blind  old  woman,  to 
a  Doctor  Levett,  to  a  Cat  "Hodge."  "His 
thoughts   in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  were 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 


339 


frequently  employed  on  his  deceased  friends ; 
he  often  muttered  these  or  such-like  sentences : 
"  Poor  man !  and  then  he  died."  How  he 
patiently  converts  his  poor  home  into  a  Laza- 
retto ;  endures,  for  long  years,  the  contradic- 
tion of  the  miserable  and  unreasonable;  with 
him  unconnected,  save  that  they  had  no  other 
to  yield  them  refuge  !  Generous  old  man ! 
Worldly  possession  he  has  little ;  yet  of  this 
he  gives  freely ;  from  his  own  hard-earned 
shilling,  the  half-pence  for  the  poor,  that 
"waited  his  coming  out,"  are  not  withheld: 
the  poor  "  waited  the  coming  out"  of  one  not 
quite  so  poor!  A  Sterne  can  write  sentiment- 
alities on  Dead  Asses :  Johnson  has  a  rough 
voice ;  but  he  finds  the  wretched  Daughter  of 
Vice  fallen  down  in  the  streets;  carries  her 
home,  on  his  own  shoulders,  and  like  a  good 
Samaritan,  gives  help  to  the  help-needing, 
worthy  or  unworthy.  Ought  not  Charity,  even 
in  that  sense,  to  cover  a  multitude  of  Sinsi 
No  Penny-a-week  Committee-Lady,  no  man- 
ager of  Soup-Kitchens,  dancer  at  Charity  Balls, 
was  this  rugged,  stern-visaged  man :  but  where, 
in  all  England,  could  there  have  been  found 
another  soul  so  full  of  Pity,  a  hand  so  heaven- 
like bounteous  as  his  1  The  widow's  mite,  we 
know,  was  greater  than  all  the  other  gifts. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  divine  feeling  of  Affection^, 
throughout  manifested,  that  principally  attracts 
us  towards  Johnson.  A  true  brother  of  men 
is  he ;  and  filial  lover  of  the  Earth ;  who,  with 
little  bright  spots  of  Attachment,  "  where  lives 
and  works  some  loved  one,"  has  beautified 
"  this  rough  solitary  Earth  into  a  peopled  gar- 
den." Litchfield,  with  its  mostly  dull  and 
limited  inhabitants,  is  to  the  last  one  of  the 
sunny  islets  for  him;  Salve  magna  parens!  Or 
read  those  Letters  on  his  Mother's  death :  what 
a  genuine  solemn  grief  and  pity  lies  recorded 
there ;  a  looking  back  into  the  Past,  unspeak- 
ably mournful,  unspeakably  tender.  And  yet 
calm,  sublime ;  for  he  must  now  act,  not  look : 
his  venerated  Mother  has  been  taken  from 
him;  but  he  must  now  write  a  Rassclas  to  de- 
fray her  interment !  Again  in  this  little  inci- 
dent, recorded  in  his  Book  of  Devotion,  are  not 
the  tones  of  sacred  Sorrow  and  Greatness 
deeper  than  in  many  a  blank-verse  Tragedy ; 
as,  indeed,  '•  the  fifth  act  of  a  Tragedy"  (though 
unrhymed)  does  "  lie  in  every  death-bed,  were 
it  a  peasant's,  and  of  straw:" 

"Sunday,  October  18,  1767.  Yesterday,  at 
about  ten  in  the  morning,  I  took  my  leave  for 
ever  of  my  dear  old  friend,  Catherine  Cham- 
bers, who  came  to  live  with  my  mother  about 
1724,  and  has  been  but  little  parted  from  us 
since.  She  buried  my  father,  my  brother,  and 
my  mother.     She  is  now  fifty-eight  years  old. 

"I  desired  all  to  withdraw;  then  told  her 
that  we  were  to  part  for  ever;  that  as  Chris- 
tians, we  should  part  with  prayer;  and  that 
I  would,  if  she  was  willing,  say  a  short  prayer 
beside  her.  She  expressed  great  desire  to  hear 
me ;  and  held  up  her  poor  hands  as  she  lay  in 
bed,  with  great  fervour,  while  I  prayed  kneel- 
ing by  her.         *         *         ♦ 

"  I  then  kissed  her.  She  told  me  that  to  part 
was  the  greatest  pain  she  had  ever  felt,  and 
that  she  hoped  we  should  meet  again  in  a  bet- 
ter place.    I  expressed  with  swelled  eyes,  and 


great  emotion  of  tenderness,  the  same  hopes. 
We  kissed  and  parted ;  I  humbly  hope,  to  meet 
again,  and  to  part  no  more." 

Tears  trickling  down  the  granite  rock:  a 
soft  swell  of  Pity  springs  within  !  Still  more 
tragical  is  this  other  scene:  "Johnson  men- 
tioned that  he  could  not  in  general  accuse 
himself  of  having  been  an  undutiful  son. 
"Once  indeed,"  said  he,  "I  was  disobedient: 
I  refused  to  attend  my  father  to  Uttoxeter  mar- 
ket. Pride  was  the  source  of  that  refusal,  and 
the  remembrance  of  it  was  painful.  A  few 
years  ago  I  desired  to  atone  for  this  fault." — 
But  by  what  method  1 — What  method  was  now 
possible  1  Hear  it ;  the  words  are  again  given 
as  his  own,  though  here  evidently  by  a  less 
capable  reporter : 

"  Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  abrupt- 
ness of  my  departure  in  the  morning,  but  I 
was  compelled  to  do  it  by  conscience.  Fifty 
years  ago,  Madam,  on  this  day,  I  committed  a 
breach  of  filial  piety.  My  father  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  attending  Uttoxeter  market,  and 
opening  a  stall  there  for  the  sale  of  his  Books. 
Confined  by  indisposition,  he  desired  me,  that 
day,  to  go  and  attend  the  stall  in  his  place. 
My  pride  prevented  me ;  I  gave  my  father  a 
refusal. — And  now  to-day  I  have  been  at  Ut- 
toxeter; I  went  into  the  market,  at  the  time  of 
business,  uncovered  my  head,  and  stood  with 
it  bare,  for  an  hour,  on  the  spot  where  my 
father's  stall  used  to  stand.  In  contrition  I 
stood,  and  I  hope  the  penance  was  expiatory." 

Who  does  not  figure  to  himself  this  specta- 
cle, amid  the  "  rainy  weather,  and  the  sneers," 
or  wonder,  "of  the  by-standersi"  The  me- 
mory of  old  Michael  Johnson,  rising  from  the 
far  distance  ;  sad-beckoning  in  the  "  moonlight 
of  memory:"  how  he  had  toiled  faithfully 
hither  and  thither;  patiently  among  the  lowest 
of  the  low;  been  buffelted  and  beaten  down, 
yet  ever  risen  again,  ever  tried  it  anew — And 
oh  !  when  the  wearied  old  man,  as  Bookseller, 
or  Hawker,  or  Tinker,  or  whatsoever  it  was 
that  Fate  had  reduced  him  to,  begged  help  of 
thee  for  one  day, — how  savage,  diabolic,  was 
that  mean  Vanity,  which  answered,  No  !  He 
sleeps  now;  after  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps: 
but  thou,  0  Merciless,  how  now  wilt  thou  still 
the  sting  of  that  remembrance  ?— The  picture 
of  Samuel  Johnson  standing  bareheaded  in  the 
market  there,  is  one  of  the  grandest  and  saddest 
we  can  paint.  "Repentance!  Repentance!" 
he  proclaims,  as  with  passionate  sobs: — but 
only  to  the  ear  of  Heaven,  if  Heaven  will  give 
him  audience :  the  earthly  ear,  and  heart,  that 
should  have  heard  it,  are  now  closed,  unre- 
sponsive for  ever. 

That  this  so  keen-loving,  soft-trembling 
Afl!ectionateness,  the  inmost  essence  of  his 
being,  must  have  looked  forth,  in  one  form  or 
another,  through  Johnson's  whole  character, 
practical  and  intellectual,  modifying  both,  is 
not  to  be  doubted.  Yet  through  what  singular 
distortions  and  superstitions,  moping  melan- 
cholies, blind  habits,  whims  about  "entering 
with  the  right  foot,"  and  "  touching  every  post 
as  he  walked  along;"  and  all  the  other  mad 
chaotic  lumber  of  a  brain  that,  with  sun-clear 
intellect,  hoveied  for  ever  on  the  verge  of  in- 
sanity,— must  that  same  inmost  essence  have 


340 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


looked  forth;  unrecognisable  to  all  but  the 
most  observant!  Accordingly  it  was  not  re- 
ognised ;  Johnson  passed  not  for  a  fine  nature, 
but  for  a  dull,  almost  brutal  one.  Might  not, 
for  example,  the  first-fruit  of  such  a  Loving- 
ness,  coupled  with  his  quick  Insight,  have 
been  expected  to  be  a  peculiarly  courteous 
demeanour  as  man  among  men?  In  John- 
son's "  Politeness,"  which  he  often,  to  the 
wonder  of  some,  asserted  to  be  great,  there  was 
indeed  somewhat  that  needed  explanation. 
Nevertheless,  if  he  insisted  always  on  handing 
lady-visitors  to  their  carriage  ;  though  with  the 
certainty  of  collecting  a  mob  of  gazers  in  Fleet 
Street, — as  might  well  be,  the  beau  having  on, 
by  way  of  court  dress,  "  his  rusty  brown  morn- 
ing suit,  a  pair  of  old  shoes  for  slippers,  a  little 
shrivelled  wig  sticking  on  the  top  of  his  head, 
and  the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  and  the  knees  of 
his  breeches  hanging  loose :" — in  all  this  we 
can  see  the  spirit  of  true  Politeness,  only 
shining  through  a  strange  medium.  Thus 
again,  in  his  apartments,  at  one  time,  there 
were  unfortunately  no  chairs.  "  A  gentleman 
who  frequently  visited  him  whilst  writing  his 
Idlers,  constantly  found  him  at  his  desk,  sitting 
on  one  with  three  legs;  and  on  rising  from  it, 
he  remarked  that  Johnson  never  forgot  its 
defect ;  but  would  either  hold  it  in  his  hand,  or 
place  it  with  great  composure  against  some 
support;  taking  no  notice  of  its  imperfection 
to  his  visitor,"— who  meanwhile,  we  suppose, 
sat  upon  folios,  or  in  the  sartorial  fashion. 
"  It  was  remarkable  in  Johnson,"  continues 
Miss  Reynolds,  ("  Renny  dear,")  "  that  no  ex- 
ternal circumstances  ever  prompted  him  to 
make  any  apology,  or  to  seem  even  sensible 
of  their  existence.  Whether  this  was  the 
effect  of  philosophic  pride,  or  of  some  partial 
notion  of  his  respecting  high  breeding,  is  doubt- 
ful." That  it  was,  for  one  thing,  the  effect  of 
genuine  Politeness,  is  nowise  doubtful.  Not  of 
the  Pharisaical  Brummellian  Politeness,  which 
would  suffer  crucifixion  rather  than  ask  twice 
for  soup:  but  the  noble  universal  Politeness 
of  a  man,  that  knows  the  dignity  of  men,  and 
feels  his  own  ;  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the 
patriarchial  bearing  of  an  Indian  Sachem ; 
such  as  Johnson  himself  exhibited,  when  a 
sudden  chance  brought  him  into  dialogue  with 
his  King.  To  us,  with  our  view  of  the  man, 
it  nowise  appears  "  strange"  that  he  should 
have  boasted  himself  cunning  in  the  laws  of 
Politeness ;  nor  "  stranger  still,"  habitually 
attentive  to  practise  them. 

More  legibly  is  this  influence  of  the  Loving 
heart  to  be  traced  in  his  intellectual  character. 
*Vhat,  indeed,  is  the  beginning  of  intellect,  the 
first  inducement  to  the  exercise  thereof,  but 
attraction  towards  somewhat,  affect  ion  for  it? 
Thus  too,  who  ever  saw,  or  will  see,  any  true 
talent,  not  to  speak  of  genius,  the  foundation 
of  which  is  not  goodness,  love?  From  John- 
son's strength  of  Affection,  we  deduce  many 
of  his  intellectual  peculiarities;  especially  that 
threatening  array  of  perversions,  known  under 
the  name  of  "  Johnson's  Prejudices."  Looking 
well  into  the  root  from  which  these  sprung,  we 
have  long  ceased  to  view  them  with  hostility, 
can  pardon  and  reverently  pity  them.  Con- 
sider with  what  force  early-imbibed  opinions 


must  have  clung  to  a  soul  of  this  Affection. 
Those  evil-famed  Prejudices  of  his,  that 
Jacobitism,  Church-of-Englandism,  hatred  of 
th?  Scotch,  belief  in  Witches,  and  such  like, 
what  were  they  but  the  ordinary  beliefs  of 
well-doing,  well-meaning  provincial  English- 
men in  that  day?  First  gathered  by  his 
Father's  hearth;  round  the  kind  "country 
fires"  of  native  Staffordshire  ;  they  grew  with 
his  growth  and  strengthened  with  his  strength: 
they  were  hallowed  by  fondest  sacred  recollec- 
tions :  to  part  with  them  was  parting  with  his 
heart's  blood.  If  the  man  who  has  no  strength 
of  Affection,  strength  of  Belief,  have  no  strength 
of  Prejudice,  let  him  thank  Heaven  for  it,  but 
to  himself  take  small  thanks. 

Melancholy  it  was,  indeed,  that  the  noble 
Johnson  could  not  work  himself  loose  from 
these  adhesions ;  that  he  could  only  purify 
them,  and  wear  them  with  some  nobleness. 
Yet  let  us  understand  how  they  grew  out  from 
the  very  centre  of  his  being:  nay,  moreover, 
how  they  came  to  cohere  in  him  with  what 
formed  the  business  and  worth  of  his  Life,  the 
sum  of  his  whole  Spiritual  Endeavour.  For  it 
is  on  the  same  ground  that  he  became  through- 
out an  Edifier  and  Repairer,  not,  as  the  others 
of  his  make  were,  a  Puller-down ;  that  in  an  age ' 
of  universal  Skepticism,  England  was  still  to ' 
produce  its  Believer.  Mark  too  his  candour 
even  here;  while  a  Dr.  Adams,  with  placid 
surprise,  asks,  "Have  we  not  evidence  enough 
of  the  soul's  immortality  ?"  Johnson  answers, 
"I  wish  for  more."  But  the  truth  is,  in  Pre- 
judice, as  in  all  things,  Johnson  was  the  pro- 
duct of  England;  one  of  those  good  yeomen 
whose  limbs  were  made  in  England  :  alas,  the 
last  of  swr/i  Invincibles,  their  day  being  now 
done  !  His  culture  is  wholly  English ;  that  not 
of  a  Thinker  but  of  a  "Scholar:"  his  interests 
are  wholly  English;  he  sees  and  knows  no- 
thing but  England;  he  is  the  John  Bull  of 
Spiritual  Europe:  let  him  live,  love  him,  as  he 
was  and  could  not  but  be  !  Pitiable  it  is,  no 
doubt,  that  a  Samuel  Johnson  must  confute 
Hume's  irreligious  Philosophy  by  some  "  story 
from  a  Clergyman  of  the  Bishopric  of  Dur- 
ham;" should  see  nothing  in  the  great  Fred- 
erick but  "Voltaire's  lackey;"  in  Voltaire  him- 
self but  a  man  acerrimi  ingenii,  paumrum  litera- 
rum :  in  Rousseau  but  one  worthy  to  be  hanged  ; 
and  in  the  universal,  long-prepared,  inevitable 
Tendency  of  European  Thought  but  a  green- 
sick  milkmaid's  crotchet  of  (for  variety's  sake) 
"milking  the  Bull."  Our  good,  dear  John! 
Observe  too  what  it  is  that  he  sees  in  the  city 
of  Paris:  no  feeblest  glimpse  of  those  D'Alem- 
berts  and  Diderots,  or  of  the  strange  question- 
able work  they  did ;  solely  some  Benedictine 
Priests,  to  talk  kitchen-latin  with  them  about 
EdUiones  Principes.  '^  Monsheer  Nongtongpaw.''* 
— Our  dear,  foolish  John  ;  yet  is  there  a  lion's 
heart  within  him  I— Pitiable  all  these  things 
were,  we  say;  yet  nowise  inexcusable ;  nay,  as 
basis  or  as  foil  to  much  else  that  was  in  John- 
son, almost  venerable.  Ought  we  not,  indeed, 
to  honour  England,  and  English  Institutions 
and  Way  of  Life,  that  they  could  slill  equip 
such  a  man;  could  furnish  him  in  heart  and 
head  to  be  a  Samuel  Johnson,  and  yet  to  love 
them,  and  unyieldingly  fight  for  them  ?     What 


DEATH  OF  GOETHE. 


341 


truth  and  living  vigour  must  such  Institutions 
once  have  had,  when,  in  the  middle  of  the 
Eighteenth  century,  there  was  still  enough  left 
in  them  for  this  ! 
.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that,  in  our  little  British 
Wvjsle,  the  two  grand  Antagonisms  of  Europe 
'  should  have  stood  imbodied,  under  their  very 
highest  concentration,  in  two  men  produced 
simultaneously  among  ourselves.  Samuel 
Johnson  and  David  Hume,  as  was  observed, 
were  children  of  the  same  year:  through  hfe 
they  were  spectators  of  the  same  Life-move- 
ment; often  inhabitants  of  the  same  city. 
Greater  contrast,  in  all  things,  between  two 
great  men,  could  not  be.  Hume,  well-born, 
competently  provided  for,  whole  in  body  and 
mind,  of  his  own  determination  forces  a  way 
into  Literature:  Johnson,  poor,  moonstruck, 
diseased,  forlorn,  is  forced  into  it  "  with  the 
bayonet  of  necessity  at  his  "back."  And  what 
a  part  did  they  severally  play  there  !  As  John- 
son became  the  father  of  all  succeeding  Tories ; 
jso  was  Hume  the  father  of  all  succeeding 
I  Whigs,  for  his  own  Jacobitism  was  but  an 
'accident,  as  worthy  to  be  named  Prejudice  as 
any  of  Johnson's.  Again,  if  Johnson's  culture 
was  exclusively  English;  Hume's,  in  Scotland, 
became  European  ; — for  which  reason  too  we 
find  his  influence  spread  deeply  over  all  quar- 
ters of  Europe,  traceable  deeply  in  all  specula- 
tion, French,  German,  as  well  as  domestic; 
while  Johnson's  name,  out  of  England,  is  hardly 
anywhere  to  be  met  with.  In  spiritual  stature 
they  are  almost  equal;  both  great,  among  the 
greatest:  yet  how  unlike  in  likeness!  Hume 
has  the  widest  methodizing,  comprehensive 
eye ;  Johnson  the  keenest  for  perspicacity  and 
minute  detail:  so  had,  perhaps  chiefly,  their 
education  ordered  it.  Neither  of  the  two  rose 
into  Poetry;  yet  both  to  some  approximation 
thereof:  Hume  to  something  of  an  Epic  clear- 
ness and  method,  as  in  his  delineation  of  the 
Commonwealth  Wars ;  Johnson  to  many  a 
deep  Lyric  tone  of  plaintiveness,  and  impetu- 
"  ous  graceful  power,  scattered  over  his  fugitive 
compositions.  Both,  rather  to  the  general  sur- 
prise, had  a  certain  rugged  Humour  shining 
through  their  earnestness :  the  indication,  in- 


deed, that  they  were  ^aestjn^en,  and  had  tub- 
dued  their  wild  world  into  a  kind  of  temporary 
home,  and  safe  dwelling.  Both  were,  by  prin- 
ciple and  habit.  Stoics :  yet  Johnson  with  the 
greater  merit,  for  he  alone  had  very  much  to 
triumph  over;  farther,  he  alone  ennobled  his 
Stoicism  into  Devotion.  To  Johnson  Life  was 
as  a  Prison,  to  be  endured  with  heroic  faith : 
to  Hume  it  was  little  more  than  a  foolish  Bar- 
tholomew-Fair Show-booth,  with  the.  foolish 
crowdings  and  elbowings  of  which  it  was  not 
worth  while  to  quarrel;  the  whole  would  break 
up,  and  be  at  liberty,  so  soon.  Both  realized 
the  highest  task  of  Manhood,  that  of  living  like 
men  ;  each  died  not  unfitly,  in  his  way :  Hume 
as  one,  with  factitious,  half-false  gayety,  taking 
leave  of  what  was  itself  wholly  but  a  Lie : 
Johnson  as  one,  with  awe-struck,  yet  resolute 
and  piously  expectant  heart,  taking  leave  of  a 
Reality,  to  enter  a  Reality  still  higher.  John- 
son had  the  harder  problem  of  it,  from  first  to 
last:  whether,  with  some  hesitation,  we  can 
admit  that  he  was  intrinsically  the  better-gifted, 
— may  remain  undecided. 

These  two  men  now  rest;  the  one  in  West- 
minster Abbey  here ;  the  other  in  the  Calton 
Hill  Churchyard  of  Edinburgh.  Through  Life 
they  did  not  meet :  as  contrasts,  "  like  in  un- 
like," love  each  other  ;  so  might  they  two  have 
loved,  and  comuiuned  kindly, — had  not  the 
terrestrial  dross  and  darkness,  that  was  in 
them,  withstood  !  One  day  their  spirits,  what 
truth  was  in  each,  will  be  found  working,  liv- 
ing in  harmony  and  free  union,  even  here  be- 
low. They  were  the  two  half-men  of  their 
time  :  whoso  should  combine  the  intrepid  Can- 
dour, and  decisive  scientific  Clearness  of 
Hume,  with  the  Reverence,  the  Love,  and  de- 
vout Humility  of  Johnson,  were  the  whole 
main  of  a  new  time.  Till  such  whole  man  ar- 
rive for  us,  and  the  distracted  time  admit  of 
such,  might  the  heavens  but  bless  poor  Eng- 
land with  half-men  worthy  to  tie  the  shoe- 
latchets  of  these,  resembling  these  even  from 
afar!  Be  both  attentively  regarded,  let  the 
true  Effort  of  both  prosper  ; — and  for  the  pre- 
sent, both  take  our  affectionate  farewell ! 


DEATH  OF  GOETHE. 


[New  Monthly  Magazine,  1832.] 


.  Iw  the '  obituary  of  these  days  stands  one 
article  of  quite  peculiar  import;  the  time,  the 
place,  and  particulars  of  which  will  have  to 
be  often  repeated,  and  re-written,  and  continue 
in  remembrance  many  centuries:  this, namely, 
that  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe  died  at 
Weimar,  on  the  22d  March,  1832.  It  was 
about  eleven  in  the  morning ;  "  he  expired," 
says  the  record,  "  without  any  apparent  suffer- 
ing, having  a  few  minutes  previously,  called 
for  paper  for  the  purpose  of  writing,  and  ex- 
pressed his  delight  at  the  arrival  of  spring." 


A  beautiful  death;  like  that  of  a  soldier  found 
faithful  at  his  post,  and  in  the  cold  hand  his 
arms  still  grasped !  The  Poet's  last  words  are 
a  greeting  of  the  new-awakened  earth ;  his 
last  movement  is  to  work  at  his  appointed 
task.  Beautiful :  what  we  might  call  a  Clas- 
sic, sacred  death ;  if  it  were  not  rather  an 
Elijah-translation, — in  a  chariot,  not  of  fire 
and  terror,  but  of  hope  and  soft  vernal  sun- 
beams !  It  was  at  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  on 
the  28th  of  August,  1749,  that  this  man  entered 
the  world — and  now,  gently  welcoming  the 
2£2 


342 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


birth-day  of  his  eighty-second  spring,  he  closes 
his  eyes,  and  takes  farewell. 

So  then,  our  greatest  has  departed.  That 
melody  of  life,  with  its  cunning  tones,  which 
look  captive  ear  and  heart,  has  gone  silent; 
the  heavenly  force  that  dwelt  here  victorious 
over  so  much,  is  here  no  longer ;  thus  far,  not 
farther,  by  speech  and  by  act,  shall  the  wise 
man  utter  himself  forth.  The  End  !  What 
solemn  meaning  lies  in  that  sound,  as  it  peals 
mournfully  through  the  soul,  when  a  living 
friend  has  passed  away  !  All  now  is  closed, 
irrevocable ;  the  changeful  life-picture,  grow- 
ing daily  into  new  coherence,  under  new 
touches  and  hues,  has  suddenly  become  com- 
pleted and  unchangeable  ;  there,  as  it  lay,  it  is 
dipped,  from  this  moment,  in  the  aether  of  the 
Heavens,  and  shines  transfigured,  to  endure 
even  so — for  ever.  Time  and  Time's  Empire; 
stern,  wide  devouring,  yet  not  without  their 
grandeur!  The  week-day  man,  who  was  one 
of  us,  has  put  on  the  garment  of  Eternity,  and 
become  radiant  and  triumphant;  the  present 
is  all  at  once  the  past ;  Hope  is  suddenly  cut 
away,  and  only  the  backward  vistas  of  Me- 
mory remain,  shone  on  by  a  light  that '  pro- 
ceeds not  from  this  earthly  sun. 

.The  death  of  Goethe,  even  for  the  many 
hearts  that  personally  loved  him,  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  lamented  over ;  is  to  be  viewed,  in  his 
own  spirit,  as  a  thing  full  of  greatness  and 
sacredness.  "  For  all  men  it  is  appointed 
once  to  die."  To  this  man  the  full  measure 
of  a  man's  life  had  been  granted,  and  a  course 
and  task  such  as  to  only  a  few  in  the  whole 
generations  of  the  world ;  what  else  could  we 
hope  or  require  but  that  now  he  should  be 
called  hence  and  have  leave  to  depart,  "hav- 
ing finished  the  work  that  was  given  him  to 
do]"  If  his  course,  as  we  may  say  of  him 
more  justly  than  of  any  other,  was  like  the 
Sun's,  so  also  was  his  going  down.  For  in- 
deed, as  the  material  Sun  is  the  eye  and  re- 
vealer  of  all  things,  so  is  Poetry,  so  is  the 
World-Poet  in  a  spiritual  s^nse.  Goethe's 
life,  too,  if  we  examine  it,  is  well  represented 
in  that  emblem  of  a  solar  Day.  Beautifully 
rose  our  summer  sun,  gorgeous  in  the  red 
fervid  East,  scattering  the  spectres  and  sickly 
damps  (of  both  of  which  there  were  enough 
lo  scatter) — strong,  benignant  in  his  noon-day 
clearness,  walking  triumphant  through  the  up- 
per realms  ;  and  now,  mark  also  how  he  sets ! 
So  Stirbt  ein  Held:  anbetungsvoll!  "So  dies  a 
hero  ;  sight  to  be  worshipped." 

And  yet,  when  the  inanimate,material  sun 
has  sunk  and  disappeared,  it  will  happen  that 
we  stand  to  gaze  into  the  still  glowing  West; 
and  here  rise  great,  pale,  motionless  clouds, 
like  coulisses  or  curtains,  to  close  the  flame- 
theatre  within ;  and  then,  in  that  death-pause 
of  the  Day,  an  unspeakable  feeling  will  come 
over  us ;  it  is  as  if  the  poor  sounds  of  Time, 
those  hammerings  of  tired  Labour  on  his  an- 
vils, those  voices  of  simple  men,  had  become 
awful  and  supernatural  ;  as  if  in  listening,  we 
could  hear  them  "  mingle  with  the  ever-pealing 
tones  of  old  Eternity."  In  such  moments  the 
secrets  of  Life  lie  opener  to  us;  mysterious 
things  flit  over  the  soul ;  Life  itself  seems  ho- 
lier, wonderful,  and  fe'Urful.    How  much  more 

/ 


when  our  sunset  was  of  a  living  sun  ;  and  its 
bright  countenance  and  shining  return  to  us, 
not  on  the  morrow,  but  "  no  more  again,  at  all, 
for  ever  !"  In  such  a  scene,  silence,  as  over 
the  mysterious  great,  is  for  him  that  has  some 
feeling  thereof,  the  fittest  mood.  Nevertheless 
by  silence,  the  distant  is  not  brought  into  com- 
munion :  the  feeling  of  each  is  without  re- 
sponse from  the  bosom  of  his  brother.  There 
are  now,  what  some  years  ago  there  were  not, 
English  hearts  that  know  something  of  what 
those  three  words,  "Death  of  Goethe,"  mean  ; 
to  such  men,  among  their  many  thoughts  on 
the  event,  which  are  not  to  be  translated  into 
speech,  may  these  few,  through  that  imperfect 
medium,  prove  acceptable. 

"Death,"  says  the  Philosopher,  "is  a  com- 
mingling of  Eternity  with  Time ;  in  the  death 
of  a  good  man,  Eternity  is  seen  looking 
through  Time."  With  such  a  sublimity  here 
offered  to  eye-  and  heart,  it  is  not  unnatural 
to  look  with  new  earnestness  before  and  be- 
hind, and  ask,  what  space  in  those  years  and 
jBons  of  computed  Time,  this  man  with,  his 
activity  may  influence ;  what  relation  to  the 
world  of  change  and  mortality,  which  the 
earthly  name  Life,  he  who  is. even  now  called 
to  the  Immortals  has  borne  and  may  bear. 

Goethe,  it  is  commonly  said,  made  a  new 
era  in  Literature;  a  Poetic  era  began  with 
him,  the  end  or  ulterior  tendencies  of  which 
are  yet  nowise  generally  visible.  This  com- 
mon saying  is  a  true  one,  and  true  with  a  far 
deeper  meaning  than,  to  the  most,  it  conveys. 
Were  the  Poet  but  a  sweet  sound  and  singer, 
solacing  the  ear  of  the  idle  with  pleasant  songs, 
and  the  new  Poet  one  who  could  sing  his. idle, 
pleasant  song,  to  anew  air,  we  should  account 
him  a  small  matter,  and  his  pertbrmance 
small.  But  this  man,  it  is  not  unknown  to  many, 
was  a  Poet  in  such  a  sense  as  the  late  genera- 
tions have  witnessed  no  other;  as  it  is,  in  this 
generation,  a  kind  of  distinction  to  believe  in 
the  existence  of,  in  the  possibility  of.  The 
true  Poet  is  ever,  as  of  old,  the  Seer ;  whose 
eye  has  been  gifted  to  discern  the  godlike  mys- 
tery of  God's  universe,  and  decipher  some. 
new  lines  of  its  celestial  writing;  we  can  still 
call  him  a  Vutcs  and  Seer;  for  he  sees  into  this 
greatest  of  secrets  "  the  open  secret ;"  hidden 
things  become  clear;  how  the  future  (both 
resting  on  Eternity)  is  but  another  phasis  of 
the  present ;  thereby  are  his  words  in  very 
truth  prophetic ;  what  he  has  spoken  shall  be 
done. 

It  begins  now  to  be  everywhere  sufmised 
that  the  real  Force,  which  in  this  world  all 
things  must  obey,  is  Insight,  Spiritual  Vision, 
and  Determination.  The  Thought  is  parent 
of  the  Deed,  nay,  is  living  soul  of  it,  and  last 
and  continual,  as  well  a&  first  mover  of  it ;  is 
the  foundation,  and  beginning,  and  essence, 
therefore,  of  man's  whole  existence  here  be- 
low. In  this  sense,  it  has  been  said,  the  word 
of  man  (the  uttered  thoughts  of  man)  is  still 
a  magic  formula,  whereby  he  rults  the  world. 
Do  not  the  winds  and  waters,  and  all  tumultu- 
ous powers,  inanimate  and  animate^obey  him  1 
A  poor,  quite  mechanieal.  Magician  speaks— 
and  fire-winged  ships  cross  the  ocean  at  his 
bidding.    Or  mark,  above  all,  that "  raging  of 


DEATH  OF  GOETHE. 


d43 


the  nations,"  wholly  in  contention,  despera- 
tion, and  dark  chaotic  fury ;  how  the  meek 
voice  of  a  Hebrew  Martyr  and  Redeemer  stills 
it  into  order,  and  a  savage  Earth  becomes 
kind  and  beautiful,  and  the  "  habitation  of 
horrid  cruelty"  a  temple  of  peace.  The  true 
sovereign  of  the  world,  who  moulds  the  world 
like  soft  wax,  according  to  his  pleasure,  is  he 
who  lovingly  sees  into  the  world  ;  the  "  inspired 
Thinker,"  whom  in  these  days  we  name  Poet. 
The  true  sovereign  is  the  Wise  Man. 

However,  as  the  Moon,  which  can  heave  up 
the  Atlantic,  sends  not  in  her  obedient  billows 
at  once,  but  gradually  ;  and,  for  example,  the 
Tide,  which  swells  to-day  on  our  shores,  and 
washes  every  creek,  rose  in  the  bosom  of  the 
great  oc§an  (astronomers  assure  us)  eight  and 
forty  hours  ago;  and  indeed  all  world-move- 
ments, by  nature  deep,  are  by  nature  calm,  and 
flow  and  s^i^ell  onwards  with  a  certain  majes- 
tic slowness — so,  too,  with  the  impulse  of  a 
Great  Man,  and  the  effect  he  has  to  manifest 
on  other  men.  To  such  an  one  we  may  grant 
some  generation  or  two  before  the  celestial 
impulse  he  impressed  on  the  world  will  uni- 
versally proclaim  itself,  and  become  (like  the 
working  of  the  moon)  if  still  not  intelligible, 
yet  palpable,  to  all  men ;  some  generation  or 
two.  more,  wherein'  it  has  to  grow,  and  expand, 
and  envelop  all  things,  before  it  can  reach  its 
acme ;  and  thereafter  mingling  with  other 
movements  and  new  impulses,  at  length  cease 
to  require  a  specific  observation  or  designa- 
tion. Longer  or  shorter  such  jaeriod  may  be, 
according  to  the  nature  of  th^impulse  itself, 
and  of  the  elements  it  works  in;  according, 
above  all,  as  the  impulse  was  intrinsically 
great  and  deep-reaching,  or  only  wide-spread, 
superficial,  and  transient.  Thus,  if  David 
Hume  is  at  this  hour  pontiff  of  the  world,  and 
rules  most  hearts,  and  guides  most  tongues, 
(the  hearts  and  tongues,  even  in  those  that  in 
vain  rebel  against  him,)  there  are,  nevertheless, 
symptoms  that  his  task  draws  towards  com- 
pletion ;  and  now  in  the  distance  his  succes- 
sor becomes  visible.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
have  seen  a'  Napoleon,  like  some  gunpowder 
force  (with  which  sort  he,  indeed,  was  appoint- 
ed chiefly  to  work)  explode  his  whole  virtue 
suddenly,  and  thunder  himself  out  and  silent, 
in  a  space  of  five-and-twenty  years.  While 
again,  for  a  man  of  true  greatness,  working 
with  spiritual  implements,  two  centuries  is  no 
uncommon  period;  nay,  on  this  Earth  of  ours, 
there  have  been  men  whose  impulse  had  not 
completed  its  development  till  after  fifteen 
hundred  years,  and  might,  perhaps,  be  seen 
still  individually  subsistent  after  two  thousand. 
But,  as  was  once  written, "  though  our  clock 
strikes  when  there  is  a  change  from  hour  to 
hour,  no  hammer  in  the  horologe  of  time  peals 
through  the  universe  to  proclaim  that  there  is 
a  change  from  era  to  era."  The  true  begin- 
ning is  oftenest  unnoticed,  and  unnoticeable. 
Thus  do  men  go  wrong  in  their  reckoning; 
and  grope  hither  and  thither,  not  knowing 
where  they  are,  in  what  course  their  history 
runs.  Within  this  last  century,  for  instance, 
with  its  wild  doings  and  destroyings,  what 
hope,  grounded  in  miscalculation,  ending  in 
disappointment !      How  many   world-famous 


victories  were  gained  and  lost,  dynasties 
founded  and  subverted,  revolutions  accom- 
plished, constitutions  sworn  to ;  and  ever  the 
"  new  era"  was  come,  was  coming,  yet  still  it 
came  not,  but  the  time  continued  sick  !  Alas, 
all  these  were  but  spasmodic  convulsions  of 
the  death-sick  time ;  the  crisis  of  cure  and  re- 
generation to  the  time  was  not  there  indicated. 
The  real  new  era  was  when  a  Wise  Man  came 
into  the  world,  with  clearness  of  vision  and 
greatness  of  soul  to  accomplish  this  old  high 
enterprise,  amid  these  new  difficulties,  yet 
again :  A  Life  of  Wisdom.  Such  a  man  be- 
came, by  Heaven's  pre-appointment,  in  very 
deed,  the  Redeemer  of  the  time.  Did  he  not 
bear  the  curse  of  the  time  1  He  was  filled  full 
with  its  skepticism,  bitterness,  hollowness,  and 
thousandfold  contradictions,  till  his  heart  was 
like  to  break ;  but  he  subdued  all  this,  rose 
victorious  over  this,  and  manifoldly  by  word 
and  act  showed  others  that  come  after,  how  to 
do  the  like.  Honour  to  him  who  first,  "  through 
the  impassable,  paves  a  road  !"  Such  indeed 
is  the  task  of  every  great  man  ;  nay,  of  every 
good  man  in  one  or  the  other  sphere,  since 
goodness  is  greatness,  and  the  good  man,  high 
or  humble,  is  ever  a  martyr,  and  a  "  spiritual 
hero  that  ventures  forward  into  the  gulf  for 
our  deliverance."  The  gulf  into  which  this 
man  ventured,  which  he  tamed  and  rendered 
habitable,  was  the  greatest  and  most  perilous 
of  all,  wherein  truly  all  others  lie  included: 
The  whole  distracted  Existence  of  man  in  an  age 
of  unbelief.  Whoso  lives,  whoso  with  earnest 
mind  studies  to  live  wisely  in  that  mad  element, 
may  yet  know,  perhaps,  too  well;  what  an  en- 
terprise was  here ;  and  for  the  chosen  of  our 
time,  who  could  prevail  in  that  same,  have  the 
higher  reverence,  and  a  gratitude  such  as  be- 
long to  no  other. 

How  far  he  prevailed  in  it,  and  by  what 
means,  with  what  endurances  and  achieve- 
ments, will  in  due  season  be  estimated;  those 
volumes  called  Goethe's  Works,  will  receive  no 
further  addition  or  alteration ;  and  the  record 
of  his  whole  spiritual  Endeavour  lies  written 
there, — were  the  man  or  men  but  ready  who 
could  read  it  rightly !  A  glorious  record ; 
wherein  he  that  would  understand  himself  and 
his  environment,  and  struggles  for  escape  out 
of  darkness  into  light,  as  for  the  one  thing 
needful,  will  long  thankfully  study.  For  the 
whole  chaotic  time,  what  it  has  suffered,  at- 
tained, and  striven  after,  stands  imaged  there; 
interpreted,  ennobled  into  poetic  clearness. 
From  the  passionate  longings  and  wailings  of 
"  Werter"  spoken  as  from  the  heart  of  all 
Europe  ;  onwards  .through  the  wild  unearthly 
melody  of  "  Faust"  (like  the  spirit  song  of 
falling  worlds  ;)  to  that  serenely  smiling  wis- 
dom of  '*  Meislers  Lehrjahre,"  and  the  "  Ger- 
man Hafiz," — what  an  interval ;  and  all  en- 
folded in  an  ethereal  music,  as  from  unknown 
spheres,  harmoniously  uniting  all !  A  long 
interval;  and  wide  as  well  as  long;  for  this 
was  a  universal  man.  History,  Science,  Art, 
human  Activity  under  every  aspect;  the  laws 
of  light  in  his  "  Farbenlehre ;"  the  laws  of 
wild  Italian  life  in  his  "Benvenuto  Cellini;" — 
nothing  escaped  him,  nothing  that  he  did  not 
look  into,  that  he  did  not  see  into.    Consider 


344 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


too  the  genuineness  of  whatsoever  he  did  ;  his 
hearty,  idiomatic  way;  simplicity  with  loftiness, 
and  nobleness,  and  aerial  grace. — Pure  works 
of  art,  completed  with  an  antique  Grecian 
polish  as  "  Torquato  Tasso,"  as  "  Iphigenie," 
Proverbs;  "Xenien;"  Patriarchal  Sayings, 
which,  since  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  were  closed, 
we  know  not  where  to  match;  in  whose  homely 
depths  lie  often  the  materials  for  volumes. 

To  measure  and  estimate  all  this,  as  we 
said,  the  time  is  not  come;  a  century  hence 
will  be  the  fitter  time.  He  who  investigates  it 
best  will  find  its  meaning  greatest,  and  be  the 
readiest  to  acknowledge  that  it  transcends 
him. — Let  the  reader  have  seen,  before  he  at- 
tempts to  oversee.  A  poor  reader,  in  the  mean- 
while were  he,  who  discerned  not  here  the 
authentic  rudiments  of  that  same  New  Era, 
whereof  we  have  so  often  had  false  warning. 
Wondrously,  the  wrecks  and  pulverized  rub- 
bish of  ancient  things,  institutions,  religions, 
forgotten  noblenesses,  made  alive  again  by  the 
breath  of  Genius,  lie  here  in  new  coherence 
and  incipient  union,  the  spirit  of  Art  working 
creative  through  the  mass :  that  chaos,  into 
which  the  eighteenth  century  with  its  wild  war 
of  hypocrites  and  skeptics  had  reduced  the 
Past,  begins  here  to  be  once  more  a  world. — 
This,  the  highest  that  can  be  said  of  written 
books,  is  to  be  said  of  these ;  there  is  in  them 
a  new  time,  the  prophecy  and  beginning  of  a 
new  time.  The  corner  stone  of  a  new  social 
edifice  for  mankind  is  laid  there;  firmly,  as 
before,  on  the  natural  rock,  far  extending  traces 
of  a  ground-plan  we  can  also  see,  which  future 
centuries  may  go  on  to  enlarge,  amend,  and 
work  into  reality.  These  sayings  seem  strange 
to  some;  nevertheless  they  are  not  empty  ex- 
aggerations, but  expressions,  in  their  way,  of 
a  belief,  which  is  not  now  of  yesterday ;  per- 
haps when  Goethe  has  been  read  and  medi- 
tated for  another  generation,  they  will  not  seem 
so  strange. 

Precious  is  the  new  light  of  knowledge 
which  our  teacher  conquers  for  us;  yet  small 
to  the  new  light  of  Love  which  also  we  derive 
from  him;  the  most  important  element  of  any 
man's  performance  is  the  life  he  has  accom- 
plished. Under  the  intellectual  union  of  man 
and  man,  which  works  by  precept,  lies  a  holier 
union  of  affection,  working  by  example :  the 
influences  of  which  latter,  mystic,  deep-reach- 
ing, all-embracing,  can  still  less  be  computed. 
For  Love  is  ever  the  beginning  of  Knowledge, 
as  fire  is  of  light ;  works  also  more  in  the 
manner  of  fire.  That  Goethe  was  a  great 
teacher  of  men,  means  already  that  he  was  a 
good  man;  that  he  himself  learned;  in  the 
school  of  experience  had  striven  and  proved 
victorious.  To  how  many  hearers  languish- 
ing, nigh  dead,  in  the  airless  dungeon  of  Un- 
belief (a  true  vacuum  and  nonentity)  has  the 
assurance  that  there  was  such  a  man,  that  such 
a  man  was  still  possible,  come  like  tidings  of 
great  joy !  He  who  would  learn  to  reconcile 
Reverence  with  clearness,  to  deny  and  defy 
what  is  false,  yet  believe  and  worship  what  is 
true;  amid  raging  factions,  bent  on  what  is 
either  altogether  empty  or  has  substance  in  it 
only  for  a  day,  which  stormfully  convulse  and 
tear  hither  and  thither  a  distracted,  expiring 


system  of  society,  to  adjust  himself  aright ; 
and,  working  for  the  world,  and  in  the  world, 
keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  world, — let 
him  look  here.  This  man,  we  may  say,  be- 
came morally  great,  by  being  in  his  own  age 
what  in  some  other  ages  many  might  have 
been — a  genuine  man.  His  grand  excellency 
was  this,  that  he  was  genuine.  As  his  primary 
faculty,  the  foundation  of  all  others,  was  Intel- 
lect, depth  and  force  of  Vision,  so  his  primary 
virtue  was  Justice,  was  the  courage  to  be  just. 
A  giant's  strength  we  admired  in  him;  yet, 
strength  ennobled  into  softest  mildness ;  even 
like  that  "  silent  rock-bound  strength  of  a 
world,"  on  whose  bosom,  that  rests  on  the 
adamant,  grow  flowers.  The  greatest  of  hearts 
was  also  the  bravest:  fearless,  unwearied, 
peacefully  invincible.  A  completed  man;  the 
trembling  sensibility,  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  a 
Mignon,  can  assort  with  the  scornful  world- 
mockery  of  a  Mephistophiles ;  and  each  side 
of  many-sided  life  receives  its  due  from  him. 

Goethe  reckoned  Schiller  happy  that  he  died 
young,  in  the  full  vigour  of  his  days :  that  he 
could  "  figure  him  as  a  youth  for  ever."  To 
himself  a  different,  higher  destiny  was  ap- 
pointed. Through  all  the  changes  of  man's 
life,  onwards  to  its  extreme  verge,  he  was  to 
go;  and  through  them  all  nobly.  In  youth, 
flatterings  of  fortune,  uninterrupted  outward 
prosperity  cannot  corrupt  him;  a  wise  ob- 
server must  remark,  "  only  a  Goethe,  at  the 
sumof  earthly  happiness,  can  keep  his  Phoenix- 
wings  unsing^." — Through  manhood,  in  the 
most  complex  relation,  as  poet,  courtier,  poli- 
tician, man  of  business,  man  of  speculation; 
in  the  middle  of  revolutions  and  counter-revo- 
lutions, outward  and  spiritual ;  with  the  world 
loudly  for  him,  with  the  world  loudly  or  si- 
lently against  him;  in  all  seasons  and  situa- 
tions, he  holds  equally  on  his  way.  Old  age 
itself,  which  is  called  dark  and  feeble,  he  was 
to  render  lovely :  who  that  looked  upon  him 
there,  venerable  in  himself,  and  in  the  world's 
reverence,  ever  the  clearer,  the  purer,  but 
could  have  prayed  that  he  too  were  such  an 
old  man  1  And  did  not  the  kind  Heavens-con- 
tinue kind,  and  grant  to  a  career  so  glorious 
the  worthiest  end  ] 

Such  was  Goethe's  life ;  such  has  his  de- 
parture been — he  sleeps  now  beside  his  Schil- 
ler and  his  Carl  August:  so  ha.d  the  Prince 
willed  it,  that  between  these  two  should  be  his 
own  final  rest.  In  life  they  were  united,  in 
death  they  are  not  divided.  The  unwearied 
Workman  now  rests  from  his  labours ;  the 
fruit  of  these  is  left  growing,  and  to  grow. 
His  earthly  years  have  been  numbered  and 
ended :  but  of  his  activity  (for  it  stood  rooted 
in  the  Eternal)  there  is  no  end.  All  that  we 
mean  by  the  higher  Literature  of  Germany, 
which  is  the  higher  Literature  of  Europe,  al- 
ready gathers  round  this  man,  as  its  creator ; 
of  which  grand  object,  dawning  mysterious  on 
a  world  that  hoped  not  for  it,  who  is  there  that 
can  assume  the  significance  and  far-reaching 
influences'?  The  Literature  of  Europe  will 
pass  away;  Europe  itself,  the  Earth  itself  will 
pass  away;  this  little  life-boat  of  an  Earth, 
with  its  noisy  crew  of  Mankind,  and  all  their 
troubled  History,  will  one  day  have  vanished,  - 


DEATH  OF  GOETHE. 


345 


faded  like  a  cloud-speck  from  the  azure  of  the 
All  !  What  then  is  man  1  What  then  is  man  1 
He  endures  but  for  an  hour,  and  is  crushed 
before  the  moth.  Yet  in  the  being  and  in  the 
working  of  a  faithful  man  is  there  already  (as 
all  faith,  from  the  beginning,  gives  assurance) 
a  something  that  pertains  not  to  this  wild 
death-element  of  time  ;  that  triumphs  over 
Time,  and  is,  and  will  be,  when  Time  shall  be 
no  more. 

And  now  we  turn  back  into  the  world,  with- 


drawing from  this  new  made  grave.  The  man 
whom  we  love  lies  there :  but  glorious,  worthy: 
and  his  spirit  yet  lives  in  us  with  an  authentic 
life.  Could  each  here  vow  to  do  his  little  task, 
even  as  the  Departed  did  his  great  one;  in  the 
manner  of  a  true  man,  not  for  a  Day,  but 
for  Eternity!  To  live,  as  he  counselled  and 
commanded,  not  commodiously  in  the  Repu- 
table, the  Plausible,  the  Half,  but  resolutely  in 
the  Whole,  the  Good,  the  True : 

"/m  Ganzen,  Ghuten,  fVahren  resolut  zu  leben  I" 


GOETHE'S   WORKS, 


[Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  1832.] 


It  is  now  four  years  since  we  specially  in- 
vited attention  to  this  Book ;  first  in  an  essay 
on  the  graceful  little  fantasy-piece  of  Helena, 
then  in  a  more  general  one  on  the  merits  and 
workings  of  Goethe  himself:  since  which  time 
two  important  things  have  happened  in  refe- 
rence to  it;  for  the  publication, advancing  with 
successful  regularity,  reached  its  fortieth  and 
last  volume  in  1830;  and  now,  still  more  em- 
phatically to  conclude  both  this  "completed 
final  edition,"  and  all  other  editions,  endeavours 
and  attainments  of  one  in  whose  hands  lay  so 
much,  come  tidings  that  the  venerable  man  has 
been  recalled  from  our  earth,  and  of  his  long 
labours  and  high  faithful  stewardship  we  have 
had  what  was  appointed  us. 

The  greatest  epoch  in  a  man's  life  is  not 
always  his  death ;  yet  for  bystanders,  such  as 
contemporaries,  it  is  always  the  most  notice- 
able. AH  other  epochs  are  transition-points 
from  one  visible  condition  to  another  visible; 
the  days  of  their  occurrence  are  like  any  other 
days,  from  which  only  the  clearer-sighted  will 
distinguish  them  ;  bridges  they  are,  over  which 
the  smooth  highway  runs  continuous,  as  if  no 
Rubicon  were  there.  But  the  day  in  a  mortal's 
destinies  which  is  like  no  other,  is  his  death- 
day  :  here  too  is  a  transition,  what  we  may  call 
a  bridge,  as  at  other  epochs  ;  but  now  from  the 
keystone  onwards  half  the  arch  rests  on  in- 
visibHity;  this  is  a  transition  out  of  visible 
Time  into  invisible  Eternity. 

Since  death,  as  the  palpable  revelation  (not 
to  be  overlooked  by  the  dullest)  of  the  mystery 
of  wonder,  and  depth,  and  fear,  which  every- 
where from  beginning  to  ending  through  its 
whole  course  and  movement  lies  under  life,  is 
in  any  case  so  great,  we  find  it  not  unnatural 
that  hereby  a  new  look  of  greatness,  a  new  in- 
terest should  be  impressed  on  whatsoever  has 
preceded  it  and  led  to  it ;  that  even  towards 
some  man,  whose  history  did  not  then  first 
become  significant,  the  world  should  turn,  at 
his  departure,  with  a  quite  peculiar  earnest- 


♦  Ooethes  (Verke.  Vollstdndige  ^usg-ahe  letter  Hand, 
(Goethe's  Works.  Completed,  final  edition,)  40  voll. 
Slullgard  and  l"ubingen.     18-27-30. 


ness,  and  now  seriously  ask  itself  a  question, 
perhaps  never  seriously  asked  before :  What 
the  purport  and  character  of  his  presence  here 
was  :  now  when  he  has  gone  hence,  and  is  not 
present  here,  and  will  remain  absent  for  ever- 
more. It  is  the  conclusion  that  crowns  the 
work;  much  more  the  irreversible  conclusion 
wherein  all  is  concluded:  thus  is  there  no  life 
so  mean  but  a  death  will  make  it  memorable. 

At  all  lykewakes,  accordingly,  the  doings 
and  endurances  of  the  Departed  are  the  theme : 
rude  souls,  rude  tongues  grow  eloquently  busy 
with  him  ;  a  whole  septuagint  of  beldames  are 
striving  to  render,  in  such  dialect  as  they  have, 
the  smaH  bible, or  apochrypha,of  his  existence, 
for  the  general  perusal.  The  least  famous  of 
mankind  will  for  once  become  public,  and  have 
his  name  printed,  and  read  not  without  interest : 
in  the  Newspaper  obituaries ;  on  some  frail 
memorial,  under  which  he  has  crept  to  sleep. 
Foolish  lovesick  girls  know  that  there  is  one 
method  to  impress  the  obdurate,  false  Lovelace, 
and  wring  his  bosom ;  the  method  of  drowning  : 
foolish  ruined  dandies,  whom  the  tailor  wiH  no 
longer  trust,  and  the  world  turning  on  its  heel 
is  about  forgetting,  can  recall  it  to  attention  by 
report  of  pistol ;  and  so,  in  a  worthless  death, 
if  in  a  worthless  life  no  more,  re-attain  the  top- 
gallant of  renown, — for  one  day.  Death  is 
ever  a  sublimity,  and  supernatural  wonder, 
were  there  no  other  left:  the  last  act  of  a  most 
strange  drama,  which  is  not  dramatic  but  has 
now  become  real:  wherein,  miraculously, Fu- 
ries, god-missioned,  have  in  actual  person 
risen  from  the  abyss,  and  do  verily  dance 
there  in  that  terror  of  all  terrors,  and  wave 
their  dusky-glaring  torches,  and  shake  their 
serpent-hair!  Out  of  which  heart-thrilling,  so 
authentically  tragic  fifth  act  there  goes,  as  we 
said,  a  new  meaning  overall  the  other  four: 
making  them  likewise  tragic  and  authentic, 
and  memorable  in  some  measure,  were  they 
formerly  the  sorriest  pickle-herring  farce. 

But  above  all,  when  a  Great  Man  dies,  then 
has  the  time  come  for  putting  us  in  mind  that 
he  was  aHve :  biographies  and  biographic 
sketches,    criticisms,    characters,    anecdotes, 


346 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


reminiscences,  issue  forth  as  from  opened 
springing  fountains  ;  the  world,  with  a  passion 
whetted  byimpossibility,  will  yet  awhile  retain, 
yet  a  while  speak  with,  though  only  to  the  un- 
answering  echoes,  what  it  has  lost  without 
remedy :  thus  is  the  last  event  of  life  often  the 
loudest ;  and  real  spiritual  Apparitions,  (who 
have  been  named  Men,)  as  false  imaginary 
ones  are  fabled  to  do,  vanish  in  thunder. 

For  ourselves,  as  regards  the  great  beauty,  if 
not  seeking  to  be  foremost  in  this  natural  move- 
ment, neither  do  we  shun  to  mingle  in  it.  The 
life  and  ways  of  such  men  as  he,  are,  in  all  sea- 
sons, a  matter  profitable  to  contemplate,  to  speak 
of;  if  in  this  death  season,  long  with  a  sad  reve- 
rence looked  forward  to,  there  has  little  increase 
of  light,  little  change  of  feeling  arisen  for  the 
writer,  a  readier  attention,  nay  a  certain  expect- 
ance, from  some  readers  is  call  sufficient.  In- 
numerable meditations  and  disquisitions  on  this 
subject  must  yet  pass  through  the  minds  of 
men  ;  on  all  sides  must  it  be  taken  up,  by 
various  observers,  by  successive  generations, 
and  ever  a  new  light  may  evolve  itself:  why 
should  not  this  observer,  on  this  side,  set  down 
wliat  he  partially  has  seen  into,  and  the  neces- 
sary process  thereby  be  forwarded,  at  any  rate, 
continued  ] 

A  continental  Humourist,  of  deep-piercing, 
resolute,  though  strangely  perverse  faculty, 
whose  works  are  as  yet  but  sparingly  if  at  all 
cited  in  English  literature,  has  written  a 
chapter,  somewhat  in  the  nondescript  manner 
of  metaphysico-rhetorical,  homilelic-exegetic 
rhapsody,  on  the  Greatness  of  great  men ;  which 
topic  we  agree  with  him  in  reckoning  one  of 
the  most  pregnant.  The  time,  indeed,  is  come 
when  much  that  was  once  found  visibly  sub- 
sistent  Without  must  anew  be  sought  for  With- 
in ;  many  a  human  feeling,  indestructible,  and  to 
man's  well-being  indispensable,  which  once 
manifested  itself  in  expressive  forms  to  the 
Sense,  now  lies  hidden  in  the  formless  depths 
of  the  Spirit,  or  at  best  struggles  out  obscurely 
in  forms  become  superannuated,  altogether 
inexpressive,  and  unrecognisable  ;  from  which 
paralysed,  imprisoned  state,  often  the  best 
effort  of  the  thinker  is  required,  and  moreover 
were  well  applied,  to  deliver  it.  For  if  the 
Present  is  to  be  the  "living  sum-total  of  the 
whole  Past,"  nothing  that  ever  lived  in  the 
Past  must  be  let  wholly  die;  whatsoever  was 
done,  whatsoever  was  said  or  written  aforetime, 
was  done  and  written  for  our  edification.  In 
such  state  of  imprisonment,  paralysis  and  un- 
recognisable defacement,  as  compared  with  its 
condition  in  the  old  ages,  lies  this  our  feeling  to- 
wards great  men;  wherein,  and  in  the  much  that 
else  belongs  to  it,  some  of  the  deepest  human 
interests  will  be  found  involved.  A  few  words 
from  Herr  Professor  Teufelsdreck,  if  they  help 
to  set  this  preliminary  matter  in  a  clearer 
light,  may  be  worth  translating  here.  Let  us 
first  remark  with  him,  however,  "  how  wonder- 
ful in  all  cases,  great  or  little,  is  the  importance 
of  man  to  man :" 

"Deny  it  as  he  will,"  says  Teufelsdreck, 
"man  reverently  loves  man,  and  daily  by  ac- 
tion evidences  his  belief  in  the  divineness  of 
man.  What  a  more  than  regal  mystery  en- 
circles the  poorest  of  living  souls  for  us  !  The 


highest  is  not  independent  of  him  ;  his  sufiVage 
has  value:  could  the  highest  monarch  con- 
vince himself  that  the  humblest  beggar  with  sin- 
cere mind  despised  him,  no  serried  ranks  of 
halberdiers  and  body-guards  could  shut  out 
some  little  twinge  of  pain  ;  some  emanation 
from  the  low  had  pierced  into  the  bosom  of  the 
high.  Of  a  truth,  men  are  mystically  united;  a 
mystic  bond  of  broiherhood  makes  all  men  one. 

"Thus  loo  has  that  fierce  hunting  after  Popu- 
larity, which  you  often  wonder  at,  and  laugh  at, 
a  basis  on  something  true  :  nay,  under  the  other 
aspect,  what  is  that  wonderful  spirit  of  Inter- 
ference, were  it  but  manifested  as  the  paltriest 
scandal  and  tea-table  backbiting,  other  than, 
inversely  or  directly,  a  heartfelt  indestructible 
sympathy  of  man  with  man  1  Hatred  itself  is 
but  an  inverse  love.  The  philosopher's  wife 
complained  to  the  philosopher  that  certain  two- 
legged  animals  without  feathers  spake  evil  of 
him,  spitefully  criticised  his  goings  out  and 
comings  in ;  wherein  she  too  failed  not  of  her 
share  :  '  Light  of  my  life,'  answered  the  philo- 
sopher, *  it  is  their  love  of  us,  unknown  to 
themselves,  and  taking  a  foolish  shape;  thank 
them  for  it,  and  do  thou  love  them  more  wisely. 
Were  we  mere  steam-engines  working  here 
under  this  rooftree,  they  would  scorn  to  speak 
of  us  once  in  a  twelve-month.'  The  last  stage 
of  human  perversion,  it  has  been  said,  is  when 
sympathy  corrupts  itself  into  envy;  and  the 
indestructible  interest  we  take  in  men's  doings 
has  become  a  joy  over  their  faults  and  mis- 
fortunes :  this  is  the  last  and  lowest  stage ; 
lower  than  this  we  cannot  go:  the  absolute 
petrifaction  of  indifference  is  not  attainable  on 
this  side  total  death. 

"  And  now,"  continues  the  Professor,  "  rising 
from  these  lowest  tea-table  regions  of  human 
communion  into  the  higher  and  highest,  is 
there  not  still  in  the  world's  demeanour  to- 
wards Great  Men,  enough  to  make  the  old 
practice  of  Hero-worship  intelligible,  nay,  signi- 
ficant ]  Simpleton  !  I  tell  thee  Hero-worship 
still  continues;  it  is  the  only  creed  which 
never  and  nowhere  grows  or  can  grow  obso- 
lete. For  always  and  everywhere  this  remains 
a  true  saying :  II  y  a  dans  le  c(£ur  himiain  un  fibre 
religieux.  Man  always  tvorships  something; 
always  he  sees  the  Infinite  shadowed  forth  in 
something  finite;  and  indeed  can  and  must  so 
see  it  in  any  finite  thing,  once  tempt  him  well 
to  fix  his  eyes  thereon.  Yes,  in  practice,  be 
it  in  theory  or  not,  we  are  all  Supernataralists ; 
and  have  an  infinite  happiness  or  an  infinite 
wo  not  only  waiting  us  hereafter,  but  looking 
out  on  us  through  any  pitifullest  present  good 
or  evil; — as,-  for  example,  on  a  high  poetic 
Byron  through  his  lameness;  as  on  all  young 
souls  through  their  first  lovesuit;  as  on  older 
souls,  still  more  foolishly,  through  many  a  law- 
suit, paper-battle,  political  horse-race  or  ass- 
race.  Atheism,  it  has  been  said,  is  impossi- 
ble;  and  truly,  if  we  will  consider  it,  no 
Atheist  denies  a  Divinity,  but  only  some  Name 
{Nomen,  Nnmen)  of  a  Divinity:  the  God  is  still 
present  there,  working  in  that  benighted  heart, 
were  it  only  as  a  god  of  darkness.  Thousands 
of  stern  Sansculottes,  to  seek  no  other  instance, 
go  chanting  martyr  hymns  to  their  guillotine; 
these  spurn  at  the  name  of  a  God;  3^et  worship 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


347 


one  (as  hapless  *  Proselytes  without  the  Gate') 
under  the  new  pseudonym  of  Freedom.  What 
indeed  is  all  this  that  is  called  political  fanati- 
cism, revolutionary  madness,  force  of  hatred, 
force  of  love,  and  so  forth  ;  but  merely  under 
new  designations,  that  same  wondrous,  won- 
der-working reflex  from  the  Infinite,  which  in 
all  times  has  given  the  Finite  its  empyrean  or 
tartarean  hue,  thereby  its  blessedness  or  cursed- 
ness,  its  marketable  worth  or  unworth  1 

"  Remark,  however,  as  illustrative  of  several 
things,  and  more  to  the  purpose  here,  that  man 
does  in  strict  speech  always  remain  the  clearest 
symbol  of  the  Divinity  to  man.  Friend  Nova- 
lis,  the  devoutest  heart  I  knew,  and  of  purest 
depth,  has  not  scrupled  to  call  man  what  the 
Divine  Man  is  called  in  Scripture,  a  'Revela- 
tion in  the  Flesh.'  'There  is  but  one  temple 
in  the  world,'  says  he, '  and  that  is  the  body 
of  man.  Bending  before  men  is  a  reverence 
done  to  this  revelation  in  the  flesh.  We  touch 
heaven  when  we  lay  our  hand  on  a  human 
body.'  In  which  notable  words,  a  reader  that 
meditates  them,  may  find  such  meaning  and 
scientific  accuracy  as  will  surprise  him. 

"  The  age  of  superstition,  it  appears  to  be 
sufl[iciently  known,  are  behind  us.  To  no 
man,  were  he  never  so  heroic,  are  shrines  any 
more  built,  and  vows  offered  as  to  one  having 
supernatural  power.  The  sphere  of  the  tran- 
scendental cannot  now,  by  that  avenue  of 
heroic  worth,  of  eloquent  wisdom,  or  by  any 
other  avenue,  be  so  easily  reached.  The 
worth  that  in  these  days  could  transcend  all 
estimate  or  survey,  and  lead  men  willingly  cap- 
tive into  infinite  admiration,  into  worship,  is 
still  waited  for  (with  little  hope)  from  the  un- 
seen Time.  All  that  can  be  said  to  offer  itself 
in  that  kind,  at  present,  is  some  slight  house- 
hold devotion,  (Haus-Jlndacht,)  whereby  this  or 
the  other  enthusiast,  privately  in  all  quietness, 
can  love  his  hero  or  sage  without  measure, 
and  idealize,  and,  so  in  a  sense,  idolize  him  ; 
— which  practice,  as  man  is  by  necessity  an 
idol- worshipper,  (no  offence  in  him  so  long  as 
idol  means  accurately  vision,  clear  symbol,)  and 
all  wicked  idolatry  is  but  a  more  idolatrous 
worship,  may  be  excusable,  in  certain  cases, 
praiseworthy.  Be  this  as  it  will,  let  the  curious 
eye  gratify  itself  in  observing  how  the  old  ante- 
diluvian feeling  still,  though  now  struggling 
out  so  imperfectly,  and  forced  into  unexpected 
shapes,  asserts  its  existence  in  the  newest 
man  :  and  the  Chaldeans  or  old  Persians,  with 
their  Zerdusht,  differ  only  in  vesture  and 
dialect  from  the  French,  with  their  Voltaire 
etouffe  sous  des  roses."* 

This,  doubtless,  is  a  wonderful  phraseology, 
but  referable,  as  the  Professor  urges,  to  that 
capacious  reservoir  and  convenience,  "the 
nature  of  the  time  :"  "  A  time,"  says  he,  "  when 
as  in  some  Destruction  of  a  Roman  Empire, 
wrecks  of  old  things  are  everywhere  confusedly 
jumbled  with  rudiments  of  new;  so  that,  till 
once  the  mixture  and  amalgamation  be  com- 
plete, and  even  have  long  continued  complete, 
and  universally  apparent,  no  grammatical  lan- 
gue  d'oc  or  langue  d'oui  can  establish  itself,  but 

♦  Die  Kleider  :  ihr  IVerden  und  Wirken  Von  D.  Teu- 
FELSDRECK.  Weissnichtwo.  Stillschweign'sche  Buch- 
bandluug,  1830. 


only  some  barbarous  mixed  lingua  rustica,  more 
like  a  jargon  than  a  language,  must  prevail ;  and 
thus  the  deepest  matters  be  either  barbarously 
spoken  of,  or  wholly  omitted  and  lost  sight  of, 
which  were  still  worse."  But  to  let  the  homily 
proceed : 

"  Consider,  at  any  rate,"  continues  he  else- 
where, "  under  how  many  categories,  down  to 
the  most  impertinent,  the  world  inquires  con- 
cerning Great  Men,  and  never  wearies  striving 
to  represent  to  itself  their  whole  structure, 
aspect,  procedure,  outward  and  inward  !  Blame 
not  the  world  for  such  minutest  curiosity  about 
its  great  ones :  this  comes  of  the  world's  old- 
established  necessity  to  worship;  and,  indeed, 
whom  but  its  great  ones,  that  "like  celestial 
fire-pillars  go  before  it  on  the  march,"  ought 
it  to  worship  ?  Blame  not  even  that  mistaken 
worship  of  sham  great  ones,  that  are  not 
celestial  fire-pillars,  but  terrestrial  glass-lan- 
terns with  wick  and  tallow,  under  no  guidance 
but  a  stupid  fatuous  one;  of  which  worship 
the  litanies,  and  gossip-homilies  are,  in  some 
quarters  of  the  globe,  so  inexpressibly  unin- 
teresting. Blame  it  not;  pity  it  rather,  with  a 
certain  loving  respect. 

"  Man  is  never,  let  me  assure  thee,  altogether 
a  clothes-horse ;  under  the  clothes  there  is 
always  a  body  and  a  soul.  The  Count  von 
Biigeleisen,  so  idolized  by  our  fashionable 
classes,  is  not,  as  the  English  Swift  asserts, 
created  wholly  by  the  Tailor :  but  partially,  also, 
by  the  supernatural  Powers.  His  beautifully 
cut  apparel,  and  graceful  expensive  tackle  and 
environment  of  all  kinds,  are  but  the  symbols 
of  a  beauty  and  gracefulness  supposed  to  be 
inherent  in  the  Count  himself;  under  which 
predicament  come  also  our  reverence  for  his 
counthood,  and  in  good  part  that  other  notable 
phenomenon  of  his  being  worshipped,  because 
he  is  worshipped,  of  one  idolater,  sheep-like, 
running  after  him,  because  many  have  already 
run.  Nay,  on  what  other  principle  but  this 
latter  hast  thou,  O  reader,  (if  thou  be  not  one 
of  a  thousand,)  read,  for  example,  thy  Homer, 
and  found  some  real  joy  therein  1  All  these 
things,  I  say,  the  apparel,  the  counthood,  the 
existing  popularity,  and  whatever  else  can  com- 
bine them,  are  symbols  ; — bank  notes,  which, 
whether  there  be  gold  behind  them,  or  only 
bankruptcy  and  empty  drawers,  pass  current 
for  gold.  But  how,  now,  could  they  so  pass, 
if  gold  itself  were  not  prized,  and  believed  and 
known  to  be  somewhere  extant  1  Produce  the 
actual  gold  visibly,  and  mark  how,  in  these 
distrustful  days,  your  most  accredited  bank- 
paper  stagnates  in  the  market !  No  holy  Alli- 
ance, though  plush,  and  gilding,  and  genealo- 
gical parchment,  to  the  utmost  that  the  time 
yields,  be  hung  round  it,  can  gain  for  itself  a 
dominion  in  the  heart  of  any  man  ;  some  thirty 
or  forty  millions  of  men's  hearts  being,  on  the 
other  hand,  subdued  into  loyal  reverence  by  a 
Corsican  Lieutenant  of  Artillery.  Such  is  the 
difference  between  God-creation  and  Tailor- 
creation.  Great  is  the  tailor,  but  not  the 
greatest.  So,  too,  in  matters  spiritual,  what 
avails  it  that  a  man  be  Doctor  of  the  Sorbonne, 
I  Doctor  of  Laws,  of  Both  Laws,  and  can  cover 
I  half  a  square  foot  in  pica-type  with  the  list  of 
I  his  fellowships,  arranged  as  equilateral  triangle. 


348 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


at  the  vertex  an  '&c.'  over  and  above,  and 
with  the  parchment  of  his  diplomas  could 
thatch  the  whole  street  he  lives  in:  What 
avails  it  ?  The  man  is  but  an  owl ;  of  pre- 
possessing gravity  indeed ;  much  respected  by 
simple  neighbours;  but  to  whose  sorrowful 
hootings  no  creature  hastens,  eager  to  listen. 
While,  again,  let  but  some  riding  ganger  arrive 
under  cloud  of  night  at  a  Scottish  inn,  and 
word  be  whispered  that  it  is  Robert  Burns  ;  in 
few  instants  all  beds  and  truckle-beds,  from 
garret  to  cellar,  are  left  vacant,  and  gentle  and 
simple,  with  open  eyes  and  erect  ears,  are 
gathered  together." 

Whereby,  at  least,  from  amid  this  question- 
able /mgt*a,  "more  like  a  jargon  than  a  lan- 
guage," so  much  may  have  become  apparent: 
What  unspeakable  importance  the  world  at- 
taches, has  ever  attached,  (expressing  the  same 
by  all  possible  methods,)  and  will  ever  attach, 
to  its  great  men.  Deep  and  venerable,  whether 
looked  at  in  the  Teufelsdreck  manner  or  other- 
wise, is  this  love  of  men  for  great  men,  this 
their  exclusive  admiration  of  great  men ;  a 
quality  of  vast  significance,  if  we  consider  it 
well ;  for,  as  in  its  origin  it  reaches  up  into  the 
highest  and  even  holiest  provinces  of  man's 
nature,  so,  in  his  practical  history  it  will  be 
found  to  play  the  most  surprising  part.  Does 
not,  for  one  example,  the  fact  of  such  a  temper 
indestructibly  existing  in  all  men,  point  out 
man  as  an  essentially  governable  and  teach- 
able creature,  and  for  ever  refute  that  calumny 
of  his  being  by  nature  insubordinate,  prone  to 
rebellion  1  Men  seldom,  or  rather  never  for  a 
length  of  time  and  deliberately,  rebel  against 
any  thing  that  does  not  deserve  rebelling  against. 
Ready,  ever  zealous  is  the  obedience  and  de- 
votedness  they  show  to  the  great,  to  the  really 
high  ;  prostrating  their  whole  possession  and 
self,  body,  heart,  soul,  and  spirit,  under  the  feet 
of  whatsoever  is  authentically  above  them. 
Nay,  in  most  times,  it  is  rather  a  slavish  de- 
votedness  to  those  who  only  seem  and  pretend 
to  be  above  them  that  constitutes  their  fault. 

But  why  seek  special  instances'?  Is  not 
Love,  from  of  old,  known  to  be  the  beginning 
of  all  things  1  And  what  is  admiration  of  the 
great  but  love  of  the  truly  loveablel  The 
first  product  pf  love  is  imitation,  that  all- 
important  peculiar  gift  of  man,  whereby  Man- 
kind is  not  only  held  socially  together  in  the 
present  time,  but  connected  in  like  union  with 
the  past  and  the  future ;  so  that  the  attainment 
of  the  innumerable  Departed  can  be  conveyed 
down  to  the  Living,  and  transmitted  with  in- 
crease to  the  Unborn.  Now  great  men,  in 
particular  spiritually  great  men,  for  all  men 
have  a  spirit  to  guide,  though  all  have  not 
kingdoms  to  govern  and  battles  to  fight,  are 
the  men  universally  imitated  and  learned  of, 
the  glass  in  which  whole  generations  survey 
and  shape  themselves. 

Thus  is  the  Great  Man  of  an  age,  beyond 
comparison,  the  most  important  phenomenon 
therein  ;  all  other  phenomena,  were  they  Water- 
loo Victories,  Constitutions  of  the  year  One, 
glorious  revolutions,  new  births  of  the  golden 
age,  in  what  sort  you  will,  are  small  and  trivial. 
Alas,  all  these  pass  away,  and  are  left  extinct 
behind,  like  the  tar-barrels  they  were  celebrated 


with,  and  the  new-born  golden  age  proves 
always  to  be  still-born :  neither  is  there,  was 
there,  or  will  there,  be  any  other  golden  age  pos- 
sible, save  only  in  this:  in  new  increase  of 
worth  and  wisdom ; — that  is  to  say,  therefore,  in 
the  new  arrival  among  us  of  wise  and  worthy 
men.  Such  arrivals  are  the  great  occurrences, 
though  unnoticed  ones  ;  all  else  that  can  occur, 
in  what  kind  soever,  is  but  the  road,  up  hill  or 
down  hill,  rougher  or  smoother:  nowise  the 
power  that  will  nerve  us  for  travelling  forward 
thereon.  So  little  comparatively  can  fore- 
thought or  the  cunningest  mechanical  pre-con- 
trivance  do  for  a  nation,  for  a  world !  Ever 
must  we  wait  on  the  bounty  of  Time,  and  see 
what  leader  shall  be  born  for  us,  and  whither  he 
will  lead.  Thus  too,  in  defect  of  great  men, 
noted  men  become  important :  the  Noted  Man 
of  an  age  is  the  emblem  and  living  summary 
of  the  Ideal  which  that  age  has  fashioned  for 
itself:  show  me  the  noted  man  of  an  age,  you 
show  me  the  age  that  produced  him.  Such 
figures  walk  in  the  van,  for  great  good,  or  for 
great  evil ;  if  not  leading,  then  driven  and  still 
farther  misleading.  The  apotheosis  of  Beau 
Brummel  has  marred  many  a  pretty  youth; 
landed  him  not  at  any  goaZ  where  oak  garlands, 
earned  by  faithful  labour  and  valour,  carry 
men  to  the  immortal  gods ;  but,  by  a  fatal  in- 
version, at  the  King's  Bench  gaol,  where  he 
that  has  never  sowed  shall  not  any  longer  reap, 
still  less  any  longer  burn  his  barn,  but  scrape 
himself  with  potsherds  among  the  ashes 
thereof,  and  consider  with  all  deliberation 
"  what  he  wanted,  and  what  he  wants." 

To  enlighten  this  principle  of  reverence  for 
the  great,  to  teach  us  reverence,  and  whom  we 
are  to  revere  and  admire,  should  ever  be  a  chief 
aim  of  Education,  (indeed  it  is  herein  that  in- 
struction properly  both  begins  and  ends ;)  and 
in  these  late  ages,  perhaps  more  than  ever,  so 
indispensable  is  now  our  need  of  clear  reve^ 
rence,  so  inexpressibly  poor  our  supply.  "  Clear 
reverence  !"  it  was  once  responded  to  a  seeker 
of  light:  "all  want  it,  perhaps  thou  thyself." 
What  wretched  idols,  of  Leeds  cloth,  stuffed 
out  with  bran  of  one  kind  or  other,  do  men 
either  worship,  or  being  tired  of  worshipping, 
(so  expensively  without  fruit,)  rend  in  pieces 
and  kick  out  of  doors,  amid  loud  shouting  and 
crowing,  what  they  call  "  tremendous  cheers," 
as  if  the  feat  were  miraculous  !  In  private 
life,  as  in  public,  delusion  in  this  sort  does  its 
work ;  the  blind  leading  the  blind,  both  fall  into 
the  ditch. 

"  For  alas  !"  cries  Teufelsdreck  on  this  oc- 
casion, "though  in  susceptive  hearts  it  is  felt 
that  a  great  man  is  unspeakably  great,  the 
specific  marks  of  him  are  mournfully  mistaken: 
thus  must  innumerable  pilgrims  journey,  in 
toil  and  hope,  to  shrines  where  there  is  no 
healing.  On  the  fairer  half  of  the  creation, 
above  all,  such  error  presses  hard.  Women 
are  born  worshippers ;  in  their  good  little 
hearts  lies  the  most  craving  relish  for  great- 
ness: it  is  even  said,  each  chooses  her  hus- 
band on  the  hypothesis  of  his  being  a  great 
man — in  his  way.  The  good  creatures,  yet  the 
foolish  !  For  their  choices,  no  insight,  or  next 
to  none,  being  vouchsafed  them,  are  unutter- 
able.   Yet  how  touching,  also  to  see,  for  ex- 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


9m 


ample,  Parisian  ladies  of  quality,  all  rustling 
in  silks  and  laces,  visit  the  condemned-cell  of 
a  fierce  Cartouche,  and  in  silver  accents,  and 
with  the  looks  of  angels,  beg  locks  of  hair 
from  him  ;  as  from  the  greatest,  were  it  only 
in  the  profession  of  highwayman  !  Still  more 
fatal  is  that  other  mistake,  the  commonest  of 
all,  whereby  the  devotional  youth,  seeking  for 
a  great  man  to  worship,  finds  such  within  his 
own  worthy  person,  and  proceeds  with  all  zeal 
to  worship  there.  Unhappy  enough  !  to  realize, 
in  an  age  of  such  gas-light  illumination,  this 
basest  superstition  of  the  ages  of  Egyptian 
darkness. 

"Remark,  however,  and  not  without  emo- 
tion, that  of  all  rituals,  and  divine  services, 
and  ordinances  ever  instituted  for  the  worship 
of  any  god,  this  of  Self- worship  is  the  ritual 
most  faithfully   observed.     Trouble    enough 
has  the  Hindoo  devotee,  with  his  washings, 
and    cookings,    and    perplexed    formularies, 
tying  him  up  at  every  function  of  his  exist- 
ence :  but  is  it  greater  trouble  than  that  of  his 
German  self-worshipping  brother;  is  it  trouble 
even  by  the  devoutest  Fakir,  so  honestly  un- 
dertaken and  fulfilled  1     I  answer,  No  ;  for  the 
German's  heart  is  in  it.     The  German  wor- 
shipper, for  whom  does  he  work,  and  scheme, 
and  struggle,  and  fight,  at  his  rising  up  and 
lying  down,  in  all  times  and  places,  but  for  his 
god  only  1     Can  he  escape  from  that  divine 
presence  of  Self;  can  his  heart  waver,  or  his 
hand  wax  faint  in  that  sacred  service  1     The 
Hebrew  Jonah,  prophet  as  he  was,  rather  than 
take  a  message  to  Nineveh,  took  ship  to  Tarsh- 
ish,  hoping  to  hide  there  from  his  Sender;  but 
in  what  ship-hull  or  whale's  belly,  shall  the 
madder  German  Jonah  cherish  hope  of  hiding 
from — Himself!     Consider  too  the  temples  he 
builds,  and  the  services  of  (shoulder-knotted) 
priests  he  ordains  and  maintains;  the  smoking 
sacrifices,  thrice  a  day  or  oftener,  with  per- 
haps a  psalmist  or  two,  of  broken-winded  lau- 
reats  and  literators,  if  such   are   to   be   had. 
Nor  are  his   votive  gifts   wanting,  of  rings, 
and  jewels,  and   gold   embroideries,  such   as 
our  Lady  of  Lorelto  might  grow  yellower  to 
look    upon.     A  toilsome,  perpetual  worship, 
heroically  gone  through  ;  and  then  with  what 
issue  ]     Alas,  with  the  worst.    The  old  Egyp- 
tian  leek-worshipper  had,  it  is   to  be   hoped, 
seasons  of  light  and  faith :  his  leek-god  seems 
to  smile  on  him ;  he  is  humbled,  and  in  humi- 
lity exalted,  before  the  majesty  of  something, 
were  it  only  that  of  germinative  Physical  Na- 
ture, seen  through  a  germinating,  not  unnou- 
rishing  potherb.    The  Self-worshipper,  again, 
has  no  seasons  of  light,  which  are  not  of  blue 
sulphur-light ;  hungry,  envious  pride,  not  hu- 
mility in  any  sort,  is  the  ashy  fruit  of  his  wor- 
ship; his    self-god   growls   on  him    with    the 
perpetual  wolf-cry,  Give  !  Give  !  and  your  de- 
vout Byron,  as   the   Frau   Hunt,  with  a  wise 
simplicity  {geistreick  naiv,)  once  said,  'must  sit 
sulking  like  a  great  schoolboy,  in  pet  because 
they  have  given  him  a  plain  bun  and  not  a 
spiced  one.' — His  bun  was  a  life-rent  of  God's 
universe,  with   the   tasks  it  offered,  and  the 
tools    to   do    them    with;  a  priori,  one  might 
have  fancied  it  could  be  put  up  with  for  once." 
After  which  wondrous   glimpses   into   the 


Teufelsdreck  Homily  on  the  Greatness  of  Great 
Men,  it  may  now  be  high  time  to  proceed  with 
the  matter  more  in  hand  ;  and  remark  that 
our  much  calumniated  age,  so  fruitful  in  noted 
men,  is  also  not  without  its  great.  In  noted 
men,  undoubtedly  enough,  we  surpass  all  ages 
since  the  creation  of  the  world ;  and  from  two 
plain  causes :  First,  that  there  has  been  a 
French  Revolution,  and  that  there  is  now 
pretty  rapidly  proceeding  a  European  Revolu- 
tion ;  whereby  every  thing,  as  in  the  Term- 
day  of  a  great  city,  when  all  mortals  are  re- 
moving, has  been,  so  to  speak,  set  out  into 
the  street;  and  many  a  foolish  vessel  of  dis- 
honour, unnoticed,  and  worth  no  notice  in  its 
own  dark  corner,  has  become  universally  re- 
cognisable when  once  mounted  on  the  summit 
of  some  furniture-wagon,  and  tottering  there — 
(as  committee-president,  or  other  head-direc- 
tor,) with  what  is  put  under  it,  slowly  onwards 
to  its  new  lodging  and  arrangement,  itself, 
alas,  hardly  to  get  thither  without  breakage. 
Secondly,  that  the  Printing  Press,  with  stitched 
and  loose  leaves,  has  now  come  into  full  ac- 
tion ;  and  makes,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  univer- 
sal day-light  for  removal  and  revolution,  and 
every  thing  else,  to  proceed  in,  far  more  com- 
modiously,  yet  also  far  more  conspicuously. 
A  complaint  has  accordingly  been  heard  that 
famous  men  abound,  that  we  are  quite  overrun 
with  famous  men  :  however,  the  remedy  lies 
in  the  disease  itself;  crowded  succession  al- 
ready means  quick  oblivion.  For  wagon  after 
wagon  rolls  off,  and  either  arrives  or  is  over- 
set ;  and  so,  in  either  case  the  vessel  of  disho- 
nour, which,  at  worst,  we  saw  only  in  crossing 
some  street,  will  afilict  us  no  more. 

Of  great  men,  among  so  many  millions  of 
noted  men,  it  is  computed  that  in  our  time 
there  have  been  two ;  one  in  the  practical,  an- 
other in  the  speculative  province :  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  and  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe. 
In  which  dual  number,  inconsiderable  as  it  is, 
our  time  may,  perhaps,  specially  pride  itself, 
and  take  precedence  of  many  others ;  in  par- 
ticular, reckon  itself  the  flower-time  of  the 
whole  last  century  and  half.  Every  age  will, 
no  doubt,  have  its  superior  man  or  men :  but 
one  so  superior  as  to  take  rank  among  the 
high  of  all  ages  ;  this  is  what  we  call  a  great 
man  ;  this  rarely  makes  his  appearance,  such 
bounty  of  nature  and  accident  must  combine 
to  produce  and  unfold  him.  Of  Napoleon 
and  his  works  all  ends  of  the  world  have 
heard ;  for  such  a  host  marched  not  in  silence 
through  the  frighted  deep :  few  heads  there 
are  in  this  Planet  which  have  not  formed  to 
themselves  some  featured  or  featureless  image 
of  him ;  his  history  has  been  written  about, 
on  the  great  scale  and  on  the  small,  some 
millions  of  times,  and  still  remains  to  be  writ- 
ten; one  of  our  highest  literary  problems. 
For  such  a  "  light-nimbus"  of  glory  and  re- 
nown encircled  the  man;  the  environment  he 
walked  in  was  itself  so  stupendous  that  the 
eye  grew  dazzled  and  mistook  his  proportions; 
or  quite  turned  away  from  him  in  pain  and 
temporary  blindness.  Thus  even  among  the 
clear-sighted  there  is  no  unanimity  about  Na- 
poleon ;  and  only  here  and  there  does  his  own 
greatness  bee^in  to  be  interpreted,  and  accu- 
2G 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


rately  separated  from  the  mere  greatness  of 
his  fame  and  fortune. 

Goethe,  again,  though  of  longer  continuance 
in  the  world,  and  intrinsically  of  much  more 
■unquestionable  greatness,  and  even  import- 
ance there,  could  not  be  so  noted  by  the  world  : 
for  if  the  explosion  of  powder-mines  and  ar- 
tillery-parks naturally  attracts  every  eye  and 
ear;  the  approach  of  a  new-created  star 
(dawning  on  us  in  new-created  radiance, 
from  the  eternal  Deeps !)  though  this,  and  not 
the  artillery-parks,  is  to  shape  our  destiny  and 
rule  the  lower  earth,  is  notable  at  first  only 
to  certain  star-gazers  and  weather-prophets. 
Among  ourselves,  especially,  Goethe  had  little 
recognition :  indeed,  it  was  only  of  late  that 
his  existence,  as  a  man  and  not  as  a  mere 
sound,  became  authentically  known  to  us; 
and  some  shadow  of  his  high  endowments 
and  endeavours,  and  of  the  high  meaning  that 
might  lie  therein,  arose  in  the  general  mind 
of  England,  even  of  intelligent  England.  Five 
years  ago,  to  rank  him  with  Napoleon,  like 
him  as  rising  unattainable  beyond  his  class, 
like  him  and  more  than  he  of  quite  peculiar 
moment  to  all  Europe,  would  have  seemed  a 
wonderful  procedure ;  candour  even,  and 
enlightened  liberality,  to  grant  him  place 
beside  this  and  the  other  home-born  ready- 
writer,  blessed  with  that  special  privilege  of 
"English  cultivation,"  and  able  thereby  to 
write  novels,  heart  captivating,  heart-rending, 
or  of  enchaining  interest. 

Since  which  time,  however,  let  us  say,  the 
progress  of  clearer  apprehension  has  been 
rapid  and  satisfactory:  innumerable  unmu- 
sical voices  have  already  fallen  silent  on  this 
matter;  for  in  fowls  of  every  feather,  even  in 
the  pertest  choughs  and  thievish  magpies, 
there  dwells  a  singular  reverence  of  the  eagle; 
no  Dullness  is  so  courageous,  but  if  you  once 
show  it  any  gleam  of  a  heavenly  Resplen- 
dence, it  will,  at  lowest,  shut  its  eyes  and  say 
nothing.  So  fares  it  here  with  the  "  old  estab- 
lished British  critic ;"  who,  indeed  in  these 
days  of  ours,  begins  to  be  strangely  situated; 
so  many  new  things  rising  on  his  horizon, 
black  indefinable  shapes,  magical  or  not ;  the 
old  brickfield  (where  he  kneaded  insufficient 
marketable  bricks)  all  stirring  under  his  feet ; 
preternatural,  mad-making  tones  in  the  earth 
and  air : — with  all  which  what  shall  an  old- 
established  British  critic  and  brickmaker  do, 
but,  at  wisest,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and,  with  the  face  and  heart  of  a  British  mas- 
tilf,  though  amid  dismal  enough  forebodings, 
see  what  it  will  turn  to  ] 

In  the  younger,  more  hopeful  minds,  again, 
in  most  minds  that  can  be  considered  as  in  a 
state  of  growth,  German  literature  is  taking  its 
due  place :  in  such,  and  in  generations  of  other 
such  that  are  to  follow  them,  some  thankful 
appreciation  of  the  greatest  in  German  litera- 
ture cannot  fail ;  at  all  events  this  feeling  that 
he  IS  great  and  the  greatest,  whereby  apprecia- 
tion, and,  what  alone  is  of  much  value,  appro- 
priation, first  becomes  rightly  possible.  To 
forward  such  on  their  way  towards  appropriat- 
ing what  excellence  this  man  realized  and 
created  for  them,  somewhat  has  already  been 
done,  yet  not  much;  much  still  waits  to  be 


done.  The  field,  indeed,  is  large:  there  are 
forty  volumes  of  the  most  significant  Writing 
that  has  been  produced  for  the  last  two  cen- 
turies ;  there  is  the  whole  long  Life  and  heroic 
Character  of  him  who  produced  them  ;  all  this 
to  expatiate  over  and  inquire  into ;  in  both 
which  departments  the  deepest  thinker,  and 
most  far-sighted,  may  find  scope  enough. 

Nevertheless,  in  these  days  of  the  ten-pound 
franchise,  when  all  the  world  (perceiving  now 
like  the  Irish  innkeeper,  that  "  death  and  de- 
struction are  just  coming  in  ")  will  have  itself 
represented  in  parliament;  and  the  wits  of  so 
many  are  gone  in  this  direction  to  gather  wool, 
and  must  needs  return  more  or  less  shorn;  it 
were  foolish  to  invite  either  young  or  old  into 
great  depths  of  thought  on  such  a  remote  mat- 
ter', the  tendency  of  which  is  neither  for  the 
Reform  Bill  nor  against  it,  but  quietly  through 
it  and  beyond  it ;  nowise  to  prescribe  this  or 
that  mode  of  e/eding  members,  but  only  to  pro- 
duce a  few  members  worth  electing.  Not  for 
many  years  (who  knows  how  many!)  in  these 
harassed,  hand-to-mouth  circumstances,  can 
the  world's  bleared  eyes  open  themselves  to 
study  the  true  import  of  such  topics;  of  this 
topic  the  highest  of  such.  As  things  actually 
stand,  some  quite  cursory  glances,  and  con- 
siderations close  on  the  surface,  to  remind  a 
few  (unelected,  unelective)  parties  interested, 
that  it  lies  over  for  study,  are  all  that  can  be 
attempted  here :  could  we,  by  any  method,  in 
any  measure,  disclose  for  such  the  wondrous 
wonder-working  element  it  hovers  in,  the  light 
it  is  to  be  studied  and  inquired  after  in,  what 
is  needfullest  at  present  were  accomplished. 

One  class  of  considerations,  near  enough 
the  surface,  we  avoid ;  all  that  partakes  of  an 
elegiac  character.  True  enough,  nothing  can 
be  done  or  suflfered,  but  there  is  something  to 
be  said,  wisely  or  unwisely.  The  departure 
of  our  Greatest  contemporary  Man  could  not 
be  other  than  a  great  event;  fitted  to  awaken, 
in  all  who  with  understanding  beheld  it,  feel- 
ing sad,  but  high  and  sacred,  of  mortality 
and  immortality,  of  mourning  and  of  tri- 
umph ;  far  lockings  into  the  Past  and  into 
the  Future ;  so  many  changes,  fearful  and 
wonderful,  of  fleeting  Time ;  glimpses  too  of 
the  Eternity  these  rest  on,  which  knows  no 
change.  At  the  present  date  and  distance, 
however,  all  this  pertains  not  to  us;  has  been 
uttered  elsewhere,  or  may  be  left  for  utterance 
there.  Let  us  consider  the  Exequies  as  past; 
that  the  high  Rogus,  with  its  sweet  scented 
wood,  amid  the  wail  of  music  eloquent  to 
speechless  hearts,  has  flamed  aloft,  heaven- 
kissing,  in  sight  of  all  the  Greeks ;  and  that 
now  the  ashes  of  the  Hero  are  gathered  into 
their  urn,  and  the  host  has  marched  onwards 
to  new  victories  and  new  toils;  ever  to  be 
mindful  of  the  dead,  not  to  mourn  for  him  any 
more.  The  host  of  the  Greeks,  in  this  case, 
was  all  thinking  Europe  :  whether  their  funeral 
games  were  appropriate  and  worthy  we  stop 
not  to  inquire ;  the  time,  in  regard  to  such 
things,  is  empty  or  ill  provided,  and  this  was 
what  the  time  could  conveniently  do.  All 
canonization  and  solemn  cremation  are  gone 
by;  and  as  yet  nothing  suitable,  nothing  that 
does  not  border  upon  parody,  has  appeared  in 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


391 


their  room.  A  Bentham  bequeaths  his  re- 
mains to  be  lectured  over  in  a  school  of  ana- 
tomy; and  perhaps,  even  in  this  way,  finds,  as 
chief  of  the  Utilitarians,  a  really  nobler  funeral 
than  any  other,  which  the  prosaic  age,  rich 
only  in  crapes  and  hollow  scutcheons,  (of  tim- 
ber as  of  words,)  could  have  afforded  him. 

The  matter  in  hand  being  Goethe's  Works, 
and  the  greatest  work  of  every  man,  or  rather 
the  summary  and  net  amount  of  all  his  works, 
being  the  Life  he  has  led,  we  ask,  as  the  first 
question: — How  it  went  with  Goethe  in  that 
matter ;  what  was  the  practical  basis,  of  want 
and  fulfilment,  of  joy  and  sorrow,  from  which 
his  spiritual  productions  grew  forth  ;  the  char- 
acters of  which  they  must  more  or  less  legibly 
bearl  In  which  sense,  those  Volumes  entitled 
by  him  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit,  wherein  his 
personal  history,  what  he  has  thought  fit  to 
make  known  of  it,  stands  delineated,  will  long 
be  valuable.  A  noble  commentary,  instructive 
in  many  ways,  lies  opened  there,  and  yearly 
increasing  in  worth  and  interest;  which  all 
readers,  now  when  the  true  quality  of  it  is 
ascertained,  will  rejoice  that  circumstances 
induced  and  allowed  him  to  write:  for  surely 
if  old  Cellini's  counsel  have  any  propriety,  it 
is  doubly  proper  in  this  case ;  the  autobiogra- 
phic practice  he  recommends  (of  which  the 
last  century  in  particular  has  seen  so  many 
worthy  and  worthless  examples)  was  never 
so  much  in  place  as  here.  "  All  men,  of  what 
rank  soever,"  thus  counsels  the  brave  Ben- 
venuto,  "  who  have  accomplished  aught  vir- 
tuous or  virtuous-like,  should,  provided  they 
be  conscious  of  really  good  purposes,  write 
down  their  own  life ;  nevertheless,  not  put 
hand  to  so  worthy  an  enterprise  till  after  they 
have  reached  the  age  of  forty."  All  which 
ukase-regulations  Goethe  had  abundantly  ful- 
filled— the  last  as  abundantly  as  any,  for  he 
had  now  reached  the  age  of  sixty-two. 

"This  year,  1811,"  says  he,  "distinguishes 
itself  for  me  by  persevering  outward  activity. 
The  Life  of  Philip  Hackert  went  to  press ;  the 
papers  committed  to  me  all  carefully  elaborated 
as  the  case  required.  By  this  task  I  was  once 
more  attracted  to  the  South  :  the  occurrences 
which,  at  that  period,  had  befallen  me  there,  in 
Hackert's  company  or  neighbourhood,  became 
alive  in  the  imagination ;  I  had  cause  to  ask, 
Why  this  which  I  was  doing  for  another 
should  not  be  attempted  for  myself?  I  turned, 
accordingly,  before  completion  of  that  volume, 
to  my  own  earliest  personal  history ;  and,  in 
truth,  found  here  that  I  had  delayed  too  long. 
The  work  should  have  been  undertaken  while 
my  mother  yet  lived ;  thereby  had  I  got  nigher 
those  scenes  of  childhood,  and  been,  by  her 
great  strength  of  memory,  transported  into  the 
midst  of  them.  Now,  however,  must  these 
vanished  apparitions  be  recalled  by  my  own 
help ;  and,  first,  with  labour,  many  an  incite- 
ment to  recollection,  like  a  necessary  magic- 
apparatus  be  devised.  To  represent  the  de- 
velopment of  a  child  who  had  grown  to  be  re- 
markable, how  thir,  exhibited  itself  under  given 
circumstances,  and  yet  how  in  general  it  could 
content  the  student  of  human  nature  and  his 
views :  such  was  the  thing  I  had  to  do. 

"  In  this  sense,  unpretendingly  enough,  to  a 


work  treated,  with  anxious  fidelity,  I  gave  the 
name  Wahrheit  und  Dichtung,  (Truth  and  Fic- 
tion ;)  deeply  convinced  that  man,  in  immedi- 
ate Presence,  still  more  in  Remembrance, 
fashions  and  models  the  external  world  accord- 
ing to  his  own  peculiarities. 

"  The  business,  as,  with  historical  studying, 
and  otherwise  recalling  of  places  and  persons, 
I  had  much  time  to  spend  on  it,  busied  me 
wheresoever  I  went  or  stood,  at  home  and 
abroad,  to  such  a  degree  that  my  actual  con- 
dition became  like  a  secondary  matter;  though 
again,  on  all  hands,  when  summoned  outwards 
by  occasion,  I  with  full  force  and  undivided 
sense  proved  myself  present." —  Werke  xxxii.  62. 

These  Volumes,  with  what  other  supple- 
mentary matter  has  been  added  to  them,  (the 
rather  as  Goethe's  was  a  life  of  manifold  rela- 
tion, of  the  widest  connection  with  important 
or  elevated  persons,  not  to  be  carelessly  laid 
before  the  world,  and  he  had  the  rare  good  for- 
tune of  arranging  all  things  that  regarded  even 
his  posthumous  concernment  with  the  existing 
generation,  according  to  his  own  deliberate 
judgment,)  are  perhaps  likely  to  be,  for  a  long 
time,  our  only  authentic  reference.  By  the 
last  will  of  the  deceased,  it  would  seem,  all  his 
papers  and  effects  are  to  lie  exactly  as  they 
are,  till  after  another  twenty  years. 

Looking  now  into  these  magically-recalled 
scenes  of  childhood  and  manhood,  the  student 
of  human  nature  will,  under  all  manner  of 
shapes,  from  first  to  last,  note  one  thing:  The 
singularly  complex  Possibility  offered  from 
without,  yet  along  with  it  the  deep  never-fail- 
ing Force  from  within,  whereby  all  this  is 
conquered  and  realized.  It  was  as  if  accident 
and  primary  endowment  had  conspired  to  pro- 
duce a  character  on  the  great  scale  ;  a  will  is 
cast  abroad  into  the  widest,  wildest  element, 
and  gifted  also  in  an  extreme  degree,  to  prevail 
over  this,  to  fashion  this  to  its  own  form :  in 
which  subordinating  and  self-fashioning  of  its 
circumstances,  a  character  properly  consists. 
In  external  situations,  it  is  true,  in  occurrences 
such  as  could  be  recited  in  the  Newspapers, 
Goethe's  existence  is  not  more  complex  than 
other  men's;  outwardly  rather  a  pacific  smooth 
existence :  but  in  his  inward  specialities  and 
depth  of  faculty  and  temper,  in  his  position 
spiritual  and  temporal  towards  the  world  as  it 
was  and  the  world  as  he  could  have  wished  it, 
the  observant  eye  may  discern  complexity, 
perplexity  enough ;  an  extent  of  data  greater, 
perhaps,  than  had  lain  in  any  life-problem  for 
some  centuries.  And  now,  as  mentioned,  the 
force  for  solving  this  was,  in  like  manner, 
granted  him  in  extraordinary  measure;  so  that 
we  must  say,  his  possibilities  were  faithfully 
and  with  wonderful  success  turned  into  acqui- 
sitions ;  and  this  man  fought  the  good  fight,  not 
only  victorious,  as  all  true  men  are,  but  victo- 
rious without  damage,  and  with  an  ever-in- 
creasing strength  for  new  victory,  as  only 
great  and  happy  men  are.  Not  wounds  and 
loss  (beyond  fast-healing,  skin-deep  wounds) 
has  the  unconquerable  to  suffer;  only  ever- 
enduring  toil;  weariness — from  which,  after 
rest,  he  will  rise  stronger  than  before. 

Good  fortune,  what  the  world  calls  good  for- 


85S 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tune,  awaits  him  from  beginning  to  end;  but  I 
also  a  far  deeper  felicity  than  this.  Such 
worldly  gifts  of  good  fortune  are  what  we  1 
called  possibilities :  happy  he  that  can  rule 
over  them;  but  doubly  unhappy  he  that  cannot. 
Only  in  virtue  of  good  guidance  does  that  same 
good  fortune  prove  good.  Wealth,  health,  fiery 
light  with  Proteus  manysidedness  of  mind, 
peace,  honour,  length  of  days :  with  all  this 
you  may  make  no  Goethe,  but  only  some  Vol- 
laire;  with  the  most  that  was  fortuitous  in  all 
this,  make  only  some  short-lived,  unhappy, 
unprofitable  Byron. 

At  no  period  of  the  World's  History  can  a 
gifted  man  be  born  when  he  will  not  find 
enough  to  do;  in  no  circumstances  come  into 
life  but  there  will  be  contradictions  for  him  to 
reconcile,  difficulties  which  it  will  task  his 
whole  strength  to  surmount,  if  his  whole 
strength  suffice.  Everywhere  the  human  soul 
stands  between  a  hemisphere  of  light  and 
another  of  darkness ;  on  the  confines  of  two 
everlastingly  hostile  empires.  Necessity  and 
Freewill.  A  pious  adage  says,  "  the  back  is 
made  for  the  burden :"  we  might  with  no  less 
truth  invert  it,  and  say,  the  burden  was  made 
for  the  back.  Nay,  so  perverse  is  the  nature 
of  man,  it  has  in  all  times  been  found  that  an 
external  allotment  superior  to  the  common 
was  more  dangerous  than  one  inferior;  thus 
for  a  hundred  that  can  bear  adversity,  there  is 
hardly  one  that  can  bear  prosperity. 

Of  riches,  in  particular,  as  of  the  grossest 
species  of  prosperity,  the  perils  are  recorded 
by  all  moralists ;  and  ever,  as  of  old,  must  the 
sad  observation  from  time  to  time  occur: 
**  Easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through  the  eye 
of  a  needle!"  Riches  in  a  cultured  community 
are  the  strangest  of  things:  a  power  all-mov- 
ing, yet  which  any  the  most  powerless  and 
skilless  can  put  in  motion  ;  they  are  the  readiest 
of  possibilities;  the  readiest  to  become  a  great 
blessing  or  a  great  curse.  "Beneath  gold 
thrones  and  mountains,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "  who 
knows  how  many  giant  spirits  lie  entombed !" 
The  first  fruit  of  riches,  especially  for  the  man 
born  rich,  is  to  teach  him  faith  in  them,  and  all 
but  hide  from  him  that  there  is  any  other  faith  : 
thus  is  he  trained  up  in  the  miserable  eye-ser- 
vice of  what  is  called  Honour,  Respectability; 
instead  of  a  man  we  have  but  a  gigman, — one 
who  "  always  kept  a  gig,"  two-wheeled  or  four- 
wheeled.  Consider  too  what  this  same  gig- 
manhood  issues  in;  consider  that  first  and 
most  stupendous  of  gigmen.  Phaeton,  the  son 
of  Sol,  who  drove  the  brightest  of  all  conceiv- 
able gigs,  yet  with  the  sorrowfullest  result. 
Alas,  Phaeton  was  his  father's  heir;  born  to 
attain  the  highest  fortune  without  earning  it: 
he  had  built  no  sun-chariot,  (could  not  build  the 
simplest  wheelbarrow,)  but  could  and  would 
insist  on  driving  one;  and  so  broke  his  own 
stiff  neck,  sent  gig  and  horses  spinning  through 
infinite  space,  and  set  the  universe  on  fire  ! — 
Or,  to  speak  in  more  modest  figures,  Poverty, 
we  may  say,  surrounds  a  man  with  ready-made 
barriers,  which,  if  they  mournfully  gall  and 
hamper,  do  at  least  prescribe  for  him  and  force 
on  him  a  sort  of  course  and  goal;  a  safe  and 
beaten  though  a  circuitous  course;  great  part 
of  his  guidance  is  secure  against  fatal  error,  is 


withdrawn  from  his  control.  The  rich,  again, 
has  his  whole  life  to  guide,  without  goal  or 
barrier,  save  of  his  own  choosing ;  and,  tempted 
as  we  have  seen,  is  too  likely  to  guide  it  ill; 
often,  instead  of  walking  straight  'forward,  as 
he  might,  does  but,  like  Jeshurun,  wax  fat  and 
kick;  in  which  process,  it  is  clear,  not  the 
adamantine  circle  of  Necessity  whereon  the 
World  is  built,  but  only  his  own  limb-bones 
must  go  to  pieces  ! — Truly,  in  plain  prose,  if 
we  bethink  us  what  a  road  many  a  Byron  and 
Mirabeau,  especially  in  these  latter  generations, 
have  gone,  it  is  proof  of  an  uncommon  inward 
wealth  in  Goethe ;  that  the  outward  wealth, 
whether  of  money  or  other  happiness  which 
Fortune  offered  him,  did  in  no  case  exceed  the 
power  of  Nature  to  appropriate  and  whole- 
somely assimilate ;  that  all  outward  blessed- 
ness grew  to  inward  strength,  and  produced 
only  blessed  effects  for  him.  Those  "gold 
mountains"  of  Jean  Paul,  to  the  giant  that  can 
rise  above  them,  are  excellent,  both  fortified 
and  speculatory,  heights ;  and  do  in  fact  be- 
come a  throne,  where  happily  they  have  not 
been  a  tomb. 

Goethe's  childhood  is  throughout  of  riant, 
joyful  character:  kind  plenty,  in  every  sense, 
security,  affection,  manifold  excitement,  in- 
struction, encircles  him :  wholly  an  element 
of  sun  and  azure,  wherein  the  young  spirit, 
awakening  and  attaining,  can  on  all  hands 
richly  unfold  itself.  A  beautiful  boy,  of  earnest, 
lucid,  serenely  deep  nature,  with  the  peaceful 
completeness  yet  infinite  incessant  expansive- 
ness  of  a  boy,  has,  in  the  fittest  environment, 
begun  to  be:  beautiful  he  looks  and  moves; 
rapid,  gracefully  prompt,  like  the  son  of  Maia; 
wise,  noble,  like  Latona's  son  :  nay  (as  all  men 
may  now  see)  he  is,  in  very  truth,  a  miniature 
incipient  world-poet ;  of  all  heavenly  figures 
the  beautifuUest  we  know  of  that  can  visit  this 
lower  earth.  Lovely  enough  shine  for  us 
those  young  years  in  old  Teutonic  Frankfort; 
mirrored  in  the  far  remembrance  of  the  Self- 
historian,  real  yet  ideal,  they  are  among  our 
most  genuine  poetic  Idyls.  No  smallest  mat- 
ter is  too  small  for  us,  when  we  think  tvho  it 
was  that  did  it  or  suffered  it.  The  little  long- 
clothed  urchin,  mercurial  enough  with  all  his 
stillness,  can  throw  a  whole  cargo  of  new- 
marketed  crockery,  piece  by  piece,  from  the 
balcony  into  the  street,  (once  the  feat  is  sug- 
gested to  him  ;)  and  comically  shatters  cheap 
delf-ware  with  the  same  right  hand,  which 
tragically  wrote  and  hurled  forth  the  demonic 
scorn  of  Mephistophiles,  or  as  "right  hand"  of 
Faust,  "  smote  the  universe  to  ruins."  Neither 
smile  more  than  enough  (if  thou  be  wise)  that 
the  gray-haired,  all-experienced  man  remembers 
how  the  boy  walked  on  the  Mayn  bridge,  and 
"  liked  to  look  at  the  bright  weather-cock"  on 
the  barrier  there.  That  foolish  piece  of  gilt 
wood,  there  glittering  sun-lit,  with  its  reflex 
wavering  in  the  Mayn  waters,  is  awakening 
quite  another  glitter  in  the  young  gifted  soul: 
is  not  this  foolish  sun-lit  splendour  also,  now 
when  there  is  an  eye  to  behold  it,  one  of  Na- 
ture's doings?  The  eye  of  the  young  seer  is 
here,  through  the  paltriest  chink,  looking  into 
the  infinite  Splendours  of  Nature — where,  one 
day,  himself  is  to  enter  and  dwell. 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


363 


Goethe's  mother  appears  to  have  been  the 
more  gifted  of  the  parents  ;  a  woman  of  alto- 
gether genial  character,  great  spiritual  faculty 
and  worth ;  whom  the  son,  at  an  after  time, 
put  old  family  friends  in  mind  of.  It  is  grati- 
fying for  us  that  she  lived  to  witness  his  ma- 
turity in  works  and  honours ;  to  know  that  the 
little  infant  she  had  nursed  was  grown  to  be  a 
mighty  man,  the  first  man  of  his  nation  and 
time.  In  the  father,  as  prosperous  citizen  of 
Frankfort,  skilled  in  many  things,  improved 
by  travel,  by  studies  both  practical  and  orna- 
mental ;  decorated  with  some  diplomatic  title, 
but  passing,  among  his  books,  paintings,  col- 
lections and  household  possessions,  social  or 
intellectual,  spiritual  or  material,  a  quite  undi- 
plomatic independent  life,  we  become  ac- 
quainted with  a  German  (not  country)  but 
city  gentleman  of  the  last  century ;  a  character 
scarcely  ever  familiar  in  our  Islands;  now 
perhaps  almost  obsolete  among  the  Germans 
too.  A  positive,  methodical  man,  sound- 
headed,  honest-hearted,  sharp-tempered ;  with 
an  uncommon  share  of  volition,  among  other 
things,  so  that  scarcely  any  obstacle  would 
turn  him  back,  but  whatsoever  he  could  not 
mount  over  he  would  struggle  round,  and  in 
any  case  be  at  the  end  of  his  journey :  many 
or  all  of  whose  good  qualities  passed  also  over 
by  inheritance ;  and,  in  fairer  combination,  on 
nobler  objects,  to  the  whole  world's  profit, 
were  seen  a  second  time  in  action. 

Family  incidents;  house-buildings,  or  re- 
buildings  ;  arrivals,  departures ;  in  any  case, 
new-year's-days  and  birth-days,  are  not  want- 
ing :  nor  city-incidents ;  many  coloured  tumult 
of  Frankfort  fairs;  Kaisers'  coronations,  ex- 
pected and  witnessed ;  or  that  glorious  cere- 
monial of  the  yearly  Pfeiffergericht,  wherein  the 
grandfather  himself  plays  so  imperial  a  part. 
World  incidents  too  roll  forth  their  billows  into 
the  remotest  creek,  and  alter  the  current  there. 
The  Earthquake  of  Lisbon  hurls  the  little 
Frankfort  boy  into  wondrous  depths  of  another 
sort;  enunciating  dark  theological  problems, 
which  no  theology  of  his  will  solve.  Direction, 
instruction,  in  like  manner,  awaits  him  in  the 
Great  Frederic's  Seven  Years'  War;  especi- 
ally in  that  long  billetting  of  King's  Lieutenant 
Comte  de  Thorane,  with  his  Serjeants  and 
adjutants,  with  his  painters  and  picture-easels, 
his  quick  precision  and  decision,  his  "dry 
gallantry"  and  stately  Spanish  bearing; — 
though  collisions  with  the  "house-father," 
whose  German  house-stairs  (though  he  silently 
endures  the  inevitable)  were  not  new-built  to 
be  made  a  French  highway  of;  who  besides 
loves  not  the  French,  but  the  great  invincible 
Fritz  they  are  striving  to  beat  down.  Think, 
for  example,  of  that  singular  congratulation  on 
the  victory  at  Bergen  : 

"So  then,  at  last,  after  a  restless  Passion- 
week,  Passion-Friday,  1759,  arrived.  A  deep 
stillness  announced  the  approaching  storm. 
We  children  were  forbidden  to  leave  the 
house ;  our  father  had  no  rest,  and  went  out. 
The  battle  began ;  I  mounted  to  the  top  story, 
where  the  field,  indeed,  was  still  out  of  my 
sight,  but  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  and  the 
volleys  of  the  small  arms  could  be  fully  dis- 
cerned. After  some  hours,  we  saw  the  first 
45 


tokens  of  the  battle,  in  a  row  of  wagons,' 
whereon  wounded  men,  in  all  sorts  of  sorrow- 
ful dismemberment  and  gesture,  were  driven 
softly  past  us  to  the  Liebfrauen-KIoster,  which 
had  been  changed  into  a  hospital.  The  com- 
passion of  the  citizens  forthwith  awoke.  Beer, 
wine,  bread,  money  were  given  to  such  as  had 
still  power  of  receiving.  But  when,  ere  long, 
wounded  and  captive  Germans  also  were 
noticed  in  that  train,  the  pity  had  no  limits ;  it 
seemed  as  if  each  were  bent  to  strip  himself 
of  whatever  movable  thing  he  had,  to  aid  his 
countrymen  therewith  in  their  extremity. 

"  The  prisoners,  meanwhile,  were  the  symp- 
tom of  a  battle  un prosperous  for  the  Allies. 
My  father,  in  his  partiality,  quite  certain  that 
these  would  gain,  had  the  passionate  rashness 
to  go  out  to  meet  the  expected  visitors ;  not 
reflecting  that  the  beaten  side  would  in  that 
case  have  to  run  over  him.  He  went  first  into 
his  garden,  at  the  Friedberg  Gate,  where  he 
found  all  quiet  and  solitary;  then  ventured 
forth  to  the  Bornheim  Heath,  where  soon, 
however,  various  scattered  outrunners  and 
baggage-men  came  in  sight,  who  took  the 
satisfaction,  as  they  passed,  of  shooting  at  the 
boundary-stones,  and  sent  our  eager  wanderer 
the  reverberated  lead  singing  about  his  ears. 
He  reckoned  it  wiser,  therefore,  to  come  back; 
and  learned  on  some  inquiry,  what  the  sound 
of  the  firing  might  already  have  taught  hira, 
that  for  the  French  all  went  well,  and  no  re- 
treat was  thought  of.  Arriving  home  full  of 
black  humour,  he  quite,  at  sight  of  his  wounded 
and  prisoner  countrymen,  lost  all  composure. 
From  him  also  many  a  gift  went  out  for  the 
passing  wagons,  but  only  Germans  were  to 
taste  of  it;  which  arrangement,  as  Fate  had  so 
huddled  friends  and  foes  together,  could  not 
always  be  adhered  to. 

"Our  mother,  and  we  children,  who  had 
from  the  first  built  upon  the  Count's  word,  and 
so  passed  a  tolerably  quiet  day,  were  greatly 
rejoiced,  and  our  mother  doubly  comforted,  as 
she  that  morning,  on  questioning  the  oracle 
of  her  jewel  box  by  the  scratch  of  a  needle, 
had  obtained  a  most  consolatory  answer  not 
only  for  the  present  but  for  the  future.  We 
wished  our  father  a  similar  belief  and  disposi- 
tion ;  we  flattered  him  what  we  could,  we  en- 
treated hira  to  take  some  food,  which  he  had 
forborne  all  day;  he  refused  our  caresses  and 
every  enjoyment,  and  retired  to  his  room. 
Our  joy,  in  the  meanwhile,  was  not  disturbed; 
the  business  was  over:  the  King's  Lieutenant, 
who  to-day,  contrary  to  custom,  had  been  on 
horseback,  at  length  returned  ;  his  presence  at 
home  was  more  needful  than  ever.  We  sprang 
out  to  meet  him,  kissed  his  hands,  testified  our 
joy.  It  seemed  to  please  him  greatly.  •  Well  !* 
said  he,  with  more  softness  than  usual,  *I  am 
glad  too  for  your  sake,  dear  children.'  He 
ordered  us  sweetmeats,  sweet  wine,  every  thing 
the  best,  and  went  to  his  chamber,  where  al- 
ready a  mass  of  importuners,  solicitors,  peti- 
tioners, were  crowded. 

"  We  held  now  a  dainty  collation ;  deplored 
our  good  father,  who  could  not  participate 
therein,  and  pressed  our  mother  to  bring  him 
down ;  she,  however,  knew  better,  and  how 
uncheering  such  gifts  would  be  to  him.  Mean- 
2o2 


364 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


while  she  had  put  some  supper  in  order,  and 
would  fain  have  sent  him  up  a  little  to  his 
room ;  but  such  irregularity  was  a  thing  he 
never  suffered,  not  in  extremest  cases ;  so  the 
sweet  gifts  being  once  put  aside,  she  set  about 
entreating  him  to  come  down  in  his  usual  way. 
He  yielded  at  last,  unwillingly,  and  little  did 
we  know  what  mischief  we  were  making 
ready.  The  stairs  ran  free  through  the  whole 
house,  past  the  door  of  every  anti-chamber. 
Our  father,  in  descending,  had  to  pass  the 
Count's  apartments.  His  anti-chamber  was 
so  full  of  people  that  he  had  at  length  resolved 
to  come  out,  and  despatch  several  at  once  ;  and 
this  happened,  alas,  just  at  the  instant  our 
father  was  passing  down.  The  Count  stept 
cheerfully  out,  saluted  him,  and  said :  *  You 
will  congratulate  us  and  yourself  that  this 
dangerous  affair  has  gone  off  so  happily.' — 
'Not  at  all!'  replied  my  father,  with  grim 
emphasis:  'I  wish  they  had  chased  you  to  the 
Devil,  had  I  myself  gone  too.'  The  Count  held 
in  for  a  moment,  then  burst  forth  with  fury  : 

*  You  shall  repent  this  !  You  shall  not' " 

Father  Goethe,  however,  has  "  in  the  mean- 
while quietly  descended,"  and  sat  down  to  sup, 
much  cheerfuller  than  formerly ;  he  little 
caring,  "we  little  knowing,  in  what  question- 
able way  he  had  rolled  the  stone  from  his 
heart,"  and  how  official  friends  must  interfere 
and  secret  negotiations  enough  go  on,  to  keep 
him  out  of  military  prison,  and  worse  things 
that  might  have  befallen  there.  On  all  which 
may  we  be  permitted  once  again  to  make  the 
simple  reflection :  What  a  plagued  and  plagu- 
ing world,  with  its  battles  and  bombardments, 
wars  and  rumours  of  war,  (which  sow  or  reap 
no  ear  of  corn  for  any  man,)  this  is !  The 
boy,  who  here  watches  the  musket-volleys  and 
cannon-thunders  of  the  great  Fritz,  shall,  as 
man,  witness  the  siege  of  Mentz;  fly  with 
Brunswick  Dukes  before  Doumouriez  and  his 
Sansculottes,  through  a  country  champed  into 
one  red  world  of  mud,  "  like  Pharaoh,"  (for 
the  carriage  too  breaks  down,)  "  through  the 
Red  Sea  ;"  and  finally  become  involved  in  the 
universal  fire-consummation  of  Napoleon,  and 
by  skill  defend  himself  from  hurt  therein! — 

The  father,  with  occasional  subsidiary  pri- 
vate tutors,  is  his  son's  schoolmaster;  a  some- 
what pedantic  pedagogue,  with  ambition 
enough  and  faithful  good  will,  but  more  of 
rigour  than  of  insight ;  who,  however,  works 
on  a  subject  that  he  cannot  spoil.  Languages, 
to  the  number  of  six  or  seven,  with  whatsoever 
pertains  to  them ;  histories,  syllabuses,  know- 
ledges-made-easy;  not  to  speak  of  dancing, 
drawing,  music,  or,  in  due  time,  riding  and 
fencing :  all  is  taken  in  with  boundless  appe- 
tite and  aptitude ;  all  is  but  fuel,  injudiciously 
piled,  and  of  wet  quality,  yet  under  which 
works  an  unquenchable  Greek-fire  that  will 
feed  itself  therewith,  that  will  one  day  make  it 
all  clear  and  glowing.  The  paternal  grand- 
mother, recollected  as  a  "  pale,  thin,  ever  white 
and  clean  dressed  figure,"  provides  the  children 
many  a  satisfaction ;  and  at  length,  on  some 
festive  night  the  crowning  one  of  a  puppet- 
show:  whereupon  ensues  a  long  course  of 
theatrical  speculatings  and  practisings,  some- 
what as  delineated,  for  another  parry,  in  the 


first  book  of  Md&ter's  Apprenticeship ;  in  which 
work,  indeed,  especially  in  the  earlier  portion 
of  it,  some  shadow  of  the  author's  personal 
experience  and  culture  is  more  than  once 
traceable.  Thus  Meister's  desperate  burnt- 
offering  of  his  young  "Poems  on  various  Oc- 
casions," was  the  image  of  a  reality  which 
took  place  in  Leipsic,  made  desperately  enough, 
"on  the  kitchen  hearth,  the  thick  smoke  from 
which,  flowing  through  the  whole  house,  filled 
our  good  landlady  with  alarm." 

Old  "Imperial  Freetown"  Frankfort  is  not 
without  its  notabilities,  tragic  or  comic ;  in  any 
case,  impressive  and  didactic.  The  young 
heart  is  filled  with  boding  to  look  into  the 
Juden-gasse,  (Jew-gate,)  where  squalid  painful 
Hebrews  are  banished  to  scour  old  clothes, 
and  in  hate,  and  greed,  and  Old-Hebrew  ob- 
stinacy and  implacability,  work  out  a  wonder- 
ful prophetic  existence,  as  "  a  people  terrible 
from  the  beginning;"  manages,  however,  to 
get  admittance  to  their  synagogue,  and  see  a 
wedding  and  a  circumcision.  On  its  spike, 
aloft  on  one  of  the  steeples,  grins,  for  the  last 
two  hundred  years,  the  bleached  skull  of  a 
malefactor  and  traitor;  properly,  indeed,  not 
so  much  a  traitor,  as  a  Radical  whose  Reform 
Bill  could  not  be  carried  through.  The  future 
book-writer  also,  on  one  occasion,  sees  the 
execution  of  a  book;  how  the  huge  printed 
reams  rustle  in  the  flames,  are  stirred  up  with 
oven-forks,  and  fly  half-charred  aloft,  the  sport 
of  winds ;  from  which  half-charred  leaves, 
diligently  picked  up,  he  pieces  himself  a  copy 
together,  as  did  many  others,  and  with  double 
earnestness  reads  it. 

As  little  is  the  old  Freetown  deficient  in  no- 
table men ;  all  accessible  to  a  grandson  of  the 
Schultheiss,*  who  besides  is  a  youth  like  no 
other.  Of  which  originals,  curious  enough, 
and  long  since  "vanished  from  the  sale-cata- 
logues," take  only  these  two  specimens  : 

"  Von  Reineck,  of  an  old-noble  house ;  able, 
downright, but  stiff-necked;  a  lean  black-brown 
man,  whom  I  never  saw  smile.  The  misfor- 
tune befel  him  that  his  only  daughter  was  car- 
ried off  by  a  friend  of  the  family.  He  prosecuted 
his  son-in-law  with  the  most  vehement  suit; 
and  as  the  courts,  in  their  formality,  would 
neither  fast  enough,  nor  with  force  enough 
obey  his  vengeance,  he  fell  out  with  them ;  and 
there  arose  quarrel  on  quarrel,  process  on 
process.  He  withdrew  himself  wholly  into  his 
house  and  the  adjoining  garden,  lived  in  a 
spacious  but  melancholy  under-room,  where 
for  many  years  no  brush  of  a  painter,  perhaps 
scarcely  the  besom  of  a  maid,  had  got  admit- 
tance. Me  he  would  willingly  endure ;  had 
specially  recommended  me  to  his  younger  son. 
His  oldest  friends,  who  knew  how  to  humour 
him,  his  men  of  business  and  agents,  he  often 
had  at  table :  and  on  such  occasions  failed  not 
to  invite  me.  His  board  was  well  furnished, 
his  buffet  still  better.  His  guests,  however, 
had  one  torment,  a  large  stove  smoking  out  of 
many  cracks.    One  of  the  most  intimate  ven- 


*  Schultheiss  is  the  title  of  the  chief  magistrate  in  some 
free-towns  and  republics,  for  instance,  in  Berne.  It 
seems  to  derive  itself  from  Schuld-heissen,  and  may 
mean  the  teller  of  duty,  him  by  whom  what  should  be  is 
higfit. 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


355 


ttired  once  to  take  notice  of  it,  and  ask  the  host 
whether  he  could  stand  such  an  inconvenience 
the  whole  winter.  He  answered,  like  a  second 
Timon,  and  Heautontimorumenos :  *  Would  to 
God  this  were  the  worst  mischief  of  those  that 
plague  me!'  Not  till  late  would  he  be  per- 
suaded to  admit  daughter  and  grandson  to  his 
sight:  the  son-in-law  was  never  more  to  show 
face  before  him. 

"On  this  brave  and  unfortunate  man  my 
presence  had  a  kind  effect ;  for  as  he  gladly 
spoke  with  me,  in  particular  instructed  me  on 
political  and  state  concerns,  he  seemed  him- 
self to  feel  assuaged  and  cheered.  Accordingly, 
the  few  old  friends  who  still  kept  about  him, 
would  often  make  use  of  me  when  they  wished 
to  soothe  his  indignant  humour,  and  persuade 
him  to  any  recreation.  In  fact  he  now  more 
than  once  went  out  with  us,  and  viewed  the 
neighbourhood  again,  on  which,  for  so  many 
years,  he  had  not  turned  an  eye."     *     *     * 

"Hofrath  Huisgen,  not  a  native  of  Frank- 
fort; of  the  Reformed  religion,  and  thtis  inca- 
pable of  public  office,  of  advocacy  among  the 
rest,  which  latter,  however,  as  a  man  much 
trusted  for  juristic  talent,  he,  under  another's 
signature,  contrived  quite  calmly  to  practise, 
as  well  in  Frankfort  as  in  the  Imperial  Courts, 
— might  be  about  sixty  when  I  happened  to 
have  writing  lessons  along  with  his  son,  and 
so  came  into  the  house.  His  figure  was  large; 
tall  without  being  bony,  broad  without  corpu- 
lency. His  face,  deformed  not  only  by  small- 
pox, but  wanting  one  of  the  eyes,  you  could 
not  look  on,  for  the  first  time,  without  appre- 
hension. On  his  bald  head  he  wore  always  a 
perfectly  white  bell-shaped  cap,  (Glockcnmiitze,) 
tied  at  top  with  a  ribbon.  His  night-gowns,  of 
calamanco  or  damask,  were  always  as  if  new 
washed.  He  inhabited  a  most  cheerful  suite 
of  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  in  the  Mlee,  and 
the  neatness  of  every  thing  about  him  cor- 
responded to  it.  The  high  order  of  his  books, 
papers,  maps,  made  a  pleasant  impression. 
His  son,  Heinrich  Sebastian,  who  afterwards 
became  known  by  various  writings  on  Art, 
promised  little  in  his  youth.  Good-natured 
but  heavy,  not  rude  yet  artless,  and  without 
wish  to  instruct  himself,  he  sought  rather  to 
avoid  his  father,  as  from  his  mother  he  could 
get  whatever  he  wanted.  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
came  more  and  more  into  intimacy  with  the 
master  the  more  I  knew  of  him.  As  he  med- 
dled with  none  but  important  law-cases,  he 
had  time  enough  to  amuse  and  occupy  himself 
with  other  things.  I  had  not  long  been  about 
him,  and  listened  to  his  doctrine,  till  I  came  to 
observe  that  in  respect  of  God  and  the  World 
he  stood  on  the  opposition  side.  One  of  his 
pet  books  was,  Agrippa  de  Vanitate  Scientiantm  ; 
this  he  particularly  recommended  me  to  read, 
and  did  therewith  set  my  young  brain,  for  a 
while,  into  considerable  tumult.  I,  in  the  joy 
of  youth,  was  inclined  to  a  sort  of  optimism, 
and  with  God  or  the  Gods  had  now  tolerably 
adjusted  myself  again;  for,  by  a  series  of 
years,  I  had  got  to  experience  that  there  is 
many  a  balance  against  evil,  that  misfor- 
tunes are  things  one  recovers  from,  that  in 
dangers  one  finds  deliverance  and  does  not 
always  break  his  neck.  On  what  men  did  and 


tried,  moreover,  I  looked  with  tolerance,  and 
found  much  praiseworthy  which  my  old  gen- 
tleman would  nowise  be  content  with.  Nay, 
once,  as  he  had  been  depicting  me  the  world 
not  a  little  on  the  crabbed  side,  I  noticed  in 
him  that  he  meant  still  to  finish  with  a  trump- 
card.  He  shut,  as  in  such  cases  his  wont  was, 
the  blind  left  eye  close ;  looked  with  the  other 
broad  out;  and  said,  in  a  snuffing  voice:  ^Auch 
in  Gott  entdeck'  ich  FehlerJ  " 

Of  a  gentler  character  is  the  reminiscence  of 
the  maternal  grandfather,  old  Schultheiss  Tex- 
tor;  with  his  gift  of  prophetic  dreaming, 
"which  endowment  none  of  his  descendants 
inherited  ;"  with  his  kind,  mild  ways  ;  there  as 
he  glides  about  in  his  garden,  at  evening,  "  in 
black  velvet  cap,"  trimming  "  the  finer  sort  of 
fruit-trees,"  with  aid  of  those  antique  embroid- 
ered gloves  or  gauntlets,  yearly  handed  him  at 
the  Pfeiffagericht :  a  soft,  spirit-looking  figure; 
the  farthest  out-post  of  the  Past,  which  behind 
him  melts  into  dim  vapour.  In  Frau  von 
Klestenberg,  a  religious  associate  of  the  mo- 
ther's,we  become  acquainted  with  the  Scohne  Seek 
(Fair  Saint)  of  Meister ;  she,  at  an  after  period, 
studied  to  convert  her  Philoy  but  only  very  par- 
tially succeeded.  Let  us  notice  also,  as  a 
token  for  good,  how  the  young  universal  spirit 
takes  pleasure  in  the  workshops  of  handicrafts- 
men, and  loves  to  understand  their  methods  of 
labouring  and  of  living: 

"My  father  had  early  accustomed  me  to 
manage  little  matters  for  him.  In  particular, 
it  was  often  my  commission  to  stir  up  the 
craftsman  he  employed ;  who  were  too  apt  to 
loiter  with  him ;  as  he  wanted  to  have  all  accu- 
rately done,  and  finally  for  prompt  payment  to 
have  the  price  moderated.  I  came  in  this  way, 
into  almost  all  manner  of  work-shops ;  and  as 
it  lay  in  my  nature  to  shape  myself  into  the 
circumstances  of  others,  to  feel  every  species  of 
human  existence,  and  with  satisfaction  partici- 
pate therein,  I  spent  many  pleasant  hours  in 
such  places ;  grew  to  understand  the  procedure 
of  each,  and  what  of  joy  and  of  sorrow,  advan- 
tage or  drawback,  the  indispensable  conditions 
of  this  or  that  way  of  life  brought  with  them..*  *  * 
The  household  economy  of  the  various  crafts, 
which  took  its  figure  and  colour  from  the  oc- 
cupation of  each,  was  also  silently  an  object 
of  attention;  and  so  unfolded,  so  confirmed 
itself  in  me  the  feeling  of  the  equality,  if  not  of 
all  men,  yet  of  all  men's  situations ;  existence 
by  itself  appearing  as  the  head  condition^all  the 
rest  as  indifl^erent  and  accidental." 

And  so,  amid  manifold  instructive  influences, 
has  the  boy  grown  out  of  boyhood ;  when  now  a 
new  figure  enters  on  the  scene,  bringing  far 
higher  revelations : 

"  As  at  last  the  wine  was  failing,  one  of  them 
called  the  maid  ;  but  instead  of  her  there  came 
a  maiden  of  uncommon,  and,  to  see  her  in  this 
environment,  of  incredible  beauty.  'What  is 
iti'  said  she,  after  kindly  giving  us  good- 
evening:  '  the  maid  is  ill  and  gone  to  bed:  can 
I  serve  you?' — 'Our  wine  is  done,'  said  one; 
'couldst  thou  get  us  a  couple  of  bottles  over 
the  way,  it  were  very  good  of  thee.' — *  Do  it, 
Gretchen,'  said  another,  *  it  is  but  a  cat's  leap.' 
— 'Surely!'  said  she;  look  a  couple  of  empty 
bottles  from  the  table,  and  hastened  out.    Her 


866. 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


figure,  when  she  turned  away  from  you,  was 
almost  prettier  than  before :  the  little  cap  sat 
so  neat  on  the  little  head,  which  a  slim  neck  so 
gracefully  united  with  back  and  shoulders. 
Everything  about  her  seemed  select;  and  you 
could  follow  the  whole  form  more  calmly,  as 
attention  was  not  now  attracted  and  arrested 
by  the  true  still  eyes  and  the  lovely  mouth 
alone." 

It  is  at  the  very  threshold  of  youth  that  this 
episode  of  Gretchen  (Margarete,  Ma.r-g'ret'-kin) 
occurs;  the  young  critic  of  slim  necks  and 
true  still  eyes  shall  now  know  something  of 
natural  magic,  and  the  importance  of  one  mor- 
tal to  another;  the  wild-flowing  bottomless  sea 
of  human  Passion,  glorious  in  Auroral  light, 
(which,  alas,  may  become  infernal  lightning,) 
unveils  itself  a  little  to  him.  A  graceful  little 
episode  we  reckon  it;  and  Gretchen  better  than 
most  first  loves :  wholly  an  innocent,  wise, 
dainty  maiden ;  pure  and  poor, — who  va- 
nishes from  us  here ;  but,  we  trust,  in  some 
quiet  nook  of  the  Rhineland,  became  wife  and 
mother,  and  was  the  joy  and  sorrow  of  some 
brave  man's  heart, — according  as  it  is  appoint- 
ed. To  the  boy  himself  it  ended  painfully  and 
almost  fatally,  had  not  sickness  come  to  his 
deliverance ;  and  here  too  he  may  experience 
how  "a  shadow  chases  us  in  all  manner  of  sun- 
shine," and  in  this  What-d^ye-call-it  of  Existence 
the  tragic  element  is  not  wanting.  The  name 
of  Gretchen,  not  her  story,  which  had  nothing 
in  it  of  that  guilt  and  terror,  has  been  made 
world-famous  in  the  play  of  Faust. — 

Leipsic  University  has  the  honour  of  matri- 
culating him.  The  name  of  his  "  propitious 
mother"  she  may  boast  of,  but  not  of  the  reality: 
alas,  in  these  days,  the  University  of  the  Uni- 
verse is  the  only  propitious  mother  of  such ;  all 
other  propitious  mothers  are  but  unpropitious 
superannuated  dry-nurses  fallen  bedrid,  from 
whom  the  famished  nurseling  has  to  steal  even 
bread  and  water,  if  he  will  not  die ;  whom  for 
most  part  he  soon  takes  leave  of,  giving  per- 
haps, (as  in  Gibbon's  case,)  for  farewell  thanks, 
some  rough  tweak  of  the  nose  ;  and  rushes  des- 
perate into  the  wide  world  an  orphan.  The  time 
is  advancing,  slower  or  faster,  when  the  bedrid 
dry-nurse  will  decease,  and  be  succeeded  by  a 
walking  and  stirring  wet  one.  Goethe's  em- 
ployments and  culture  at  Leipsic  lay  in  quite 
other  groves  than  the  academic :  he  listened  to 
the  Ciceronian  Ernesti  with  eagerness,  but  the 
life-giving  word  flowed  not  from  his  mouth ;  to 
the  sacerdotal,  eclectic-sentimental  Gellert,  (the 
divinity  of  all  tea-table  moral  philosophers  of 
both  sexes ;)  witnessed  "  the  pure  soul,  the 
genuine  will  of  the  noble  man,"  heard  "  his  ad- 
monitions, warnings,  and  entreaties,  uttered 
in  a  somewhat  hollow  and  melancholy  tone," 
— and  then  the  Frenchman  say  to  it  all,  Laissez 
le  faire,  il  nous  forim  des  dupes.  "  In  logic  it 
seemed  to  me  very  strange  that  I  must  now 
take  up  those  spiritual  operations  which  from 
of  old  I  had  executed  with  the  utmost  conveni- 
ence, and  tatter  them  asunder,  insulate,  and  as 
if  destroy  them,  that  their  right  employment 
might  become  plain  tome.  Of  the  Thing  of 
the  World,  of  God,  I  fancied  I  knew  almost 
about  as  much  as  the  Doctor  himself;  and  he 


seemed  to  me,  in  more  than  one  place,  to  hob- 
ble dreadfully  (gewaltig  zu  hapern)." 

However,  he  studies  to  some  profit  with  the 
Painter  Oeser;  hears,  one  day,  at  the  door,  with 
horror,  that  there  is  no  lesson,  for  news  of  Wink- 
elm  ann's  assassination  have  come.  With  the 
ancient  Gottsched,  too,  he  has  an  interview : 
alas,  it  is  a  young  Zeus  come  to  dethrone  old 
Saturn,  whose  time  in  the  literary  heaven  is 
nigh  run  ;  for  on  Olympus  itself,  one  Demiur- 
gus  passeth  away  and  another  cometh.  Gott- 
sched had  introduced  the  reign  of  water y  in  all 
shapes  liquid  and  solid,  and  long  gloriously 
presided  over  the  same ;  but  now  there  is 
enough  of  it,  and  the  "  rayless  majesty"  (had 
he  been  prophetic)  here  beheld  the  rayed  one, 
before  whom  he  was  to  melt  away : 

^*  We  announced  ourselves.  The  servant 
led  us  into  a  large  room,  and  said  his  master 
would  come  immediately.  Whether  we  mis- 
interpreted a  motion  he  made  I  cannot  say;  at 
any  rate,  we  fancied  he  had  beckoned  us  to  ad- 
vance into  an  adjoining  chamber.  We  did  ad- 
vance, and  to  a  singular  scene ;  for,  at  the 
same  moment,  Gottsched,  the  huge  broad  gi- 
gantic  man,  entered  from  the  opposite  door,  in 
green  damask  nightgown,  lined  with  red  tafieta; 
but  his  enormous  head  was  bald  and  without 
covering.  This,  however,  was  the  very  want 
to  be  now  supplied :  for  the  servant  came 
springing  in  at  a  side-door,  with  a  full-bottomed 
wig  on  his  hand,  (the  locks  fell  down  to  his 
elbows,)  and  held  it  out,  with  terrified  gesture, 
to  his  master.  Gottsched,  without  uttering 
the  smallest  complaint,  lifted  the  head-gear 
with  his  left  hand  from  the  servant's  arm  ;  and 
very  deftly  swinging  it  up  to  its  place  on  the 
head,  at  the  same  time,  with  his  right  hand, 
gave  the  poor  man  a  box  on  the  ear,  which,  as 
is  seen  in  comedies,  dashed  him  spinning  out 
of  the  apartment,  whereupon  the  respectable- 
looking  Patriarch  quite  gravely  desired  us  to  be 
seated,  and  with  proper  dignity  went  through 
a  tolerably  long  discourse." 

In  which  discourse,  however,  it  is  likely, 
little  edification  for  the  young  inquirer  could 
lie.  Already  by  multifarious  discoursings  and 
readings  he  has  convinced  himself,  to  his  de- 
spair, of  the  watery  condition  of  the  Gottschedic 
world,  and  how  "the  Noachide  (Noaheid)  of 
Bodmer  is  a  true  symbol  of  the  deluge  that 
has  swelled  up  round  the  German  Parnassus," 
and  in  literature  as  in  philosophy  there  is 
neither  landmark  nor  loadstar.  Here,  too,  he 
resumes  his  inquiries  about  religion,  falls  into 
"black  scruples"  about  most  things,  and  in 
"  the  bald  and  feeble  deliverances"  propounded 
him,  has  sorry  comfort.  Outward  things,  more- 
over, go  not  as  they  should :  the  copious  phi- 
losophic harlequinades  of  that  wag  Beyrish, 
"with  the  long  nose,"  unsettle  rather  than 
settle;  as  do,  in  many  ways,  other  wise  and 
foolish  mortals  of  both  sexes :  matters  grow 
worse  and  worse.  He  falls  sick,  becomes 
wretched  enough;  yet  unfolds  withal  "an 
audacious  humour  which  feels  itself  superior 
to  the  moment;  not  only  fears  no  danger,  but 
even  wilfully  courts  it."  And  thus,  somewhat 
in  a  wrecked  state,  he  quits  his  propitious 
mother,  and  returns  home. 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


357 


Nevertheless  let  there  be  no  reflections: 
he  must  now  in  earnest  get  forward  with  his 
Law,  and  on  to  Strasburg  to  complete  himself 
therein;  so  has  the  paternal  judgment  arranged 
it.  A  lawyer,  the  thing  in  these  latter  days 
called  Lawyer,  of  a  man  in  whom  ever  bounte- 
ous Nature  has  sent  us  a  Poet  for  the  World  ! 
O  blind  mortals,  blind  over  what  lies  closest 
to  us,  what  we  have  the  truest  wish  to  see ! 
In  this  young  colt  that  caprioles  there  in  young 
lustihood,  and  snufFs  the  wind  with  an  "au- 
dacious humour,"  rather  dangerous  looking, 
no  Sleswick  Dobbin,  to  rise  to  dromedary 
stature,  and  draw  three  tons  avoirdupois,  (of 
street-mud  or  whatever  else,)  has  been  vouch- 
safed; but  a  winged  miraculous  Pegasus  to 
carry  us  to  the  heavens  ! — Whereon  too  (if  we 
consider  it)  many  a  heroic  Bellerophon  shall, 
in  times  coming,  mount  and  destroy  Chimreras, 
and  deliver  afflicted  nations  on  the  lower 
earth. 

Meanwhile,  be  this  as  it  may,  the  youth  is 
gone  to  Strasburg  to  prepare  for  the  examen 
rigorosum,-  though,  as  it  turned  out,  for  quite  a 
diifferent  than  the  Law  one.  Confusion  enough 
is  in  his  head  and  heart;  poetic  objects  too 
have  taken  root  there,  and  will  not  rest  till  they 
have  worked  themselves  into  form.  "These," 
says  he,  "were  Gotz  von  Berlichingen  and 
Faust.  The  written  Life  of  the  former  had 
seized  my  inmost  soul.  The  figure  of  a  rude 
well-meaning  self-helper,  in  wild  anarchic  time, 
excited  my  deepest  sympathy.  The  impressive 
puppet-show  Fable  of  the  other  sounded  and 
hummed  through  me  many-toned  enough." — 
"  Let  us  withdraw,  however,"  subjoins  he, 
"  into  the  free  air,  to  the  high  broad  platforni 
of  the  Minster ;  as  if  the  time  were  still  here, 
when  we  young  ones  often  rendezvoused  thither 
to  salute,  with  full  rummers,  the  sinking  sun." 
They  had  good  telescopes  with  them  ;  "  and 
one  friend  after  another  searched  out  the  spot 
in  the  distance  which  had  become  the  dearest 
to  him ;  neither  was  I  without  a  little  eye- 
mark  of  the  like,  which,  though  it  rose  not 
conspicuous  in  the  landscape,  drew  me  to  it 
beyond  all  else  with  a  kindly  magic."  This 
alludes,  we  perceive,  to  that  Alsatian  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  and  his  daughter  the  fair  Frederike ; 
concerning  which  matter  a  word  may  not  be 
useless  here.  Exception  has  been  taken  by 
certain  tender  souls,  of  the  all-for-love  sort, 
against  Goethe's  conduct  in  this  matter.  He 
flirted  with  this  blooming  blue-eyed  Alsatian, 
she  with  him,  innocently  enough,  thoughtless- 
ly enough,  till  they  both  came  to  love  each 
other;  and  then,  when  the  marrying  point 
began  to  grow  visible  in  the  distance,  he  stopt 
short,  and  would  no  farther.  Adieu,  he  cried, 
and  waved  his  lily  hand.  "  The  good  Frede- 
rike was  weeping ;  I  too  was  sick  enough  at 
heart"  Whereupon  arises  the  question  :  Is 
Goethe  a  bad  man ;  or  is  he  not  a  bad  man  ? 
Alas,  worthy  souls !  if  this  world  were  all  a 
wedding  dance,  and  thou  shall  never  come  into 
collision  with  thou  vxilt,  what  a  new  improved 
time  we  had  of  it !  It  is  man's  miserable  lot, 
in  the  meanwhile  to  eat  and  labour  as  well  as 
wed ;  alas,  how  often,  like  Corporal  Trim,  does 
he  spend  the  whole  night;  one  moment  divid- 
ing the  world  into  two  halves  with  his  fair 


Beguine  ;  next  moment  remembering  that  he 
has  only  a  knapsack  and  fifteen  florins  to 
divide  with  any  one  !  Besides,  you  do  not  con- 
sider that  our  dear  Frederike,  whom  we  too 
could  weep  for  if  it  served,  had  a  sound  Ger- 
man heart  within  her  stays  ;  had  furthermore 
abundance  of  work  to  do,  and  not  even  leisure 
to  die  of  love ;  above  all,  that  at  this  period, 
in  the  country  parts  of  Alsatia,  there  were  no 
circulating  library  novels. 

With  regard  to  the  false  one's  cruelty  of 
temper,  who,  if  we  remember,  saw  a  ghost  in 
broad  noon  that  day  he  rode  away  from  her, 
let  us,  on  the  other  hand,  hear  Jung  Stilling, 
for  he  also  had  experience  thereof  at  this  very 
date.  Poor  Jung,  a  sort  of  German  Dominie 
Sampson,  awkward,  honest,  irascible,  "  in  old- 
fashioned  clothes  and  bag-wig,"  who  had  been 
several  things,  charcoal-burner,  and,  in  re- 
peated alternation,  tailor  and  school-master, 
was  now  come  to  Strasburg  to  study  medicine ; 
with  purse  long-necked,  yet  with  head  that  had 
brains  in  it,  and  heart  full  of  trust  in  God.  A 
pious  soul,  who  if  he  did  afterwards  write 
books  on  the  Nature  of  Departed  Spirits,  also 
restored  to  sight  (by  his  skill  in  eye-opera- 
tions) above  two  thousand  poor  blind  persons, 
without  fee  or  reward,  even  supporting  many 
of  them  in  the  hospital  at  his  own  expense. 

"  There  dined,"  says  he,  "  at  this  table  about 
twenty  people,  whom  the  two  comrades  saw 
one  after  the  other  enter.  One  especially,  with 
large  eyes,  magnificent  brow,  and  fine  stature, 
walked  (muthig)  gallantly  in.  He  drew  Herr 
Troost's  and  Stilling's  eyes  on  him;  Hetr 
Troost  said,  'That  must  be  a  superior  man.* 
Stilling  assented,  yet  thought  they  would  both 
have  much  vexation  from  him,  as  he  looked 
like  one  of  your  wild  fellows.  This  did  Stilling 
infer  from  the  frank  style  which  the  student 
had  assumed;  but  here  he  was  far  mistaken. 
They  found,  meanwhile,  that  this  distinguished 
individual  was  named  Herr  Goethe. 

"  Herr  Troost  whispered  to  Stilling,  *  Here 
it  were  best  one  sat  seven  days  silent.'  Stilling 
felt  this  truth ;  they  sat  silent,  therefore,  and 
no  one  particularly  minded  them,  except  that 
Goethe  now  and  then  hurled  over  (Jierilberwalzte) 
a  look:  he  sat  opposite  Stilling,  and  had  the 
government  of  the  table  without  aiming  at  it. 

"Herr  Troost  was  neat,  and  dressed  in  the 
fashion;  Stilling  likewise  tolerably  so.  He 
had  a  dark  brown  coat  with  fustian  under  gar- 
ments :  only  that  a  scratch-wig  also  remained 
to  him,  which,  among  his  bag-wigs,  he  would 
wear  out.  This  he  had  put  on  one  day,  and  came 
therewith  to  dinner.  Nobody  took  notice  of  it 
except  Herr  Waldberg  of  Vienna.  That  gentle- 
man looked  at  him,  and  as  he  had  already  heard 
that  Stilling  was  greatly  taken  up  about  re- 
ligion, he  began,  and  asked  him,  Whether  he 
thought  Adam  in  Paradise  had  worn  a  scratch- 
wig  1  All  laughed  heartily,  except  Salzman, 
Goethe,  and  Troost ;  these  did  not  laugh.  In 
Stilling  wrath  rose  and  burnt,  and  he  answered : 
♦  Be  ashamed  of  this  jest ;  such  a  trivial  thing 
is  not  worth  laughing  at !'  But  Goethe  struck 
in  and  added :  '  Try  a  man  first  whether  he 
deserves  mockery.  It  is  devil-like  to  fall  upon 
an  honest-hearted  person  who  has  injured  no- 
body, and  make  sport  of  him!'    From  that 


858 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


time  Herr  Goethe  took  up  Stilling,  visited  him, 
liked  him,  made  friendship  and  brothership 
with  him,  and  strove  by  all  opportunities  to  do 
him  kindness.  Pity  that  so  few  are  acquainted 
with  this  noble  man  in  respect  of  his  heart  !"* 
Here,  indeed,  may  be  the  place  to  mention, 
that  this  noble  man,  in  respect  of  his  heart, 
and  goodness  and  badness,  is  not  altogether 
easy  to  get  acquainted  with  ;  that  innumerable 
persons,  of  the  man-milliner,  parish-clerk,  and 
circulating-library  sort,  will  find  him  a  hard 
nut  to  crack.  Hear  in  what  questionable 
manner,  so  early  as  the  year  1773,  he  expresses 
himself  towards  Herr  Sulzer,  whose  beautiful 
hypothesis,  that  "  Nature  meant,  by  the  con- 
stant influx  of  satisfactions  streaming  in  upon 
us,  to  fashion  our  minds,  on  the  whole,  to  soft- 
ness and  sensibility,"  he  will  not  leave  a  leg 
to  stand  on.  "  On  the  whole,'"  says  he,  "  she 
does  no  such  thing;  she  rather,  God  be  thanked, 
hardens  her  genuine  children  against  the 
pains  and  evils  she  incessantly  prepares  for 
them  ;  so  that  we  name  him  the  happiest  man 
who  is  the  strongest  to  make  front  against 
evil,  to  put  it  aside  from  him,  and  in  defiance 
of  it  go  the  road  of  his  own  will."  "  Man's 
art  in  all  situations  is  to  fortify  himself  against 
Nature,  to  avoid  her  thousand-fold  ills,  and  only 
to  enjoy  his  measure  of  the  good ;  till  at  length 
he  manages  to  include  the  whole  circulation 
of  his  true  and  factitious  wants  in  a  palace, 
and  fix  as  far  as  possible  all  scattered  beauty 
and  felicity  within  his  glass  walls,  where  ac- 
cordingly he  grows  ever  the  weaker,  takes  to 
*  joys  of  the  soul,'  and  his  powers,  roused  to 
their  natural  exertion  by  no  contradiction, 
melt  away  into  "  {horresco  referens) — "  Virtue, 
Benevolence,  Sensibility !"  In  Goethe's  Writ- 
ings, too,  we  all  know  the  moral  lesson  is  sel- 
dom so  easily  educed  as  one  would  wish. 
Alas,  how  seldom  is  he  so  direct  in  tendency 
as  his  own  plain-spoken  moralist  at  Plunders- 
weilem : 

"  Dear  Christian  People,  one  and  all, 

When  will  you  cease  your  sinning  1 

Else  can  your  comfort  be  but  small, 

Good  hap  scarce  have  beginning  ; 

For  Vice  is  hurtful  unto  man. 

In  Virtue  lies  the  surest  plan," 

or,  to  give  it  in  the  original  words,  the  empha- 
sis of  which  no  foreign  idiom  can  imitate : 

*'  Die  Tugend  ist  das  hochste  Oiit, 
Das  Laster  JVeh  dem  Menschen  thut  /'' 

In  which  emphatic  couplet,  does  there  not, 
as  the  critics  say  in  other  cases,  lie  the  essence 
of  whole  volumes,  such  as  we  have  read  1 — 

Goethe's  far  most  important  relation  in 
Strasburg  was  the  accidental  temporary  one 
with  Herder ;  which  issued,  indeed,  in  a  more 
permanent,  though  at  no  time  an  altogether 
intimate  one.  Herder,  with  much  to  give,  had 
always  something  to  require  ;  living  with  him 
seems  never  to  have  been  wholly  a  sinecure. 
Goethe  and  he  moreover  were  fundamentally 
diflferent,  not  to  say  discordant ;  neither  could 
the  humour  of  the  latter  be  peculiarly  sweet- 
ened by  his  actual  business  in  Strasburg,  that 
of  undergoing  a  surgical  operation  on  "the 


♦  Stilling's  iVanderschaft.    Berlin  and  Leipsic,  1778. 


lachrymatory  duct,"  and,  above  all,  an  unsuc- 
cessful one : 

"  He  was  attending  the  prince  of  Holstein- 
Eutin,  who  laboured  under  mental  distresses, 
on  a  course. of  travel;  and  had  arrived  with 
him  at  Strasburg.  Our  society,  so  soon  as  his 
presence  there  was  known,  felt  a  strong  wish 
to  get  near  him  ;  which  happiness,  quite  un- 
expectedly and  by  chance,  befel  me  first.  I 
had  gone  to  the  Inn  zum  Geist,  visiting  I  forget 
what  stranger  of  rank.  Just  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs  I  came  upon  a  man,  like  myself 
about  to  ascend,  whom  by  his  look  I  could 
take  to  be  a  clergyman.  His  powdered  hair 
was  fastened  up  into  a  round  lock  ;  the  black 
coat  also  distinguished  him  ;  still  more  a  long 
black  silk  mantle,  the  end  of  which  he  had  ga- 
thered together  and  stuck  into  his  pocket. 
This  in  some  measure  surprising,  yet  on  the 
whole  gallant  and  pleasing  figure,  of  whom  I 
had  already  heard  speak,  left  me  no  doubt  but 
it  was  the  famed  Traveller ;  and  my  address 
soon  convinced  him  that  he  was  known  to 
me.  He  asked  my  name,  which  could  be  of 
no  significance  to  him;  however  my  openness 
seemed  to  give  pleasure,  for  he  replied  to  it  in 
friendly  style,  and  as  we  stepped  up  stairs 
forthwith  showed  himself  ready  for  a  lively 
communication.  Our  visit  also  was  to  the 
same  party ;  and  before  separation  I  begged 
permission  to  wait  upon  himself,  which  he 
kindly  enough  accorded  me.  I  delayed  not  to 
make  repeated  use  of  this  preferment;  and 
was  the  longer  the  more  attracted  towards 
him.  He  had  something  softish  in  his  man- 
ner, which  was  fit  and  dignified,  without  strictly 
being  bred.  A  round  face ;  a  fine  brow ;  a 
somewhat  short  blunt  nose  ;  a  somewhat  pro- 
jected, yet  highly  characteristic,  pleasant,  ami- 
able mouth.  Under  black  eye-brows,  a  pair 
of  coal-black  eyes,  which  failed  not  of  their 
effect,  though  one  of  them  was  wont  to  be  red 
and  inflamed." 

With  this  gifted  man,  by  five  years  his 
senior,  whose  writings  had  already  given  him 
a  name,  and  announced  the  much  that  lay  in 
him,  the  open-hearted  disciple  could  mani- 
foldly communicate,  learning  and  enduring. 
Ere  long,  under  that  "  softish  manner,"  there 
disclosed  itself  a  "counter-pulse"  of  causti- 
city, of  ungentle,  almost  noisy  banter;  the 
blunt  nose  was  too  often  curled  in  an  adunco- 
suspensive  manner.  Whatsoever  of  self-com- 
placency, of  acquired  attachment  and  insight, 
of  self-sufiiciency  well  or  ill  grounded,  lay  in 
the  youth,  was  exposed,  we  can  fancy,  to  the 
severest  trial.  In  Herder  too,  as  in  an  expres- 
sive microcosm,  he  might  see  imaged  the 
whole  wild  world  of  German  literature,  of  Eu- 
ropean Thought;  its  old  workings  and  mis- 
workings,  its  best  recent  tendencies  andefl!brts; 
what  its  past  and  actual  wasteness,  perplexity, 
confusion  worse  confounded,  was.  In  all 
which,  moreover,  the  bantered,  yet  impertur- 
bably  inquiring  brave  young  man  had  quite 
other  than  a  theoretic  interest,  being  himself 
minded  to  dwell  there.  It  is  easy  to  conceive 
that  Herder's  presence,  stirring  up  in  that 
fashion  so  many  new  and  old  matters,  would 
mightily  aggravate  the  former  "fermentation;" 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


359 


and  thereby,  it  is  true,  unintentionally  or  not, 
forward  the  same  towards  clearness. 

In  fact,  with  the  hastiest  glance  over  the 
then  position  of  the  world  spiritual,  we  shall 
find  that  as  Disorder  is  never  wanting,  (and 
for  the  young  spiritual  hero,  who  is  there  only 
to  destroy  Disorder  and  make  it  order,  can 
least  of  all  be  wanting,)  so,  at  the  present 
juncture,  it  specially  abounded.  Why  dwell 
on  this  often  delineated  Epoch  ?  Over  all 
Europe  the  reign  of  Earnestness  had  now 
wholly  dwindled  into  that  of  Dilettantism. 
The  voice  of  a  certain  modern  "closet  logic," 
which  called  itself,  and  could  not  but  call  it- 
self. Philosophy,  had  gone  forth,  saying.  Let 
there  be  darkness,  and  there  was  darkness. 
No  divinity  any  longer  dwelt  in  the  world; 
and  as  men  cannot  do  without  a  divinity,  a 
sort  of  terrestrial  upholstery  one  had  been  got 
together,  and  named  Taste,  with  medallic  vir- 
tuosi and  picture  cognoscenti,  and  enlightened 
letter  and  belles-lettres  men  enough  for  priests. 
To  which  worship,  with  its  stunted  formula- 
ries and  hungry  results,  must  the  earnest 
mind,  like  the  hollow  and  shallow  one,  adjust 
itself,  as  best  might  be.  To  a  new  man,  no 
doubt  the  Earth  is  always  new,  never  wholly 
without  interest.  Knowledge,  were  it  only 
that  of  dead  languages,  or  of  dead  actions,  the 
foreign  tradition  of  what  others  had  acquired 
and  done,  was  still  to  be  searched  after ;  fame 
might  be  enjoyed  if  procurable ;  above  all,  the 
culinary  and  brewing  arts  remained  in  pris- 
tine completeness,  their  results  could  be  re- 
lished with  pristine  vigour.  Life  lumbered 
along,  better  or  worse,  in  pitiful  discontent,  not 
yet  in  decisive  desperation,  as  through  a  dim 
day  of  languor,  sultry  and  sunless.  Already 
too  on  the  horizon  might  be  seen  clouds, 
might  be  heard  murmurs,  which  by  and  by 
proved  themselves  of  an  electric  character, 
and  were  to  cool  and  clear  that  same  sultri- 
ness in  wondrous  deluges. 

To  a  man  standing  in  the  midst  of  German  lite- 
rature, and  looking  out  thither  for  his  highest 
good,  the  view  was  troubled  perhaps  with  vari- 
ous peculiar  perplexities.  For  two  centuries, 
German  literature  had  lain  in  the  sere  leaf.  The 
Luther,  "  whose  words  were  half  battles,"  and 
such  half  battles  as  could  shake  and  overset 
half  Europe  with  their  cannonading,  had  long 
since  gone  to  sleep  ;  and  all  other  words  were 
but  the  miserable  bickering  of  (theological) 
camp-suttlers  in  quarrel  over  the  stripping  of 
the  slain.  Ulrich  Hutten  slept  silent,  in  the 
little  island  of  the  Zurich  Lake ;  the  weary 
and  heavy-laden  had  wiped  the  sweat  from 
his  brow,  and  laid  him  down  to  rest  there  :  the 
valiant  fire-tempered  heart,  with  all  its  woes 
and  loves  and  loving  indignations,  mouldered, 
cold,  forgotten;  with  such  a  pulse  no  new 
heart  rose  to  beat.  The  tamer  Opitzes  and 
Flemmings  of  a  succeeding  era  had,  in  like 
manner,  long  fallen  obsolete.  One  unhappy 
generation  after  another  of  pedants,  "rhizo- 
phagous,"  living  on  roots,  Greek  or  Hebrew  ; 
of  farce-writers,  gallant  verse-writers,  journal- 
ists, and  other  jugglars  of  nondescript  sort 
■wandered  in  nomadic  wise,  whither  provender 

was  to  be  had ;  among  whom,  if  a  passionate 
Gunther  go  with  some  emphasis  to  ruin  ;  if 


an  illuminated  Thomasius,  earlier  than  the 
general  herd,  deny  witchcraft,  we  are  to 
esteem  it  a  felicity.  This  too,  however,  has 
passed ;  and  now,  in  manifold  enigmatical 
signs  a  new  Time  announces  itself.  Well-born 
Hagedorns,  munificent  Gleims  have  again  ren- 
dered the  character  of  Author  honourable  ;  the 
polish  of  correct,  assiduous  Rabeners  and 
Ramlers  have  smoothed  away  the  old  impuri- 
ties; a  pious  Klopstock,  to  the  general  enthu- 
siasm, rises  anew  into  something  of  seraphic 
music,  though  by  methods  wherein  he  can 
have  no  follower ;  the  brave  spirit  of  a  Les- 
sing  pierces,  in  many  a  life-giving  ray,  through 
the  dark  inertness :  Germany  has  risen  to  a 
level  with  Europe,  is  henceforth  participant 
of  all  European  influences  ;  nay  it  is  now  ap- 
pointed, though  not  yet  ascertained,  that  Ger- 
many is  to  be  the  leader  of  spiritual  Europe. 
A  deep  movement  agitates  the  universal  mind 
of  Germany,  though  as  yet  no  one  sees  to- 
wards what  issue ;  only  that  heavings  and 
eddyings,  confused,  conflicting  tendencies, 
work  unquietly  everywhere  ;  the  movement  is 
begun  and  will  not  stop,  but  the  course  of  it  is 
yet  far  from  ascertained.  Even  to  the  young 
man  now  looking  on  with  such  anxious  inten- 
sity had  this  very  task  been  allotted :  To  find 
it  a  course  and  set  it  flowing  thereon. 

Whoever  will  represent  this  confused  revo- 
lutionary condition  of  all  things,  has  but  to 
fancy  how  it  would  act  on  the  most  susceptive 
and  comprehensive  of  living  minds;  what  a 
Chaos  he  had  taken  in,  and  was  dimly  strug- 
gling to  body  forth  into  a  Creation.  Add  to 
which  his  so  confused,  contradictory,  personal 
condition ;  appointed  by  a  positive  father  to  be 
practitioner  of  Law,  by  a  still  more  positive 
mother  (old  Nature  herself)  to  be  practitioner 
of  Wisdom,  and  Captain  of  spiritual  Europe; 
we  have  confusion  enough  for  him,  doubts 
economic  and  doubts  theologic,  doubts  moral 
and  oesthetical,  a  whole  world  of  confusion  and 
doubt. 

Nevertheless  to  the  young  Strasburg  studient 
the  gods  had  given  their  most  precious  gifl, 
which  is  w^orlh  all  others,  without  which  all 
others  are  worih  nothing — a  seeing  eye  and  a 
faithful  loving  heart: 

"  Er  haW  ein  Jinge  treu  und  klug, 
Und  war  auch  liebevoll  gevug, 
Zu  schauen  mavches  klar  und  rein, 
Und  wieder  alles  gut  zu  machen  sein  ; 
HatV  avch  eine  Zuvge  die  sich  ergross, 
Uvd  leicht  und  fein  in  Worte  floss  ; 
Dtsa  thaten  die  Mvsen  sich  erfreuiu, 
Wollten  ihn  zum  Meistersdnger  iceihn."* 

A  mind  of  all-piercing  vision,  of  sunny 
strength,  not  made  to  ray  out  darker  darkness, 
but  to  bring  warm  sunlight,  all  purifying,  all 
uniting.  A  clear,  invincible  mind,  and  "con- 
secrated to  be  Master-singer"  in  quite  another 
guild  than  that  Niirnberg  one. 

His  first  literary  productions  fall  in  his 
twenty-third  year;  Werter,  the  most  celebrated 
of  these,  in  his  twenty-fifth.    Of  which  won- 

*  Hans  Snrhsens  Poetische  Sendung,  (Goethe's  Werhe, 
XIII. ;)  a  beautiful  piece,  (a  very  Hans  Sachs  beatified, 
both  in  chnracter  and  style,)  which  we  wish  there  waa 
any  possibility  of  translating. 


360 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


derful  Book,  and  its  now  recognised  character 
as  poetic  (and  prophetic)  utterance  of  the 
World's  Despair,  it  is  needless  to  repeat  what 
has  elsewhere  been  written.  This  and  Gdtz 
von  Berlichingen,  which  also,  as  a  poetic  looking 
back  into  the  past,  was  a  word  for  the  world, 
have  produced  incalculable  effects  ; — which 
now,  indeed,  however  some  departing  echo  of 
them  may  linger  in  the  wrecks  of  our  own 
Moss-trooper  and  Satanic  Schools,  do  at  length 
all  happily  lie  behind  us.  Some  trifling  inci- 
dents at  Wetzlar,and  the  suicide  of  an  unhappy 
acquaintance  were  the  means  of  "crystallizing" 
that  wondrous,  perilous  stuff,  which  the  young 
heart  oppressively  held  dissolved  in  it,  into 
this  world-famous,  and  as  it  proved  world- 
medicative  Werter.  He  had  gone  to  Wetzlar 
with  an  eye  still  to  Law;  which  now,  however, 
was  abandoned,  never  to  be  resumed.  Thus 
did  he  too,  "  like  Saul  the  son  of  Kish,  go  out 
to  seek  his  father's  asses,  and  instead  thereof 
find  a  kingdom." 

With  the  completion  of  these  two  Works  (a 
completion  in  every  sense,  for  they  were  not 
only  emitted,  but  speedily  also  Remitted,  and 
seen  over,  and  left  behind,)  commences  what 
we  can  specially  call  his  Life,  his  activity  as 
Man.  The  outward  particulars  of  it,  from  this 
point  where  his  own  Narrative  ends,  have 
been  briefly  summed  up  in  these  terms : 

"  In  1776,  the  Heir-apparent  of  Weimar  was 
passing  through  Frankfort,  on  which  occasion, 
by  the  intervention  of  some  friends,  he  waited 
upon  Goethe.  The  visit  must  have  been  mu- 
tually agreeable;  for  a  short  time  afterwards 
the  young  author  was  invited  to  court;  appa- 
rently to  contribute  his  assistance  in  various 
literary  institutions  and  arrangements  then 
proceeding  or  contemplated;  and  in  pursu- 
ance of  this  honourable  call,  he  accordingly 
settled  at  Weimar,  with  the  title  of  Legations- 
rath,  and  the  actual  dignity  of  a  place  in  the 
in  the  Collegium,  (Council.)  The  connection 
begun  under  such  favourable  auspices,  and 
ever  afterwards  continued  under  the  like  or 
better,  has  been  productive  of  important  con- 
•sequences,  not  only  to  Weimar  but  to  all  Ger- 
many. The  noble  purpose  undertaken  by  the 
Duchess  Amelia  was  zealously  forwarded  by 
the  young  Duke  on  his  accession  ;  under  whose 
influence,  supported  and  directed  by  his  new 
Councillor,  this  inconsiderable  state  has  gain- 
ed for  itself  a  fairer  distinction  than  any  of  its 
larger,  richer,  or  more  warlike  neighbours. 
By  degrees  whatever  was  brightest  in  the 
genius  of  Germany  had  been  gathered  to  this 
little  court;  a  classical  theatre  was  under  the 
superintendence  of  Goethe  and  Schiller;  here 
Wieland  taught  and  sung;  in  the  pulpit  was 
Herder;  and  possessing  such  a  four,  the  small 
town  of  Weimar,  some  five-and-twenty  years 
ago,  might  challenge  the  proudest  capital  of 
the  world  to  match  it  in  intellectual  wealth. 
Occupied  so  profitably  to  his  country,  and 
honourably  to  himself,  Goethe  continued  rising 
in  favour  with  his  Prince;  by  degrees  a  poli- 
tical was  added  to  his  literary  trust ;  in  1779 
he  became  Privy  Councillor;  President  in 
1782;  and  at  length  after  his  return  from  Italy, 
where  he  had  spent  two  years  in  varied  studies 


and  observation,  he  was  appointed  Minister ; 
a  post  which  he  only  a  few  years  ago  resigned, 
on  his  final  retirement  from  public  affairs." 

Notable  enough  that  little  Weimar  should, 
in  this  particular,  have  brought  back,  as  it 
were,  an  old  Italian  Commonwealth  into  the 
nineteenth  century !  For  the  Petrarcas  and 
Bocaccios,  though  reverenced  as  Poets,  were 
not  supposed  to  have  lost  their  wits  as  men ; 
but  could  be  employed  in  the  highest  services 
of  the  state,  not  only  as  fit,  but  as  the  fittest,  to 
discharge  these.  Very  different  with  us,  where 
Diplomatists  and  Governors  can  be  picked  up 
from  the  highways,  or  chosen  in  the  manner 
of  blindman's  buff,  (the  first  figure  you  clutch, 
say  rather  that  clutches  you,  will  make  a 
governor;)  and,  even  in  extraordinary  times, 
it  is  thought  much  if  a  Milton  can  become 
Latin  Clerk  under  some  Bulstrode  Whitelock, 
and  be  called  "one  Mr.  Milton."  As  if  the 
poet,  with  his  poetry,  were  no  other  than  a 
pleasant  mountebank,  with  faculty  of  a  certain 
groimd-and-lofty  tumbling  which  would  amuse; 
for  which  you  must  throw  him  a  few  coins,  a 
little  flattery,  otherwise  he  would  not  amuse 
you  with  it.  As  if  there  were  any  talent  what- 
soever ;  above  all,  as  if  there  were  any  talent 
of  Poetry,  (by  the  consent  of  all  ages  the 
highest  talent,  and  sometimes  pricelessly  high,) 
the  first  foundation  of  which  were  not  even 
these  two  things,  (properly  but  one  thing:)  in- 
tellectual Perspicacity,  with  force  and  honesty 
of  Will.  Which  two,  do  they  not,  in  their 
simplest,  quite  naked  form,  constitute  the  very 
equipment  a  Man  of  Business  needs  ;  the  very 
implements  whereby  all  business,  from  that  of 
the  delver  and  ditcher  to  that  of  the  legislator 
and  imperator,  is  accomplished ;  as  in  their 
noblest  concentration  they  are  still  the  moving 
faculty  of  the  Artist  and  Prophet ! 

To  Goethe  himself,  this  connection  with 
Weimar  opened  the  happiest  course  of  life, 
which  probably  the  age  he  lived  in  could  have 
yielded  him.  Moderation  yet  abundance;  ele- 
gance without  luxury  or  sumptuosity:  Art 
enough  to  give  a  heavenly  firmament  to  his 
existence;  Business  enough  to  give  it  a  solid 
earth.  In  his  multifarious  duties,  he  comes  in 
contact  with  all  manner  of  men ;  gains  ex- 
perience and  tolerance  of  all  men's  ways.  A 
faculty  like  his,  which  could  master  the  highest 
spiritual  problems,  and  conquer  Evil  Spirits  in 
their  own  domain,  was  not  likely  to  be  foiled 
by  such  when  they  put  on  the  simpler  shape 
of  material  clay.  The  greatest  of  Poets  is  also 
the  skilfuUest  of  Managers:  the  little  terrestrial 
Weimar  trust  committed  to  him  prospers ;  and 
one  sees  with  a  sort  of  smile,  in  which  may  lie 
a  deep  seriousness,  how  the  Jena  Museums, 
University  arrangements,  Weimar  Art-exhibi- 
tions and  Palace-buildings,  are  guided  smoothly 
on,  by  a  hand  which  could  have  worthily 
swayed  imperial  sceptres.  The  world,  could 
it  intrust  its  imperial  sceptres  to  such  hands, 
were  blessed:  nay  to  this  man,  without  the 
world's  consent,  given  or  asked,  a  still  higher 
function  had  been  committed.  But  on  the 
whole,  we  name  his  external  life  happy,  among 
the  happiest,  in  this,  that  a  noble  princely 
Courtesy  could  dwell  in  it  based  on  the  wor- 
ship, by  speech  and  practice,  of  Truth  only, 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


3<H 


(for  his  victory,  as  vre  said  above,  was  so  com- 
plete, as  almost  to  hide  that  there  had  been  a 
struggle,)  and  the  worldly  could  praise  him  as 
the  most  agreeable  of  men,  and  the  spiritual  as 
the  highest  and  clearest ;  but  happy,  above  all, 
in  this,  that  it  forwarded  him,  as  no  other 
could  have  done,  in  his  inward  life,  the  good 
or  evil  hap  of  which  was  alone  of  permanent 
importance. 

The  inward  life  of  Goethe,  onwards  from 
this  epoch,  lies  nobly  recorded  in  the  long 
series  of  his  Writings.  Of  these,  meanwhile, 
the  great  bulk  of  our  English  world  has  nowise 
yet  got  to  such  understanding  and  mastery, 
that  we  could,  with  much  hope  of  profit,  go 
into  a  critical  examination  of  their  merits  and 
characteristics.  Such  a  task  can  stand  over 
till  the  day  for  it  arrive ;  be  it  in  this  genera- 
tion, or  the  next,  or  after  the  next.  What  has 
been  elsewhere  already  set  forth  suffices  the 
present  want,  or  needs  only  to  be  repeated  and 
enforced;  the  expositor  of  German  things 
must  say,  with  judicious  Zanga  in  the  play: 
"First  recover  that,  then  shalt  thou  know 
more."  A  glance  over  the  grand  outlines  of 
the  matter,  and  more  especially  under  the 
aspect  suitable  to  these  days,  can  alone  be  in 
place  here. 

In  Goethe's  Works,  Chronologically  arranged, 
we  see  this  above  all  things :  A  mind  working 
itself  into  clearer  and  clearer  freedom;  gaining 
a  more  and  more  perfect  dominion  of  its  world. 
The  pestilential  fever  of  Skepticism  runs 
through  its  stages  :  but  happily  it  ends  and  dis- 
appears at  the  last  stag*,  not  in  death,  not  in 
chronic  malady  (the  commonest)  way,  but  in 
clearer,  henceforth  invulnerable  health.  Werter 
we  called  the  voice  of  the  world's  despair :  pas- 
sionate, uncontrollable  is  this  voice ;  not  yet 
melodious  and  supreme, — as  nevertheless  we 
at  length  hear  it  in  the  wild  apocalyptic  Faust : 
like  a  death-song  of  departing  worlds ;  no 
.voice  of  joyful  "morning  stars  singing  to- 
gether" over  a  Creation ;  but  of  red  nigh- 
extinguished  midnight  stars,  in  spheral  swan- 
melody,  proclaiming:  It  is  ended  ! 

What  follows,  in  the  next  period,  we  might, 
for  want  of  a  fitter  term,  call  Pagan  or  Ethnic 
in  character;  meaning  thereby  an  anthropo- 
morphic character,  akin  to  that  of  old  Greece 
and  Rome.  Wilhelm  Meister  is  of  that  stamp  : 
warm,  hearty,  sunny  human  Endeavour;  a 
free  recognition  of  Life  in  its  depth,  variety, 
and  majesty;  as  yet  no  Divinity  recognised 
there.  The  famed  Venetian  Epigrams  are  of 
the  like  Old-Ethnic  tone :  musical,  joyfully 
strong;  true,  yet  not  the  whole  truth,  and 
sometimes  in  their  blunt  realism,  jarring  on 
the  sense.  As  in  this,  oftener  cited,  perhaps, 
by  a  certain  class  of  wise  men,  than  the  due 
proportion  demanded : 

"  Why  so  bustleth  the  People  and  crieth  1    Would  find 

itself  victim), 
Children  too  would  beget,  feed  on  the  best  may  be  had  : 
Mark  in  thy  notebooks,  Traveller,  this,  and  at  bonne  go 

do  likewise; 
Farther  reacheth  no  man,  make  he  what  stretching  he 

will." 

Doubt  reduced  into  Denial,  now  lies  pros- 
trate under  foot:  the  fire  has  done  its  work, 
46 


an  old  world  is  in  ashes ;  but  the  smoke  and 
the  flame  are  blown  away,  and  a  sun  again 
shines  clear  over  the  ruin,  to  raise  therefrom 
a  new  nobler  verdure  and  flowerage.  Till  at 
length,  in  the  third,  or  final  period,  melodious 
Reverence  becomes  triumphant;  a  deep  all- 
pervading  Faith,  with  mild  voice,  grave  as 
gay,  speaks  forth  to  us  in  a  Meislers  Wanr 
derjahre,  in  a  West-Ostlicher  Divan;  in  many  a 
little  Zahme  Xenie,  and  true-hearted  little 
rhyme,  "  which,"  it  has  been  said,  "  for  preg- 
nancy and  genial  significance,  except  in  the 
Hebrew  Scriptures,  you  will  nowhere  match." 
As  here,  striking  in  almost  at  a  venture : 

*'  Like  as  a  Star, 
That  maketh  not  haste, 
That  taketh  not  rest, 
Be  each  one  fulfilling 
His  god-given  Hest."* 


♦  Wie  das  Qtstimt 
Ohne  Hast, 
Mer  ohne  Rast^ 
Drehe  sichjeder 
Um  die  eigne  Last. 

So  stands  it  in  the  original :  hereby,  however,  hangs  a 
tale: 

"A  fact,''  says  one  of  our  fellow  labourers  in  this 
German  vineyard,  "has  but  now  come  to  our  knowledge, 
which  we  take  pleasure  and  pride  in  stating.  Fifieen 
Englishmen,  entertaining  that  high  consideration  for 
the  Good  Goethe,  which  the  labours  and  high  desens  of 
a  long  life  usefully  employed  so  richly  merit  from  all 
mankind,  have  presented  him  with  a  highly  wrought 
Seal,  as  a  token  of  their  veneration.  We  must  pass 
over  the  description  of  the  gift,  for  it  would  be  too 
elaborate ;"  suffice  it  to  say,  that  amid  tasteful  carv- 
ing and  emblematic  embossing  enough,  stood  these 
words  engraven  on  a  gold  bell,  on  the  four  sides  re- 
spectively:  To  the  German,  Master :  From  Friends  in 
England:  28<A  August:  1831;  finally,  that  the  impres- 
sion was  a  star  encircled  with  a  serpent-of-eternity, 
and  this  motto  :  Ohne  Hast  Aber  Ohne  Rast. 

"  The  following  is  the  letter  which  accompanied  it : 
"  •  To  the  Poet  Ooethe,  on  the  '2.8th  of  August,  1831. 

" '  Sir, — Among  the  friends  whom  this  so  interesting 
Anniversary  calls  round  you,  may  we  "  English  friends," 
in  thought  and  symbolically,  since  personally  it  is  im- 
possible^ present  ourselves  to  offer  you  our  affectionate 
congratulations.  We  hope  you  will  do  us  the  honour 
to  accept  this  little  Birth-Day  Gift,  which,  as  a  true 
testimony  of  our  feelings,  may  not  be  without  value. 

"  '  We  said  to  ourselves  :  As  it  is  always  the  highest 
duty  and  pleasure  to  show  reverence  to  whom  reverence 
is  due,  and  our  chief,  perhaps  our  only  benefactor  is  he 
who  by  act  and  word  instructs  us  in  wisdom, — so  we, 
undersigned,  feeling  towards  the  Poet  Goethe  as  the 
spritualiy  taught  towards  their  spiritual  teacher,  are 
desirous  to  express  that  sentiment  openly  and  in  com- 
mon ;  for  which  end  we  have  determined  to  solicit  bis 
acceptance  of  a  small  English  gift,  proceeding  from  ue 
all  equally,  on  his  approaching  birth-day;  that  so, 
while  the  venerable  man  still  dwells  among  us,  some 
memoria4  of  the  gratitude  we  owe  him,  and  think  the 
whole  world  owes  him,  may  not  be  wanting. 

" '  And  thus  our  little  tribute,  perhaps  among  the 
purest  that  men  could  offer  to  man,  now  stands  in  visi- 
ble shape,  and  begs  to  be  received.  May  it  be  welcome, 
and  speak  permanently  of  a  most  close  relation,  though 
wide  seas  flow  between  the  parties  ! 

"  '  We  pray  that  many  years  may  he  added  to  a  life  so 

glorious,  that  all  happiness  may  be  yours,  and  strength 

given  to  complete  your  hish  task,  even  as  it  has  hitherto 

proceeded,  like  a  star,  without  haste,  yet  without  rest. 

♦' '  We  remain,  Sir,  your  friends  and  Servants, 

Fifteen  Enolishmew.'  . 

"The  wonderftil  old  man,  to  whom  distant  and  un- 
known friends  had  paid  such  homage,  could  not  but  be 
moved  at  sentiments  expressed  in  such  terms.  We 
hear  that  he  values  the  token  highly,  and  has  conde- 
scended to  return  the  following  lines  for  answer;— 

"'Den  Funfzehn  Enqlischen  Frevnden. 

Worte  die  der  Dichter  spricht, 

TVeu,  in  hrimischen  Bezirken, 
Wirken  gleieh,  dock  iceiss  er  nicht 

Ob  sie  in  die  Feme  wirken. 

2H 


362 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Or  this  small'  Couplet,  which  the  reader,  if 
he  will,  may  substitute  for  whole  horse-loads 
of  Essays  onthe  Origin  of  Evil;  a  spiritual  manu- 
facture, which  in  these  enlightened  times  ought 
ere  now  to  have  gone  out  of  fashion: 

" '  What  shall  I  teach  thee,  the  foremost  thing  V 
Couldst  teach  me  off  my  own  Shadow  to  spring!" 

Or  the  pathetic  picturesqueness  of  this: 
"A  rampart-breach  is  every  Day, 

Which  many  mortals  are  storming : 
X  Fall  in  the  gap  who  may, 

I  Of  tlie  slain  noheap  is  forming." 

Eine  Bresche  i^jeder  Tag. 

Die  viele  Mevsthen  erstiirmen  ; 

Wer  da  auch  fallen  mag, 

Die  Todten  sick  niemals  thiirmcn. 
In  such  spirit,  and  with  an  eye  that  takes  in 
all  provinces  of  human  Thought,  Feeling,  and 
Activity,  does  the  Poet  stand  forth  as  the  true 
prophet  of  his  time :  victorious  over  its  contra- 
diction, possessor  of  its  wealth ;  embodying  the 
nobleness  of  the  past  into  a  new  whole,  into  a 
new  vital  nobleness  for  the  present  and  the 
future.  Antique  nobleness  in  all  kinds,  yet 
worn  with  new  clearness ;  the  spirit  of  it  is  pre- 
served and  again  revealed  in  shape,  when  the 
former  shape  and  vesture  had  become  old,  (as 
vestures  do,)  and  was  dead  and  cast  forth ;  and 
we  mourned  as  if  the  spirit  too  were  gone.  This, 
we  are  aware,  is  a  high  saying;  applicable  to 
no  other  man  living,  or  that  has  lived  for  some 
two  centuries ;  ranks  Goethe,  not  only  as  the 
highest  man  of  his  time,  but  as  a  man  of  uni- 
versal Time,  important  for  all  generations — 
one  of  the  landmarks  in  the  History  of  Men. 

Thus  from  our  point  of  view  does  Goethe 
rise  on  us  as  the  Uniter,  and  victorious  Re- 
conciler, of  the  distracted  clashing  elements  of 
the  most  distracted  and  divided  age,  that  the 
world  has  witnessed  since  the  Introduction  of 
the  Christian  Religion ;  to  which  old  chaotic 
Era,  of  world-confusion  and  world-rcfusion, 
of  blackest  darkness,  succeeded  by  a  dawn  of 
light  and  nobler  "dayspring  from  on  high," 
this  wondrous  Era  of  ours  is,  indeed,  often 
lilcened.  To  the  faithful  heart  let  no  era  be  a 
desperate  one !  It  is  ever  the  nature  of  Dark- 
ness to  be  followed  by  a  new  nobler  Light ;  nay, 
to  produce  such.  The  woes  and  contradictions 
of  an  Atheistic  time  ;  of  a  world  sunk  in  wick- 
edness and  baseness  and  unbelief,  wherein  also 
physical  wretchedness,  the  disorganization  and 
broken-heartedness  of  whole  classes  struggling 
in  ignorance  and  pain  will  not  fail :  all  this,  the 
view  of  all  this,  falls  like  a  Sphinx-question  on 
every  new-born  earnest  heart,  a  life-and-death 
entanglement  for  every  earnest  heart  to  deliver 
itself  from,  and  the  world  from.  Of  Wisdom 
Cometh  Strength:  only  when  there  is  "no 
vision"  do  the  people  perish.  But,  by  natural 
vicissitudes,  the  age  of  Persiflage  goes  out,  and 
that  of  earnest  unconquerable  Endeavour  must 


Britten !  kabt  sie  aufgefanst : 

"  Thdtigen  Sinn,  das  Thun  gezUgclt ; 
Stetig  Streben  ohne  Hast ;" 

Und  so  wollt  Jhrs  denn  besiegelt ! 
*  Weimar,  d.  28ten  August,  1831.'  Goethk.'  " 

{Eraser's  Magazine,  XXII.  447.) 

And  thus,  as  it  chanced,  was  the  poet's  last  birth-day 
celebrated  by  an  outward  ceremony  of  a  peculiar  kind; 
wherein,  too,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  might  lie  some  inward 
meaning  and  sincerity. 


come  in :  for  the  ashes  of  the  old  fire  will  not 
warm  men  anew;  the  new  generation  is  too 
desolate  to  indulge  in  mockery, — unless,  per- 
haps, in  bitter  suicidal  mockery  of  itself! 
Thus  after  Voltaires  enough  have  laughed  and 
sniffed  at  what  is  false,  appear  some  Turgots 
to  ask  what  is  true.  Wo  to  the  land  where,  in 
these  seasons,  no  prophet  arises;  but  only 
censors,  satirists,  and  embittered  desperadoes 
to  make  the  evil  worse ;  at  best  but  to  accel- 
erate a  consummation,  whicli,  in  accelerating, 
they  have  aggravated!  Old  Europe  had  its 
Tacitus  and  Juvenal;  but  these  availed  not. 
New  Europe  too  has  had  its  Mirabeaus, 
and  Byrons,  and  Napoleons,  and  innumerable 
red-flaming  meteors,  shaking  pestilence  from 
their  hair;  and  earthquakes  and  deluges,  and 
Chaos  come  again ;  but  the  clear  Star,  day's 
harbinger,  (Phosphorus,  the  bringer  of  light,)  had 
not  5'-et  been  recognised. 

That  in  Goethe  there  lay  Force  to  educe  re- 
concilement out  of  such  contradiction  as  man 
is  now  born  into,  marks  him  as  the  Strong 
One  of  his  time ;  the  true  Earl,  though  now 
with  quite  other  weapons  than  those  old  steel 
Jarls  were  used  to !  Such  reconcilement  of 
contradictions,  indeed,  is  the  task  of  every 
man :  the  weakest  reconciles  somewhat ;  re- 
duces old  chaotic  elements  into  new  higher 
order;  ever,  according  to  faculty  and  endea- 
vour, brings  good  out  of  evil.  Consider  now 
what  faculty  and  endeavour  must  belong  to 
the  highest  of  such  tasks,  which  virtually  in- 
cludes all  others  whatsoever!  The  thing  that 
was  given  this  man  to  reconcile  (to  begin  recon- 
ciling, and  teach  us  how  to  reconcile)  was  the 
inward  spiritual  chaos  ;  the  centre  of  all  other 
confusions,  ou  t ward  and  inward :  he  was  to  close 
the  Abyss  out  of  which  such  manifold  destruc- 
tion, moral,  intellectual,  social,  was  proceeding. 

The  greatness  of  his  Endowment,  manifest- 
ed in  such  a  work,  has  long  been  plain  to  all 
men.  That  it  belongs  to  the  highest  class  of 
human  endowments,  entitling  the  wearer  there- 
of, who  so  nobly  used  it  to  the  appellation  in 
its  strictest  sense,  of  Great  Man, — is  also  be- 
coming plain.  A  giant  strength  of  Character 
is  to  be  traced  here ;  mild  and  kindly  and  calm, 
even  as  strength  ever  is.  In  the  midst  of  so 
much  spasmodic  Byronism,  bellowing  till  its 
windpipe  is  cracked,  how  very  different  looks 
this  symptom  of  strength:  "  He  appeared  to  aim 
at  pushing  away  from  him  every  thing  that  did 
hang  upon  his  individual  will."  "In  his  own 
imperturbable  firmness  of  character,  he  had 
grown  into  the  habit  of  7iever  contnididing  any 
one.  On  the  contrary,  he  listened  with  a  friendly 
air  to  every  one^s  opinion,  and  would  himself 
elucidate  and  strengthen  it  by  instances  and 
reasons  of  his  own.  All  who  did  not  know 
him  fancied  that  he  thought  as  they  did  ;  for 
he  was  possessed  of  a  preponderating  intellect, 
and  could  transport  himself  into  the  mental 
state  of  any  man  and  imitate  his  manner  of 
conceiving."*  Beloved  brethren,  who  wish  to 
be  strong!  Had  not  the  man,  who  could  take 
this  smooth  method  of  it,  more  strength  in  him 
than  any  teeth-grinding,  glass-eyed  "  lone  Ca- 
loyer"  you  have  yet  fallen  in  with  1     Consider 


♦  Wilhelm  JHeister,  book  vi. 


GOETHE'S  WORKS. 


your  ways;  consider  first,  Whether  you  cannot 
do  with  being  weak!  If  the  answer  still  prove 
negative,  consider,  secondly,  what  strength  ac- 
tually is,  and  where  you  are  to  try  for  it.  A 
certain  strong  man,  of  former  lime,  fought 
stoutly  at  Lepanto;  worked  stoutly  as  Algerine 
slave;  stoutly  delivered  himself  from  such 
working,  with  stout  cheerfulness  endured 
famine  and  nakedness  and  the  world's  ingra- 
titude ;  and  sitting  in  jail,  with  the  one  arm 
left  him,  wrote  our  joyfullest,  and  all  but  our 
deepest,  modern  book,  and  named  it  Don  Quix- 
ote: this  was  a  genuine  strongman.  A  strong 
man,  of  recent  time,  fights  little  for  any  good 
cause  anywhere ;  works  weakly  as  an  English 
lord ;  weakly  delivers  himself  from  such  work- 
ing; with  weak  despondency  endures  the  cack- 
ling of  plucked  geese  at  St.  James's,  and,  sitting 
in  sunny  Italy,  in  his  coach-and-four,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  two  thousand  miles  from  them,  writes, 
over  many  reams  of  paper,  the  following  sen- 
tence, with  variations :  Saw  ever  the  ivorld  one 
greater  or  unhappier?  this  was  a  sham  strong 
man.    Choose  ye. —  , 

Of  Goethe's  spiritual  Endowment,  looked  at 
on  the  Intellectual  side,  we  have,  (as  indeed 
lies  in  the  nature  of  things,  for  moral  and  in- 
tellectual are  fundamentally  one  and  the  same,) 
to  pronounce  a  similar  opinion ;  that  it  is  great 
among  the  verj-  greatest.  As  the  first  gift  of 
all,  may  be  discerned  here,  utmost  Clearness, 
all-piercing  faculty  of  Vision ;  whereto,  as  we 
ever  find  it,  all  other  gifts  are  superadded; 
nay,  properly  they  are  but  other  forms  of  the 
same  gift.  A  nobler  power  of  insight  than  this 
of  Goethe,  you  in  vain  look  for,  since  Shaks- 
peare  passed  away.  In  fact,  there  is  much 
every  way,  here  in  particular,  that  these  two 
minds  have  in  common.  Shakspeare  too 
does  not  look  at  a  thing,  but  into  it,  through  it ; 
so  that  he  constructively  comprehends  it,  can 
take  it  asunder,  and  put  it  together  again  ;  the 
thing  melts,  as  it  were, into  light  under  his  eye, 
and  anew  creates  itself  before  him.  That  is  to 
say,  he  is  a  Thinker  in  the  highest  of  all  senses : 
he  is  a  Poet.  For  Goethie,  as  for  Shakspeare, 
the  world  lies  all  translucent,  all  fusible,  (we 
might  call  it,)  encircled  with  Woxder  ;  the 
Natural  in  reality  the  Supernatural,  for  to  the 
seer's  eyes  both  become  one.  What  are  the 
Hamlets  and  Tempests,  the  Fausts  and  Mignons, 
but  glimpses  accorded  us  into  this  translucent, 
wonder-encircled  world:  revelations  of  the 
mystery  of  all  mysteries,  Man's  Life  as  it 
actually  is? 

Under  other  secondary  aspects,  the  poetical 
faculty  of  the  two  will  still  be  found  cognate. 
Goethe  is  full  of  Jigurativcness ;  this  grand 
light-giving  Intellect,  as  all  such  are,  is  an 
imaginative  one, — and  in  a  quite  other  sense 
than  most  of  our  unhappy  Imaginatives  will 
imagine.  Gall  the  Craniologist  declared  him 
to  be  a  born  Volksredner,  (popular  orator,)  both 
by  the  figure  of  his  brow,  and  what  was  still 
more  decisive,  because  "he  could  not  speak 
but  a  figure  came."  Gall  saw  what  was  high 
as  his  own  nose  reached, 

"  High  as  the  nose  doth  reach,  all  clear ! 
What  higher  lies,  they  ask  :  Is  it  here  1" 

A  far  different  figurativeness  was  this  of 
Goethe  than  pcJpular  oratory  has  work  for.    In 


figures  of  th«  popular  oratory  Trind,  Goethe, 
throughout  his  Writings  at  least,  is  nowise  the 
most  copious  man  known  to  us,  though  on  a 
stricter  scrutiny  we  may  find  him  the  richest. 
Of  your  ready-made,  coloured-paper  meta- 
phors, such  as  can  be  sewed  or  plastered  on 
the  surface,  by  way  of  giving  an  ornamental 
finish  to  the 'rag-web  already  woven,  we  speak 
not ;  there  is  not  one  such  to  be  discovered  in 
all  his  Works.  But  even  in  the  use  of  genuine 
metaphors,  that  are  not  haberdashery  orna- 
ment, but  the  genuine  new  vesture  of  new 
thoughts,  he  yields  to  lower  men,  (for  example, 
to  Jean  Paul ;)  that  is  to  say,  in  -fact,  he  is 
more  master  of  the  common  language,  and  can 
oftener  make  it  serve  him.  Goethe's  figura- 
tiveness lies  in  the  very  centre  of  his  being ; 
manifests  itself  as  the  constructing  of  the  in- 
ward elements  of  a  thought,  as  the  vital  im- 
bodyment  of  it:  such  figures  as  those  of 
Goethe  you  will  look  for  through  all  modern 
literature,  and  except  here  and  there  in  Shaks- 
peare, nowhere  find  a  trace  of.  Again,  it  is  the 
same  faculty  in  higher  exercise,  that  enables 
the  poet  to  construct  a  Character.  Here  too 
Shakspeare  and  Goethe,  unlike  innumerable 
others,  are  vital;  their  construction  begins  at 
the  heart  and  flows  outward  as  the  life-streams 
do :  fashioning  the  surface,  as  it  were,  sponta- 
neously. Those  Macbeths  and  Falstaffs,  ac- 
cordingly, these  Fausts  and  Philinas,  have  a 
verisimilitude  and  life  that  separates  them 
from  all  other  fictions  of  late  ages.  All  others, 
in  comparison,  have  more  or  less  the  nature 
of  hollow  vizards,  constructed  from  without 
inwards,  painted  like,  and  deceptively  put  in 
motion.  Many  years  ago  on  finishing  our 
first  perusal  of  Wilhelm  Meisler,  with  a  very 
mixed  sentiment  in  other  respects,  we  could 
not  but  feel  that  here  lay  more  insight  into  the 
elements  of  human  nature,  and  a  more  poeti- 
cally perfect  combining  of  these  than  in  all  the 
other  fictitious  literature  of  our  generation. 

Neither,  as  an  additional  similarity,  (for  the 
great  is  ever  like  itself,)  let  the  majestic  Calm- 
ness of  both  be  omitted  ;  their  perfect  tolerance 
for  all  men  and  all  things.  This  too  proceeds 
from  the  same  source,  perfect  clearness  of 
vision  :  he  who  comprehends  an  object  cannot 
hate  it,  has  already  begun  to  love  it.  In  re- 
spect of  style,  no  less  than  of  character,  this 
calmness  and  graceful  smooth-flowing  softness 
is  again  characteristic  of  both:  though  in 
Goethe  the  quality  is  more  complete,  having 
been  matured  by  far  more  assiduous  study. 
Goethe's  style  is  perhaps  to  be  reckoned  the 
most  excellent  that  our  modern  world,  in  any 
language,  can  exhibit.  "  Even  to  a  foreigner," 
says  one, "  it  is  full  of  character  and  secondary 
meanings ;  polished,  yet  vernacular  and  cor- 
dial, it  sounds  like  the  dialect  of  wise,  antique- 
minded,  true-hearted  men :  in  poetry,  brief, 
sharp,  simple,  and  expressive :  in  prose,  per- 
haps, still  more  pleasing;  for  it  is  at  once  concise 
and  full,  rich,  clear,  unpretending,  and  melo- 
dious ;  and  the  sense,  not  presented  in  alterna- 
ting flashes,  piece  after  piece  revealed  and 
withdrawn,  rises  before  us  as  in  continuous 
dawning,  and  stands  at  last  simultaneously 
complete,  and  bathed  in  the  mellowest  and 
ruddiest  sunshine.    It  brings  to  mind  what  the 


364 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


prose  of  Hooker,  Bacon,  Milton,  Browne,  would 
have  been,  had  they  written  under  the  good, 
without  the  bad  influences  of  that  French  pre- 
cision, which  has  polished  and  attenuated, 
trimmed  and  impoverished  all  modern  lan- 
guages ;  made  our  meaning  clear,  and  too 
often  shallow  as  well  as  clear."  * 

Finally,  as  Shakspeare  is  to  be  considered 
as  the  greater  nature  of  the  two,  on  the  other 
hand  we  must  admit  him  to  have  been  the  less 
cultivated,  and  much  the  more  careless.  What 
Shakspeare  could  have  done  we  nowhere  dis- 
cover. A  careless  mortal, open  to  the  Universe 
and  its  influences,  not  caring  strenuously  to 
open  himself;  who,  Prometheus-like,  will  scale 
Heaven,  (if  it  so  must  be,)  and  is  satisfied  if 
he  therewith  pay  the  rent  of  his  London  Play- 
house ;  who,  had  the  Warwickshire  Justice  let 
him  hunt  deer  unmolested,  might,  for  many 
years  more,  have  lived  quiet  on  the  green  earth 
without  such  aerial  journeys  :  an  unparalleled 
mortal.  In  the  great  Goethe,  again,  we  see  a 
man  through  life  at  his  utmost  strain ;  a  man 
that,  as  he  says  himself,  "  struggled  toughly ;" 
laid  hold  of  all  things,  under  all  aspects,  scien- 
tific or  poetic  :  engaged  passionately  with  the 
deepest  interests  of  man's  existence,  in  the 
most  complex  age  of  man's  history.  What 
Shakspeare's  thoughts  on  "  God,  Nature,  Art," 
would  have  been,  especially  had  he  lived  to 
number  fourscore  years,  were  curious  to  know : 
Goethe's,  delivered  in  many-toned  melody,  as 
the  apocalypse  of  our  era,  are  here,  for  us 
to  know. 

Such  was  the  noble  talent  intrusted  to  this 
man ;  such  the  noble  employment  he  made 
thereof.  We  can  call  him,  once  more,  "  a 
clear  and  universal  man ;"  we  can  say  that,  in 
his  universality,  as  thinker,  as  singer,  as 
worker,  he  lived  a  life  of  antique  nobleness 
under  these  new  conditions ;  and,  in  so  living, 
is  alone  in  all  Europe;  the  foremost,  whom 
others  are  to  learn  from  and  follow.  In  which 
great  act,  or  rather  great  sum  total  of  many 
acts,  who  shall  compute  what  treasure  of  new 
strengthening,  of  faith  become  hope  and  vision, 
lies  secured  for  all !  The  question.  Can  man 
still  live  in  devoutness,  yet  without  blindness 
or  contraction ;  in  unconquerable  steadfast- 
ness for  the  right,  yet  without  tumultuous  ex- 
asperation against  the  wrong ;  as  an  antique 
worthy,  yet  with  the  expansion  and  increased 
endowment  of  a  modern  1  is  no  longer  a  ques- 
tion, but  has  become  a  certainty,  and  ocularly- 
visible  fact. 

We  have  looked  at  Goethe,  as  we  engaged 
to  do,  "on  this  side,"  and  with  the  eyes  of 
**  this  generation ;"  that  is  to  say,  chiefly  as  a 
world-changer,  and  benignant  spiritual  revolu- 
tionist: for  in  our  present  so  astonishing  con- 
dition of  "progress  of  the  species,"  such  is  the 
category  under  which  we  must  try  all  things, 
wisdom  itself.  And,  indeed,  under  this  aspect 
too,  Goethe's  Life  and  Works  are  doubtless  of 
incalculable  value,  and  worthy  our  most  earn- 
est study ;  for  his  Spiritual  History  is,  as  it 
were,  the  ideal  emblem  of  all  true  men's  in 
these  days ;  the  goal  of  Manhood,  which  he 

*  Oerman  Romance,  iv. 


attained,  we  too  in  our  degree  have  to  aim  at; 
let  us  mark  well  the  road  he  fashioned  for 
himself,  and  in  the  dim  weltering  chaos  rejoice 
to  find  a  paved  way. 

Here,  moreover,  another  word  of  explana- 
tion is  perhaps  worth  adding.  We  mean  in 
regard  to  the  controversy  agitated  (as  about 
many  things  pertaining  to  Goethe)  about  his 
Political  Creed  and  practice,  whether  he  was 
Ministerial  or  in  Opposition  1  Let  the  politi- 
cal admirer  of  Goethe  be  at  ease :  Goethe  was 
both,  and  also  neither!  The  "rotten  white- 
washed (gebrechliche  ubertilnchte)  condition  of 
society"  was  plainer  to  few  eyes  than  to  his, 
sadder  to  few  hearts  than  to  his.  Listen  to  the 
Epigrammatist  at  Venice: 

"  To  this  stithy  I  liken  the  land,  the  hammer  its  ruler, 
And  the  people  that  plate,  beaten  between  them  that 

writhes: 
Wo  to  the  plate,  when  nothing  but  wilful  bruises  on 

bruises 
Hit  at  random ;  and  made,  cometh  no  Kettle  to  view  !" 

But,  alas,  what  is  to  be  donel 

"  No  Apostle-of-Liberty  much  to  my  heart  ever  found  I : 
License,  each  for  himself,  this  was  at  bottom  their  want. 
Liberator  of  many !  first  dare  to  be  Servant  of  many  : 
What  a  business  is  that,  wouldst  thou  know  it,  go  try !" 

Let  the  following  also  be  recommended  to  all 
inordinate  worshippers  of  Septennials,  Trien- 
nials, Elective  Franchise,  and  the  Shameful 
parts  of  the  Constitution ;  and  let  each  be  a  little 
tolerant  of  his  neighbour's  "  festoon,"  and  re- 
joice that  he  has  himself  found  out  Freedom, — 
a  thing  much  wanted: 

"  Walls  I  can  see  tumbled  down,  walls  I  see  also  a-build- 

ing; 
Here  sit  prisoners,  there  likewise  do  prisoners  sit : 
Is  the  world  then  Itself  a  huge  prison  ?    Free  only  the 

madman, 
His  chains  knitting  still  up  into  some  graceful  festoon  1" 

So  that  for  the  Poet  what  remains  but  to 
leave  Conservative  and  Destructive  pulling 
one  another's  locks  and  ears  off",  as  they  will 
and  can,  (the  ulterior  issue  being  long  since 
indubitable  enough;)  and,  for  his  own  part, 
strive  day  and  night  to  forward  the  small  suf- 
fering remnant  of  Productives,  of  those  who,  in 
true  manful  endeavour,  were  it  under  des- 
potism or  under  sansculottism,  create  some 
what, — with  whom,  alone,  in  the  end,  does  the 
hope  of  the  world  lie.  Go  thou  and  do  like- 
wise !  Art  thou  called  to  politics,  work  therein, 
as  this  man  would  have  done,  like  a  real  and 
not  an  imaginary  workman,  tlnderstand  well, 
meanwhile,  that  to  no  man  is  his  political  con- 
stitution "  a  life,  but  only  a  house  wherein  his 
life  is  led:"  and  hast  thou  a  nobler  task  than 
such  AoMSf-pargeting  and  smoke-doctoring,  and 
pulling  down  of  ancient  rotten  rat-inhabited 
walls,  leave  such  to  the  proper  craftsman ; 
honour  the  higher  Artist,  and  good-humouredly 
say  with  him : 

"  All  this  is  neither  my  coat  nor  my  cake, 
Why  fill  my  hand  with  other  men's  charges  1 

The  fishes  swim  at  ease  in  the  lake, 
And  take  no  thought  of  the  barges." 

Goethe's  political  practice,  or  rather  no-prac- 
tice, except  that  of  self-defence,  is  a  part  of  his 
conduct  quite  inseparably  coherent  with  the 


CORN-LAW  RHYMES. 


365 


rest ;  a  thing  we  could  recommend  to  univer- 
sal study,  that  the  spirit  of  it  might  be  under- 
stood by  all  men,  and  by  all  men  imitated. 

Nevertheless  it  is  nowise  alone  on  this  revo- 
lutionary or  "  progress-of-ihe-species"  side 
that  Goethe  has  significance;  his  Life  and 
Work  is  no  painted  show  but  a  solid  reality, 
and  may  be  looked  at  with  profit  on  all  sides, 
from  all  imaginable  points  of  view.  Perennial, 
as  a  possession  for  ever,  Goethe's  History  and 
Writings  abide  there;  a  thousand-voiced 
«  Melody  of  Wisdom,"  which  he  that  has  ears 
may  hear.  What  the  experience  of  the  most 
complexly-situated,  deep-searching,  every  way 
far-experienced  man  has  yielded  him  of  insight, 
lies  written  for  all  men  here.  He  who  was  of 
compass  to  know  and  feel  more  than  any  other 
man,  this  is  the  record  of  his  knowledge  and 
feeling.  "  The  deepest  heart,  the  highest  head 
to  scan"  was  not  beyond  his  faculty;  thus, 
then,  did  he  scan  and  interpret:  let  many 
generations  listen,  according  to  their  want;  let 
the  generation  which  has  no  need  of  listening, 
and  nothing  new  to  learn  there,  esteem  itself 
a  happy  one. 


To  us,  meanwhile,  to  all  that  wander  in 
darkness  and  seek  light,  as  the  one  thing  need- 
ful, be  this  possession  reckoned  among  our 
choicest  blessings  and  distinctions.  Coliie 
talem  virum ;  learn  of  him,  imitate,  emulate 
him  !  So  did  he  catch  the  Music  of  the  Uni- 
verse, and  unfold  it  into  clearness,  and  in 
authentic  celestial  tones  bring  it  home  to  the 
hearts  of  men,  from  amid  that  soul-confusing 
Babylonish  hubbub  of  this  our  new  Tower-of- 
Babel  era !  For  now,  too,  as  in  that  old  time, 
had  men  said  to  themselves;  Come,  let  us 
build  a  tower  which  shall  reach  to  heaven ; 
and  by  our  steam-engines,  and  logic-engines, 
and  skilful  mechanism  and  manipulation,  van- 
quish not  only  Physical  Nature,  but  the  divine 
Spirit  of  Nature,  and  scale  the  empyrean  itself. 
Wherefore  they  must  needs  again  be  stricken 
with  confusion  of  tongues  (or  of  printing- 
presses,)  and  dispersed, — to  other  work ;  where- 
in also  let  us  hope,  their  hammers  and  trowels 
shall  better  avail  them. — 

Of  Goethe,  with  a  feeling  such  as  can  be 
due  to  no  other  man,  we  now  take  farewell: 
vixit,  vivit. 


CORN-LAW  RHYMES.* 

[Edinburgh  Review,  1832.] 


Smelfuwgus  Rbdivivus,  throwing  down  his 
critical  assaying-balance,  some  years  ago,  and 
taking  leave  of  the  Belles-Lettres  function,  ex- 
pressed himself  in  this  abrupt  way :  "  The  end 
having  come,  it  is  fit  that  we  end.  Poetry 
having  ceased  to  be  read,  or  published,  or 
written,  how 'can  it  continue  to  be  reviewed? 
With  your  Lake  Schools,  and  Border-Thief 
Schools,  and  Cockney  and  Satanic  Schools, 
there  has  been  enough  to  do;  and  now,  all 
these  Schools  having  burnt  or  smouldered 
themselves  out,  and  left  nothing  but  a  wide- 
spread wreck  of  ashes,  dust,  and  cinders,— or 
perhaps  dying  embers,  kicked  to  and  fro  under 
the  feet  of  innumerable  women  and  children 
in  the  Magazines,  and  at  best  blown  here- and 
there  into  transient  sputters,  with  vapour 
enough,  so  as  to  form  what  you  might  name  a 
boundless  Green-sick,  or  New-Sentimental,  or 
Sleep-Awake  School, — what  remains  but  to 
adjust  ourselves  to  circumstances  1  Urge  me 
not,"  continues  the  able  Editor,  suddenly 
changing  his  figure,  "  with  considerations  that 
Poetry,  as  the  inward  voice  of  Life,  must  be 
perennial,  only  dead  in  one  form  to  become 
alive  in  another ;  that  this  still  abundant  deluge 
of  Metre,  seeing  there  must  needs  be  fractions 
of  Poetry  floating  scattered  in  it,  ought  still  to 
be   net-fished,  at   all  events,    surveyed   and 


♦  1.  Corn-Law  Rhymes.    Third  Edition.    8vo.    Lon- 
don, 1831. 

2.  l.ove;    a    Poem.    By  the    Author  of  Corn-Law 
Rhymes.    Third  Edition.    8vo.    London,  1831. 

3.  The  Village  Patriarch ;  a  Poem.    By  the  Author 
of  Corn-Law  Rhymes.    12mo.    London,  1831. 


taken  note  of:  the  survey  of  English  Metre,  at 
this  epoch,  perhaps  transcends  the  human 
faculties ;  to  hire  out  the  reading  of  it,  by  esti- 
mate, at  a  remunerative  rate  per  page,  would, 
in  few  Quarters,  reduce  the  cash-box  of  any 
extant  Review  to  the  verge  of  insolvency." 

What  our  distinguished  contemporary  has 
said  remains  said.  Far  be  it  from  us  to  cen- 
sure or  counsel  any  able  Editor ;  to  draw  aside 
the  Editorial  veil,  and,  officiously  prying  into 
his  interior  mysteries,  impugn  the  laws  he 
walks  by !  For  Editors,  as  for  others,  there 
are  times  of  perplexity,  wherein  the  cunning 
of  the  wisest  will  scantily  suffice  his  own 
wants,  say  nothing  of  his  neighbour's. 

To  us,  on  our  side,  meanwhile,  it  remains 
clear  that  Poetry,  or  were  it  but  Metre,  should 
nowise  be  altogether  neglected.  Surely  it  is 
the  Reviewer's  trade  to  sit  watching,  not  only 
the  tillage,  crop-rotation,  marketings,  and  good 
or  evil  husbandry  of  the  Economic  Earth,  but 
also  the  weather-symptoms  of  the  Literary 
Heaven,  on  which  those  former  so  much  de- 
pend: if  any  promising  or  threatening  me- 
teoric phenomenon  make  its  appearance,  and 
he  proclaim  not  tidings  thereof,  it  is  at  his 
peril.  Farther,  be  it  considered  how,  in  this 
singular  poetic  epoch,  a  small  matter  consti- 
tutes a  novelty.  If  the  whole  welkin  hang 
overcast  in  drizzly  dinginess,  the  feeblest  light- 
gleam,  or  speck  of  blue,  cannot  pass  un- 
heeded. 

The  Works  of  this  Corn-Law  Rhymer  we 
might  liken  rather  to  some  little  fraction  of  a 
rainbow :  hues  of  joy  and  harmon)'-,  painted 
»h3 


366 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


out  of  troublous  tears.  No  round  full  bow, 
indeed;  gloriously  spanning  the  heavens; 
shone  on  by  the  full  sun;  and,  with  seven- 
striped,  gold-crimson  border  (as  is  in  some 
sort  the  office  of  Poetry)  dividing  Black  from 
Brilliant:  not  such;  alas,  slill  far  from  it! 
Yet,  in  very  truth,  a  little  prismatic  blush, 
glowing  genuine  among  the  wet  clouds;  which 
proceeds,  if  you  will,  from  a  sun  cloud-hidden, 
yet  indicates  that  a  sun  does  shine,  and  above 
those  vapours,  a  whole  azure  vault  and  celes- 
tial firmament  stretch  serene. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  nevertheless 
true,  that  here  we  have  once  more  got  sight  of 
a  Book  calling  itself  Poetry,  yet  which  actually 
is  a  kind  of  Book,  and  no  empty  paste-board 
Case,  and  simulacrum  or  "  ghost-defunct"  of 
a  Book,  such  as  is  too  often  palmed  on  the 
world,  and  handed  over  Booksellers'  counters, 
with  a  demand  of  real  money  for  it,  as  if  it  too 
were  a  reality.  The  speaker  here  is  of  that 
singular  class,  who  have  something  to  say; 
whereby,  though  delivering  himself  in  verse, 
and  in  these  days,  he  does  not  deliver  himself 
wholly  in  jargon,  but  articulately,  and  with  a 
certain  degree  of  meaning,  that  has  been 
believed,  and  therefore  is  again  believable. 

To  some  the  wonder  and  interest  will  be 
"heightened  by  another  circumstance:  that  the 
speaker  in  question  is  not  school-learned,  or 
even  furnished  with  pecuniary  capital;  is, 
indeed,  a  quite  unmoneyed,  russet-coated 
speaker ;  nothing  or  little  other  than  a  Shef- 
field worker  in  brass  and  iron,  who  describes 
himself  as  "one  of  the  lower,  little  removed 
above  the  lowest  class."  Be  of  what  class  he 
may,  the  man  is  provided,  as  we  can  perceive, 
with  a  rational  god-created  soul;  which  too 
has  fashioned  itself  into  some  clearness,  some 
self-subsistence,  and  can  actually  see  and 
know  with  its  own  organs;  and  in  rugged  sub- 
stantial English,  nay,  with  tones  of  poetic 
melody,  utter  forth  what  it  has  seen. 

It  used  to  be  said  that  lions  do  not  paint,  that 
poor  men  do  not  write ;  but  the  case  is  alter- 
ing now.  Here  is  a  voice  coming  from  the 
deep  Cyclopean  forges,  where  Labour,  in  real 
soot  and  sweat,  beats  with  his  thousand  ham- 
mers "the  red  son  of  the  furnace;"  doing  per- 
sonal battle  with  Necessity,  and  her  dark  brute 
Powers,  to  make  them  reasonable  and  service- 
able; an  intelligible  voice  from  the  hitherto 
Mute  and  Irrational,  to  tell  us  at  first  hand 
how  it  is  with  him,  what  in  very  deed  is  the 
theorem  of  the  world  and  of  himself,  which  he, 
in  those  dim  depths  of  his,  in  that  wearied 
head  of  his,  has  put  together.  To  which  voice, 
in  several  respects  significant  enough,  let  good 
ear  be  given. 

Here  too,  be  it  premised,  that  nowise  under 
the  category  of"  Uneducated  Poets,"  or  in  any 
fashion  of  dilettante  patronage,  can  our  Shef- 
field friend  be  produced.  His  position  is  un- 
suitable for  that:  so  is  ours.  Genius,  which 
the  French  lady  declared  to  be  of  no  sex,  is 
much  more  certainly  of  no  rank;  neither 
when  "the  spark  of  Nature's  fire"  has  been 
imparted,  should  Education  take  high  airs  in 
her  artificial  light, — which  is  too  often  but 
phosphorescence  and  putrescence..  In  fact,  it 
now  begins  to  be  suspected  here  and  there, 


that  this  same  aristocratic  recognition,  which 
looks  down  with  an  obliging  smile  from  its 
throne,  of  bound  Volumes  and  gold  Ingots, 
and  admits  that  it  is  wonderfully  well  for  one 
of  the  uneducated  classes,  may  be  getting  out 
of  place.  There  are  unhappy  times  in  the 
world's  history,  when  he  that  is  the  least  edu- 
cated will  chiefly  have  to  say  that  he  is  the 
least  perverted;  and  with  the  multitude  of 
false  eye-glasses,  convex,  concave,  green,  even 
yellow,  has  not  lost  the  natural  use  of  his 
eyes.  For  a  generation  that  reads  Cobbett's 
Prose,  and  Burns's  Poetry,  it  need  be  no  mir- 
acle that  here  also  is  a  man  who  can  handle 
both  pen  and  hammer  like  a  man. 

Nevertheless,  this  serene-highness  attitude 
and  temper  is  so  frequent,  perhaps  it  were 
good  to  turn  the  tables  for  a  moment,  and  see 
what  look  it  has  under  that  reverse  aspect. 
How  were  it  if  we  surmised,  that  for  a  man 
gifted  with  natural  vigour,  with  a  man's  cha- 
racter to  be  developed  in  him,  more  especially 
if  in  the  way  of  Literature,  as  Thinlcer  and 
Writer,  it  is  actually,  in  these  strange  days,  no 
special  misfortune  to  be  trained  up  among  the 
Uneducated  classes,  and  not  among  the  Edu- 
cated; but  rather  of  two  misfortunes  the 
smaller? 

For  all  men  doubtless  obstructions  abound  ; 
spiritual  growth  must  be  hampered  and  stunt- 
ed, and  has  to  struggle  through  with  diffi- 
culty, if  it  do  not  wholly  stop.  We  may  grant 
too  that,  for  a  mediocre  character,  the  con- 
tinual  training  and  tutoring,  from  language- 
masters,  dancing-masters,  posture-masters  of 
all  sorts,  hired  and  volunteer,  which  a  high 
rank  in  any  time  and  country  assures,  there 
will  be  produced  a  certain  superiority,  or  at 
worst,  air  of  superiority,  over  the  correspond- 
ing mediocre  character  of  low  rank :  thus  we 
perceive  the  vulgar  Do-nothing,  as  contrasted 
with  the  vulgar  Drudge,  is  in  general  a  much 
prettier  man ;  with  a  wider,  perhaps  clearer, 
outlook  into  the  distance ;  in  innumerable  su- 
perficial matters,  however  it  may  be  when  we 
we  go  deeper,  he  has  a  manifest  advantage. 
But  with  the  man  of  uncommon  character, 
again,  in  whom  a  germ  of  irrepressible  Force 
has  been  implanted,  and  will  unfold  itself  into 
some  sort  of  freedom, — altogether  the  reverse 
may  hold.  For  such  germs,  too,  there  is  un- 
doubtedly enough,  a  proper  soil  where  they 
will  grow  best,  and  an  improper  one  where 
they  will  grow  worst.  True  also,  where  there 
is  a  will,  there  is  a  way;  where  a  genius  has 
been  given,  a  possibility,  a  certainty  of  its 
growing  is  also  given.  Yet  often  it  seems  as 
if  the  injudicious  gardening  and  manuring 
were  worse  than  none  at  all ;  and  killed  what 
the  inclemencies  of  blind  chance  would  have 
spared.  We  find  accordingly  that  few  Fred- 
erics or  Napoleons,  indeed  none  since  the 
great  Alexander,  who  unfortunately  drank 
himself  to  death  too  soon  for  proving  what 
lay  in  him,  were  nursed  up  Atath  an  eye  to 
their  vocation :  mostly  with  an  eye  quite  the 
other  way,  in  the  midst  of  isolation  and  pain, 
destitution  and  contradiction.  Nay,  in  our 
own  times,  have  we  not  seen  two  men  of  ge- 
nius, a  Byron  and  a  Burns ;  they  both,  by 
mandate  of  Nature,  struggle  and  must  strug- 


CORN-LAW  RHYMES. 


3fl7 


gle  towards  clear  Manhoo(J,  storm  fully  enough, 
for  the  space  of  six-and-lhirty  years  ;  yet  only 
the  gifted  Ploughman  can  partially  prevail 
therein  :  the  gifted  Peer  must  toil  and  strive, 
and  shoot  out  in  wild  efforts,  yet  die  at  last  in 
Boyhood,  with  the  promise  of  his  Manhood 
still  but  announcing  itself  in  the  distance. 
Truly,  as  was  once  written,  "  it  is  only  the  ar- 
tichoke that  will  not  grow  except  in  gardens; 
the  acorn  is  cast  carelessly  abroad  into  the 
wilderness,  yet  on  the  wild  soil  it  nourishes  it- 
self, and  rises  to  be  an  oak."  All  woodmen, 
moreover,  will  tell  you  that  fat  manure  is  the 
ruin  of  your  oak ;  likewise  that  the  thinner 
and  wilder  your  soil,  the  tougher,  more  iron- 
textured  is  your  timber, — though,  unhappily, 
also,  the  smaller.  So  too  with  the  spirits  of 
men  :  they  become  pure  from  their  errors,  by 
suffering  for  them ;  be  who  has  battled,  were 
it  only  with  poverty  and  hard  toil,  will  be 
found  stronger,  more  expert,  than  he  who 
could  stay  at  home  from  the  battle,  concealed 
among  the  Provision-wagons,  or  even  not  un- 
watchfully  "  abiding  by  the  stuff,"  In  which 
sense,  an  observer,  not  without  experience  of 
our  time,  has  said :  "  Had  I  a  man  of  clearly 
developed  character,  (clear,  sincere  within  its 
limits,)  of  insight,  courage,  and  real  appli- 
cable force  of  head  and  of  heart,  to  search 
for;  and  not  a  man  of  luxuriously  distorted 
character,  with  haughtiness  for  courage,  and 
for  insight  and  applicable  force,  speculation 
and  plausible  show  of  force, — it  were  rather 
among  the  lower  than  the  higher  classes  that 
I  should  look  for  him." 

A  hard  saying,  indeed,  seems  this  same : 
that  he  whose  other  wants  were  all  beforehand 
supplied ;  to  whose  capabilities  no  problem 
was  presented  except  even  this,  How  to  culti- 
vate them  to  best  advantage,  should  attain  less 
real  culture  than  he  whose  first  grand  prob- 
lem and  obligation  was  nowise  spiritual  cul- 
ture, but  hard  labour  for  his  daily  bread! 
Sad  enough  must  the  perversion  be  where  pre- 
parations of  such  magnitude  issue  in  abor- 
tion ;  and  a  so  sumptuous  Art  with  all  its 
appliances  can  accomplish  nothing,  not  so 
much  as  necessitous  Nature  would  of  herself 
have  supplied  !  Nevertheless,  so  pregnant  is 
Life  with  evil  as  with  good  ;  to  such  height  in 
an  age  rich,  plethorically  overgrown  with 
means,  can  means  be  accumulated  in  the 
wrong  place,  and  immeasurably  aggravate 
wrong  tendencies,  instead  of  righting  them, 
this  sad  and  strange  result  may  actually  turn 
out  to  have  been  realized. 

But  what,  after  all,  is  meant  by  tmeducated, 
in  a  lime  when  Books  have  come  into  the 
world;  come  to  the  household  furniture  in 
every  habitation  of  the  civilized  world  1  In 
the  poorest  cottage  are  Books :  is  one  Book, 
wherein  for  several  thousands  of  years  the 
spirit  of  man  has  found  light,  and  nourish- 
ment, and  an  interpreting  response  to  what- 
ever is  Deepest  in  him ;  wherein  still,  to  this 
day,  for  the  eye  that  will  look  well,  the  Mys- 
tery of  Existence  reflects  itself,  if  not  resolved, 
yet  revealed,  and  prophetically  emblemed  ;  if 
not  to  the  satisfying  of  the  outward  sense,  yet 
to  the  opening  of  the  inward  sense,  which  is 
the  far  grander  result.    "In  Books  lie  the  cre- 


ative Phoenix-ashes  of  the  whole  Past."  All 
that  men  have  devised,  discovered,  done,  felt, 
or  imagined,  lies  recorded  in  Books  ;  wherein 
whoso  has  learned  the  mystery  of  spelling 
printed  letters,  may  find  it,  and  appropriate  it. 

Nay,  what  indeed  is  all  this  1  As  if  it  were 
by  universities  and  libraries  and  lecture-rooms, 
that  man's  Education,  what  we  can  call  Edu- 
cation, were  accomplished  :  solely,  or  mainly, 
by  instilling  the  dead  letter  and- record  of  other 
men's  Force,  that  the  living  Force  of  a  new 
man  were  to  be  awakened,  enkindled,  and  pu- 
rified into  victorious  clearness  I  Foolish  Pe- 
dant, that  sittest  there  compassionately  des- 
canting on  the  Learning  of  Shakspeare! 
Shakspeare  had  penetrated  into  innumerable 
things;  far  into  Nature  with  her  divine  Splen- 
dours and  infernal  Terrors,  her  Ariel  Melodies, 
and  m)'stic  mandragora  Moans ;  far  into  man*^* 
workings  with  Nature,  into  man's  Art  and 
Artifice ;  Shakspeare  knew  (kenned,  which  in 
those  days  still  partially  meant  can-ned)  innu- 
meraWe  things;  what  men  are,  and  what  the 
world  is,  and  how  and  what  men  aim  at  therej 
from  the  Dame  Quickly  of  modern  Eastcheap 
to  the-  Csesar  of  ancient  Rome,  over  many 
countries,  over  many  centuries :  of  all  this 
he  had'  the  clearest  understanding  and  con- 
structive comprehension ;  all  this  was  his 
Learning  and  Insight:  what  now  is  thine? 
Insight  into  none  of  those  things;  perhaps, 
strictly  considered,  into  no  thing  whateverr 
solely  into  thy  own  sheepskin  diplomas,  fat 
academic  honours,  into  vocabPes  and  alpha- 
betic letters,  and  but  a  little  way  into  these  !^ — 
The  grand  result  of  schooling  is  a  mind  wit& 
just  vision  to  discern,  with  free  force  to  do-r 
the  grand  schoolmaster  is  Practice. 

And  now,  when  kenning  and  can-ning  have 
become  two  altogether  different  words ;  and 
this,  the  first  principle  of  human  culture,  the 
foundation-stone  of  all  but  false  imaginary  cul- 
ture, that  men  must,  before  every  other  thing, 
be  trained  to  do  somewhat,  has  been,  for  some 
generations,  laid  quietly  on  the  shelf,  with 
such  result  as  we  see, — consider  what  advan- 
tage those  same  uneducated  Working  classes 
have  over  the  educated  Unworking  classes,  in 
one  particular;  herein,  namely,  that  they  must 
work.  To  work  f  What  incalculable  sources 
of  cultivation  lie  in  that  process,  in  that  at- 
tempt;  how  it  lays  hold  of  the  whole  man, 
not  of  a  small  theoretical  calculating  fraction 
of  him,  but  of  the  whole  practical,  doing  and 
daring  and  enduring  man;  thereby  to  awaken 
dormant  faculties,  root  out  old  errors,  at  every 
step !  He  that  has  done  nothing  has  known 
nothing.  Vain  is  it  to  sit  scheming  and  plau- 
sibly discoursing  :  up  and  be  doing !  If  thy 
knowledge  be  real,  put  it  forth  from  thee  : 
grapple  with  real  Nature;  try  thy  theories 
there,  and  see  how  they  hold  out.  Do  one  thing, 
for  the  first  time  in  thy  life  do  a  thing:  a  new 
light  will  rise  to  thee  on  the  doing  of  all  things 
whatsoever.  Truly,  a  boundless  significance 
lies  in  work :  whereby  the  humblest  craftsman 
comes  to  attain  much,  which  is  of  indispen- 
sable use,  but  which  he  who  is  of  no  craft, 
were  he  never  so  high,  runs  the  risk  of  miss- 
ing. Once  turn  to  Practice,  Error  and  Truth 
will  no  longer  consort  together :  the  result  of 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Error  involves  you  in  the  square-root  of  a  ne- 
gative quantity ;  try  to  extract  it,  or  any  earthly 
substance  or  sustenance  from  it,  if  you  will ! 
The  honourable  Member  can  discover  that 
"there  is  a  reaction,"  and  believe  it,  and  weari- 
somely reason  on  it,  in  spite  of  all  men,  while  he 
so  pleases,  for  still  his  wine  and  his  oil  will  not 
fail  him  :  but  the  sooty  Brazier,  who  discovered 
that  brass  was  green-cheese,  has  to  act  on  his 
discovery;  finds,  therefore,  that,  singular  as  it 
may  seem,  brass  cannot  be  masticated  for  din- 
ner, green-cheese  will  not  beat  into  fireproof 
dishes  :  that  such  discovery,  therefore,  has  no 
legs  to  stand  on,  and  must  even  be  let  fall.  Now, 
take  this  principle  of  difference  through  the 
entire  lives  of  two  men,  and  calculate  what  it 
will  amount  to  !  Necessity,  moreover,  which 
we  here  see  as  the  mother  of  Accuracy,  is  well 
known  as  the  mother  of  Invention.  He  who 
wants  every  thing,  must  know  many  things, 
do  many  things,  to  procure  even  a  few :  dif- 
ferent enough  with  him,  whose  indispensable 
knowledge  is  this  only,  that  a  finger  will  pull 
the  bell. 

So  that,  for  all  men  who  live,  we  may  con- 
clude, this  Life  of  Man  is  a  school,  wherein 
the  naturally  foolish  will  continue  foolish 
though  you  bray  him  in  a  mortar,  but  the  natu- 
rally wise  will  gather  wisdom  under  every  dis- 
advantage. What,  meanwhile,  must  be  the 
condition  of  an  Era,  when  the  highest  advan- 
tages there  become  perverted  into  drawbacks ; 
when,  if  you  take  two  men  of  genius,  and  put 
the  one  between  the  handles  of  a  plough,  and 
mount  the  other  between  the  painted  coronets 
of  a  coach-and-four,  and  bid  them  both  move 
along,  the  former  shall  arrive  a  Burns,  the 
latter  a  Byron :  two  men  of  talent,  and  put  the 
one  into  a  Printer's  chapel,  full  of  lampblack, 
tyrannous  usage,  hard  toil,  and  the  other  into 
Oxford  universities,  with  lexicons  and  libraries, 
and  hired  expositors  and  sumptuous  endow- 
ments, the  former  shall  come  out  a  Dr.  Frank- 
lin, the  latter  a  Dr.  Parr ! — 

However,  we  are  not  here  to  write  an  Essay 
on  Education,  or  sing  misereres  over  a  "  world 
in  its  dotage ;"  but  simply  to  say  that  our  Corn- 
Law  Rhymer,  educated  or  uneducated  as  Na- 
ture and  Art  have  made  him,  asks  not  the 
smallest  patronage  or  compassion  for  his 
rhymes,  professes  not  the  smallest  contrition 
for  them.  Nowise  in  such  attitude  does  he 
present  himself;  not  supplicatory,  deprecatory, 
but  sturdy,  defiapt,  almost  menacing.  Where- 
fore, indeed,  should  he  supplicate  or  deprecate  1 
It  is  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  that  he 
has  spoken ;  praise  or  blame  cannot  make  it 
truer  or  falser  than  it  already  is.  By  the  grace 
of  God  this  man  is  sufiicient  for  himself ;  by 
his  skill  in  metallurgy,  can  beat  out  a  toilsome 
but  a  manful  living,  go  how  it  may;  has 
arrived  too  at  that  singular  audacity  of  believ- 
ing what  he  knows,  and  acting  on  it,  or  writing 
on  it,  or  thinking  on  it,  without  leave  asked  of 
any  one :  there  shall  he  stand,  and  work,  with 
head  and  with  hand,  for  himself  and  the  world; 
blown  about  by  no  wind  of  doctrine ;  frightened 
at  no  Reviewer's  shadow;  having,  in  his  time, 
looked  substances  enough  in  the  face,  and  re- 
mained unfrightened. 

What  is  left,  therefore,  but  to  take  what  he 


brings,  and  as  he  brings  iti  Let  us  be  thank- 
ful, were  it  only  for  the  day  of  small  things. 
Something  it  is  that  we  have  lived  to  welcome 
once  more  a  sweet  Singer  wearing  the  likeness 
of  a  Man.  In  humble  guise,  it  is  true,  and  of 
stature  more  or  less  marred  in  its  develop- 
ment; yet  not  without  a  genial  robustness, 
strength  and  valour,  built  on  honesty  and  love; 
on  the  whole,  a  genuine  man,  with  somewhat 
of  the  eye  and  speech  and  bearing  that  be- 
seems a  man.  To  whom  all  other  genuine 
men,  how  different  soever  in  subordinate  par- 
ticulars, can  gladly  hold  out  the  right  hand  of 
fellowship. 

The  great  excellence  of  our  Rhymer,  be  it 
understood  then,  we  take  to  consist  even  in 
this,  often  hinted  at  already,  that  he  is  genuine. 
Here  is  an  earnest,  truth-speaking  man ;  no 
theorizer,  sentimentalizer,  but  a  practical  man 
of  work  and  endeavour,  man  of  sufferance  and 
endurance.  The  thing  that  he  speaks  is  not  a 
hearsay,  but  a  thing  which  he  has  himself 
known,  and  by  experience  become  assured  of. 
He  has  used  his  eyes  for  seeing;  uses  his 
tongue  for  declaring  what  he  has  seen.  His 
voice,  therefore,  among  the  many  noises  of  our 
Planet,  will  deserve  its  place  better  than  the 
most;  will  be  well  worth  some  attention. 
Whom  else  should  we  attend  to  but  such? 
The  man  who  speaks  with  some  half  shadow 
of  a  Belief,  and  supposes,  and  inclines  to 
think  ;  and  considers  not  with  undivided  soul, 
what  is  true,  but  only  what  is  plausible,  and 
will  find  audience  and  recompense ;  do  we  not 
meet  him  at  every  street-turning,  on  all  high- 
ways and  byways;  is  he  not  stale,  unprofit- 
able, ineffectual,  wholly  grown  a  weariness  of 
the  flesh  ]  So  rare  is  his  opposite  in  any  rank 
of  Literature,  or  of  Life,  so  very  rare,  that 
even  in  the  lowest  he  is  precious.  The  au- 
thentic insight  and  experience  of  any  human 
soul,  were  it  but  insight  and  experience  in 
hewing  of  wood  and  drawing  of  water,  is  real 
knowledge,  a  real  possession  and  acquirement, 
how  small  soever:  palabra,  again,  were  it  a 
supreme  pontiff's,  is  wind  merely,  and  nothing, 
or  less  than  nothing.  To  a  considerable  de- 
gree, this  man,  we  say,  has  worked  himself 
loose  from  cant,  and  conjectural  halfness,  idle 
pretences  and  hallucinations,  into  a  condition 
of  Sincerity.  Wherein,  perhaps,  as  above 
argued,  his  hard  social  environment,  and  for- 
tune to  be  "  a  workman  born,"  which  brought 
so  many  other  retardations  with  it,  may  have 
forwarded  and  accelerated  him. 

That  a  man.  Workman,  or  Idleman,  encom- 
passed, as  in  these  days,  with  persons  in  a 
state  of  willing  or  unwilling  Insincerity,  and 
necessitated,  as  man  is  to  learn  whatever  he 
does  traditionally  learn  by  imitating  these, 
should  nevertheless  shake  off  Insincerity,  and 
struggle  out  from  that  dim  pestiferous  marsh- 
atmosphere,  into  a  clearer  and  purer  height, — 
betokens  in  him  a  certain  originality;  in  which 
rare  gift  Force  of  all  kinds  is  presupposed.  To 
our  Rhymer,  accordingly,  as  hinted  more  than 
once,  vision  and  determination  have  not  been 
denied :  a  rugged,  homegrown  understanding 
is  in  him  ;  whereby,  in  his  own  way,  he  has 
mastered  this  and  that,  and  looked  into  various 
things,  in   general  honesty  and  to  purpose, 


CORN-LAW  RHYMES. 


sometimes  deeply,  piercingly,  aiid  with  a 
Seer's  eye.  Strong  thoughts  are  not  wanting, 
beautiful  thoughts ;  strong  and  beautiful  ex- 
pressions of  thought.  As  traceable  for  instance 
in  this  new  illustration  of  an  old  argument,  the 
mischief  of  Commercial  Restrictions : 

"  These,  O  ye  quacks,  these  are  your  remedies  ; 
Alms  for  the  Rich,  a  bread-tax  for  the  Poor : 
Soul-purchased  harvests  on  the  indigent  moor! 
Thus  the  winged  victor  of  a  hundred  fights, 
The  warrior  Ship,  bows  low  her  banner'd  head, 
When  through  her  planks  the  seaborn  reptile  bites 
Its  dieadly  way ;— and  sinks  in  ocean's  bed, 
Vanquish'd  by  worms.    What  then  1    The  worms  were 

fed.— 
Will  not  God  smite  thee  black,  thou  whited  wall  1 
Thy  law  is  lifeless,  and  thy  law  a  lie, 
Or  Nature  is  a  dream  unnatural : 
Look  on  the  clouds,  the  streams,  the  earth,  the  sky  ; 
Lo  all  is  interchange  and  harmony ! 
Where  is  the  gorgeous  pomp  which,  yester  morn, 
Curtained  yon  Orb,  with  amber,  fold  on  fold  1 
Behold  it  in  the  blue  of  Rivelin,  borne 
To  feed  the  all-feeding  sea !  the  molten  gold 
Is  flowing  pale  in  Loxley's  waters  cold. 
To  kindle  into  beauty  tree  and  flower, 
And  wake  to  verdant  life  hill,  vale,  and  plain. 
Cloud  trades  with  river,  and  exchange  is  power  : 
But  should  the  clouds,  the  streams,  the  winds  disdain 
Harmonious  intercourse,  nor  dew  nor  rain 
Would  forest-crown  the  mountains  :  airless  day 
Would  blast  on  Kinderscout  the  heathy  glow ; 
No  purply  green  would  meekeu  into  gray 
P'er  Don  at  eve ;  no  sound  of  river's  flow 
Disturb  the  Sepulchre  of  all  below." 

Nature  and  the  doings  of  men  have  not  passed 
by  this  man  unheeded,  like  the  endless  cloud- 
rack  in  dull  weather ;  or  lightly  heeded,  like 
a  theatric  phantasmagoria;  but  earnestly  in- 
quired into,  like  a  thing  of  reality;  reverently 
loved  and  worshipped,  as  a  thing  with  divine 
significance  in  its  reality,  glimpses  of  which 
divineness  he  has  caught  and  laid  to  heart. 
For  his  vision,  as  was  said,  partakes  of  the 
genuinely  Poetical :  he  is  not  a  Rhymer  and 
Speaker  only,  but,  in  some  genuine  sense, 
something  of  a  Poet. 

Farther  we  must  admit  him,  what  indeed  is 
already  herein  admitted,  to  be,  if  clear-sighted, 
also  brave-hearted.  A  troublous  element  is 
his;  a  Life  of  painfulness,  toil,  insecurity, 
scarcity,  yet  he  fronts  it  like  a  man ;  yields 
not  to  it,  tames  into  some  subjection,  some 
order;  its  wild  fearful  dinning  and  tumult,  as 
of  a  devouring  Chaos,  becomes  a  sort  of  wild 
war-music  for  him ;  wherein  too  are  passages 
of  beauty,  of  melodious  melting  softness,  of 
lightness  and  briskness,  even  of  joy.  The 
stout  heart  is  also  a  warm  and  kind  one ; 
Affection  dwells  with  Danger,  all  the  holier 
and  the  lovelier  for  such  stern  environment. 
A  working  man  is  this ;  yet,  as  we  said,  a 
man :  in  his  sort,  a  courageous,  much  loving, 
faithfully  enduring  and  endeavouring  man. 

What  such  a  one,  so  gifted  aiid  so  placed, 
shall  say  to  a  Time  like  ours ;  how  he  will 
fashion  himself  into  peace,  or  war,  or  armed 
neutrality,  with  the  world  and  his  fellow  men, 
attd  work  out  his  course  in  joy  and  grief,  in 
victory  and  defeat,  is  a  question  worth  asking: 
which  in  these  three  little  Volumes  partly  re- 
ceives answer.  He  has  turned,  as  all  thinkers 
up  to  a  very  high  and  rare  order  in  these  days 
47 


must  do,  into  Politics  ;  is  a  Reformer,  at  least 
a  stern  Complainer,  Radical  to  the  heart :  his 
poetic  melody  t'akes  an  elegiaco-tragical  cha- 
racter :  much  of  him  is  converted  into  Hostility, 
and  grim,  hardly-suppressed  Indignation,  such 
as  Right  long  denied,  Hope  long  deferred,  may 
awaken  in  the  kindliest  heart.  Not  yet  as  a 
rebel  against  anything  does  he  stand;  but  as  a 
free  man,  and  the  spokesman  of  free  men,^  not 
far  from  rebelling  against  much ;  with  sorrow- 
ful, appealing  dew,  yet  also  with  incipient 
lightning,  in  his  eyes  ;  whom  it  were  not  de- 
sirable to  provoke  into  rebellion.  He  says  in 
Vulcanic  dialect,  his  feelings  have  been  ham- 
mered till  they  are  cold-short;  so  they  will  no 
longer  bend;  "they  snap,  and  fly  off,"— in  the 
face  of  the  hammerer.  Not  unnatural,  though 
lamentable  !  Nevertheless,  under  all  disguises 
of  the  Radical,  the  Poet  is  still  recognisable : 
a  certain  music  breathes  through  all  disso- 
nances, as  the  prophecy  and  ground-tone  of 
returning  harmony ;  the  man,  as  we  said,  is  of 
a  poetical  nature. 

To  his  Political  Philosophy  there  is  perhaps 
no  great  importance  attachable.  He  feels,  as 
all  men  that  live  must  do,  the  disorganization, 
and  hard-grinding,  unequal  pressure  of  the 
Social  Affairs;  but  sees  into  it  only  a  very 
little  farther  than  far  inferior  men  do.  The 
frightful  condition  of  a  Time,  when  public  and 
private  Principle,  as  the  word  was  once  under- 
stood, having  gone  out  of  sight,  and  Self-in- 
terest being  left  to  plot,  and  struggle,  and 
scramble,  as  it  could  and  would.  Difficulties 
had  accumulated  till  they  were  no  longer  to  be 
borne,  and  the  spirit  that  should  have  fronted 
and  conquered  them  seemed  to  have  forsaken 
the  world ; — when  the  Rich,  as  the  utmost  they 
could  resolve  on,  had  ceased  to  govern,  and 
the  Poor,  in  their  fast-accumulating  numbers, 
and  ever-widening  complexities,  had  ceased  tp 
be  able  to  do  without  governing;  and  now  the 
plan  of"  Competition"  and  "  Laissez-faire"  was, 
on  every  side,  approaching  its  consummation  ; 
and  each  bound  up  in  the  circle  of  his  own 
wants  and  perils,  stood  grimly  distrustful  of 
his  neighbour,  and  the  distracted  Common- 
weal was  a  Common-wo,  and  to  all  men  it 
became  apparent  that  the  end  was  drawing 
nigh  :— all  this  black  aspect  of  Ruin  and  Decay, 
visible  enough,  experimentally  known  to  our 
Sheffield  friend,  he  calls  by  the  name  of  "  Corn- 
Law,"  and  expects  to  be  in  good  part  delivered 
from,  were  the  accursed  Bread-tax  repealed. 

In  this  system  of  polit^ical  Doctrine,  even  as 
here  so  emphatically  set  forth,  there  is  not 
much  of  novelty.  Radicals  we  have  many ; 
loud  enough  on  this  and  other  grievances ;  the 
removal  of  which  is  to  be  the  one  thing  need- 
ful. The  deep,  wide  flood  of  Bitterness,  and 
Hope  becoming  hopeless,  lies  acrid,  corrosive 
in  every  bosom ;  and  flows  fiercely  enough 
through  any  orifice  Accident  may  open :  through 
Law  Reform,  Legislative  Reform,  Poor  Laws, 
want  of  Poor  Laws,  Tithes,  Game  Laws,  or,  as 
we  see  here,  Corn  Laws.  Whereby  indeed  only 
this  becomes  clear,  that  a  deep,  wide  flood  of 
evil  does  exist  and  corrode;  from  which,  in 
all  ways,  blindly  and  seeingly,  men  seek  de- 
liverance, and  cannot  rest  till  they  find  it ;  least 
of  all  till  they  know  what  part  and  proportion 


370 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  it  is  to  be  found.  But  with  us  foolish  sons 
of  Adam  this  is  ever  the  way;  some  evil  that 
lies  nearest  us,  be  it  a  chronic  sickness,  or  but 
a  smoky  chimney,  is  ever  the  acme  and  sum- 
total  of  all  evil:  the  black  hydra  that  shuts  us 
out  from  a  Promised  Land :  and  so,  in  poor  Mr. 
Shandy'  s  fashion,  must  we  "  shift  from  trouble 
to  trouble,  and  from  side  to  side ;  button  up  one 
cause  of  vexation,  and  unbutton  another." 

Thus  for  our  keen-hearted  singer,  and  suf- 
ferer, has  "  the  Bread-tax,"  in  itself  a  consider- 
able but  no  immeasurable  smoke-pillar,  swoln 
out  to  be  a  world  embracing  Darkness,  that 
darkens  and  suffocates  the  whole  Earth,  and  has 
blotted  out  the  heavenly  stars.  Into  the  merit 
of  the  Corn  Laws,  which  has  often  been  dis- 
cussed, in  fit  season,  by  competent  hands,  we 
do  not  enter  here;  least  of  all  in  the  way  of 
argument,  in  the  way  of  blame,  towards  one 
who,  if  he  read  such  merit  with  some  emphasis 
"  on  the  scantier  trenchers  of  his  children," 
may  well  be  pardoned.  That  the  ''  Bread-tax," 
with  various  other  taxes,  may  ere  long  be 
altered  and  abrogated,  and  the  Corn  Trade  be- 
come as  free  as  the  poorest  "  bread-taxed 
drudge"  could  wish  "  it,  or  the  richest  satrap 
bread-tax-fed"  could  fear  it,  seems  no  extrava- 
gant hypothesis:  would  that  the  mad  Time 
could,  by  such  simple  hellebore-dose,  be 
healed!  Alas,  for  the  diseases  of  a  "  world 
lying  in  wickedness,"  in  heart-sickness  and 
atrophy,  quite  another  alcahest  is  needed ; — a 
long,  painful  course  of  medicine  and  regimen, 
surgery  and  physic,  not  yet  specified  or  in- 
dicated in  the  Royal-College  Books  ! 

But  if  there  is  little  novelty  in  our  friend's 
Political  Philosophy,  there  is  some  in  his  poli- 
tical Feeling  and  Poetry.  The  peculiarity  of 
this  Radical  is,  that  with  all  his  stormful  de- 
structiveness,  he  combines  a  decided  loyalty 
and  faith.  If  he  despise  and  trample  under 
foot  on  the  one  hand,  he  exalts  and  reverences 
on  the  other:  the  "landed  pauper  in  his  coach- 
and-four"  rolls  all  the  more  glaringly,  contrasted 
with  the  "  Rockinghams  and  Savilles"  of  the 
past,  with  the  "  Lansdowns  and  Fitzwilliams," 
many  a  "  Wentworth's  lord,"  still  "  a  blessing" 
to  the  present.  This  man,  indeed,  has  in  him 
the  root  of  all  reverence, — a  principle  of  Re- 
ligion. He  believes  in  a  Godhead,  not  with 
the  lips  only,  but  apparently  with  the  heart ; 
who,  as  has  been  written,  and  often  felt,  "  re- 
veals Himself  in  Parents,  in  all  true  Teachers, 
and  Rulers," — as  in  false  Teachers  and  Rulers 
quite  Another  may  be  revealed!  Our  Rhymer, 
it  would  seem,  is  no  Methodist:  far  enough 
from  it.  He  makes  "  the  Ranter,"  in  his  hot- 
headed way,  exclaim  over 

"  The  hundred  Popes  of  England's  Jesuitry;" 

and  adds,  by  way  of  note,  in  his  own  person, 
some  still  stronger  sayings  :  How  "  this  bane- 
ful corporation,"  "  dismal  as  its  Reign  of  Terror 
is,  and  long  armed  its  Holy  Inquisition,  must 
condescend  to  learn  and  teach  what  is  useful, 
or  go  where  all  nuisances  go."  As  little  per- 
haps is  he  a  Churchman ;  the  "  Cadi-Dervish" 
being  nowise  to  his  mind.  Scarcely,  however, 
if  at  all,  does  he  show  aversion  to  the  Church 
as  Church ;  or,  among  his  many  griefs,  touch 
upon  Tithes  as  one.    But,  in  any  case,  the 


black  colours  of  Life,  even  as  here  painted,  and 
brooded  over,  do  not  hide  from  him  that  a  God 
is  the  Author  and  sustainer  thereof;  that  God's 
world,  if  made  a  House  of  Imprisonment,  can 
also  be  a  House  of  Prayer;  wherein  for  the 
weary  and  heavy-laden.  Pity  and  Hope  are  not 
altogether  cut  away. 

It  is  chiefly  in  virtue  of  this  inward  temper 
of  heart,  with  the  clear  disposition  and  ad- 
justment which  for  all  else  results  therefrom, 
that  our  Radical  attains  to  be  Poetical ;  that  the 
harsh  groanings,  contentions,  upbraidings,  of 
one  who  unhappily  has  felt  constrained  to 
adopt  such  mode  of  utterance,  become  ennobled 
into  something  of  music.  If  a  land  of  bond- 
age, this  is  still  his  Father's  land,  and  the 
bondage  endures  not  for  ever.  As  worshipper 
and  believer,  the  captive  can  look  with  seeing 
eye :  the  aspect  of  the  Infinite  Universe  still 
fills  him  with  an  infinite  feeling;  his  chains, 
were  it  but  for  moments,  fall  away;  he  soars 
free  aloft,  and  the  sunny  regions  of  Poesy  and 
Freedom  gleam  golden  afar  on  the  widened 
horizon.  Gleamings  we  say,  prophetic  dawn- 
ings,  from  those  far  regions,  spring  up  for  him  ; 
nay,  beams  of  actual  radiance.  In  his  rugged- 
ness,  and  dim  contractedness,  (rather  of  place 
than  of  organ,)  he  is  not  without  touches  of  a 
feeling  and  vision,  which,  even  in  the  strictest 
sense,  is  to  be  named  poetical. 

One  deeply  poetical  idea,  above  all  others, 
seems  to  have  taken  hold  of  him :  the  idea  of 
Time.  As  was  natural  to  a  poetic  soul,  with 
few  objects  of  Art  in  its  environment,  and 
driven  inward,  rather  than  invited  outward,  for 
occupation.  This  deep  mystery  of  ever-flow- 
ing Time;  "bringing  forth,"  and  as  the  An- 
cients wisely  fabled,  "  devouring"  what  it  has 
brought  forth;  rushing  on,  in  us,  yet  above 
us,  all  uncontrollable  by  us;  and  under  it, 
dimly  visible  athwart  it,  the  bottomless  Eter- 
nal ; — this  is,  indeed,  what  we  may  call  the 
Primary  idea  of  Poetry :  the  first  that  intro- 
duces itself  into  the  poetic  mind.     As  here: 

"The  bee  shall  seek  to  settle  on  his  hand, 

But  from  the  vacant  bench  haste  to  the  moor, 

Mourning  the  last  of  England's  high-soul'd  Poor, 

And  bid  the  mountains  weep  for  Enoch  Wray. 

And  for  themselves,— albeit  of  things  that  last 

Unalter'd  most :  for  they  shall  pass  away 

Like  Enoch,  though  their  iron  roots  seem  fast, 

Bound  to  the  eternal  future  as  the  past : 

The  Patriarch  died,  and  they  shall  be  no  more! 

Yes,  and  the  sailless  worlds,  which  navigate 

The  unutterable  Deep  that  hath  no  shore, 

Will  lose  their  starry  splendour  soou  or  late, 

Like  tapers,  quench'd  by  him  whose  will  is  fate! 

Yes,  and  the  Angel  of  Eternity 

Who  numbers  worlds  and  writes  their  names  in  light, 

One  day,  O  Earth,  will  look  in  vain  for  thee, 

And  start  and  stop  in  his  unerring  flight. 

And  with  his  wings  of  sorrow  and  affright, 

Veil  his  impa^sion'd  brow  and  heavenly  tears  !" 

And  not  the  first  idea  only,  but  the  greatest, 
properly  the  parent  of  all  others.  For  if  it 
can  rise  in  the  remotest  ages,  in  the  rudest 
states  of  culture,  wherever  an  "  inspired 
thinker"  happens  to  exist,  it  connects  itself 
still  with  all  great  things ;  with  the  highest 
results  of  new  Philosophy,  as  of  primeval 
Theology:  and  for  the  Poet,  in  particular,  is 
as  the  life-element  wherein  alone  his  concep- 


CORN-LAW  RHYMES. 


«7I 


tions  can  take  poetic  form,  and  the  whole  world 
become  miraculous  and  magical. 

*'  We  are  such  stuff 
As  Dreams  are  made  of:  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  Sleep  I" 

Figure  that,  believe  that,  O  Reader;  then 
say  whether  the  Arabian  Tales  seem  wonderful ! 
— "  Rounded  with  a  sleep,  (mit  Schlafumgeben) !" 
sa5'^s  Jean  Paul :  "  these  three  words  created 
whole  volumes  in  me." 

To  turn  now  on  our  worthy  Rhymer,  who 
has  brought  us  so  much,  and  stingily  insist 
on  his  errors  and  shortcomings,  were  no  honest 
procedure.  We  had  the  whole  poetical  ency- 
clopaedia to  draw  upon,  and  say  commodiously. 
Such  and  such  an  item  is  not  here ;  of  which 
encyclopsedia  the  highest  genius  can  fill  but  a 
portion.  With  much  merit,  far  from  common 
in  his  time,  he  is  not  without  something  of  the 
faults  of  his  time.  We  praised  him  for  original- 
ity; yet  is  there  a  certain  remainder  of  imita- 
tion in  him;  a  tang  of  the  Circulating  Libra- 
ries, as  in  Sancho's  wine,  with  its  key  and 
thong,  there  was  a  tang  of  iron  and  leather. 
To  be  reminded  of  Crabbe,  with  his  truthful 
severity  of  style,  in  such  a  place,  we  cannot 
object;  but  what  if  there  were  a  slight  bravura 
dash  of  the  fair  tuneful  Hemans  1  Still  more, 
what  have  we  to  do  with  Byron,  and  his  fierce 
vociferous  mouthings,  whether  "passionate," 
or  not  passionate  and  only  theatrical  1  King 
Cambyses'  vein  is,  after  all,  but  a  worthless 
one  ;  no  vein  for  a  wise  man.  Strength,  if  that 
be  the  thing  aimed  at,  does  not  manifest  itself 
in  spasms,  but  in  stout  bearing  of  burdens. 
Our  Author  says,  "  It  is  too  bad  to  exalt  into  a 
hero  the  coxcomb  who  would  have  gone  into 
hysterics  if  a  tailor  had  laughed  at  him." 
Walk  not  in  his  footsteps,  then,  we  say, 
whether  as  hero  or  as  singer;  repent  a  little, 
for  example,  over  somewhat  in  that  fuliginous, 
blue-flaming,  pitch-and-sulphur  "  Dream  of 
Enoch  Wray,"  and  write  the  next  otherwise. 

We  mean  no  imitation  in  a  bad  palpable 
sense  ;  only  that  there  is  a  tone  of  such  occa- 
sionally audible  ;  which  ought  to  be  removed  ; 
— of  which,  in  any  case,  we  make  not  much. 
Imitation  is  a  leaning  on  something  foreign; 
incompleteness  of  individual  development,  de- 
fect of  free  utterance.  From  the  same  source, 
spring  most  of  our  Author's  faults;  in  particu- 
lar, his  worst,  which  after  all  is  intrinsically  a 
defect  of  manner.  He  has  little  or  no  Humour. 
Without  Humour  of  character  he  cannot  well 
be ;  but  it  has  not  yet  got  to  utterance.  Thus, 
where  he  has  mean  things  to  deal  with,  he 
knows  not  how  to  deal  with  them;  oftenest 
deals  with  them  more  or  less  meanly.  In  his 
vituperative  prose  Notes,  he  seems  embar- 
rassed ;  and  but  ill  hides  his  embarrassment, 
under  an  air  of  predetermined  sarcasm,  of 
knowing  briskness,  almost  of  vulgar  pertness. 
He  says,  he  cannot  help  it ;  he  is  poor,  hard- 
worked,  and"  soot  is  soot."  True,  indeed ;  yet 
there  is  no  connection  between  Poverty  and 
Discourtesy;  which  latter  originates  in  Dull- 
ness alone.  Courtesy  is  the  due  of  Man  to 
Man ;  not  of  suit  of  clothes  to  suit  of  clothes. 
He  who  could  master  so  many  things,  and 


make  even  Corn-Laws  rhyme,  we  require  of 
him  this  further  thing, — a  bearing  worthy  of 
himself,  and  of  the  order  he  belongs  to, — the 
highest  and  most  ancient  of  all  orders,  that  of 
Manhood.  A  pert  snappishness  is  no  manner 
for  a  brave  man  ;  and  then  the  manner  so  soon 
influences  the  matter ;  a  far  worse  result.  Let 
him  speak  wise  things,  and  speak  them  wisely ; 
which  latter  may  be  done  in  many  dialects, 
grave  and  gay,  only  in  the  snappish  seldom  or 
never. 

The  truth  is,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
there  is  still  much  lying  in  him  to  be  developed ; 
the  hope  of  which  development  it  were  rather 
sad  to  abandon.  Why,  for  example,  should 
not  his  view  of  the  world,  his  knowledge  of 
what  is  and  has  been  in  the  world,  inde- 
finitely extend  itselfl  Were  he  merely  the 
"uneducated  Poet,"  we  should  say,  he  had 
read  largely;  as  he  is  not  such,  we  say.  Read 
still  more,  much  more  largely.  Books  enough 
there  are  in  England,  and  of  quite  another 
weight  and  worth  than  that  circulating-library 
sort ;  may  be  procured  too,  may  be  read,  even 
by  a  hard-worked  man ;  for  what  man  (either 
in  God's  service  or  the  Devil's,  as  himself 
chooses  it)  is  not  hard-worked  1  But  here 
again,  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way. 
True,  our  friend  is  no  longer  in  his  teens;  yet 
still,  as  would  seem,  in  the  vigour  of  his  years : 
we  hope  too  that  his  mind  is  not  finally  shut 
in,  but  of  the  improvable  and  enlargeable  sort. 
If  Alfieri  (also  kept  busy  enough,  with  horse- 
breaking  and  what  not)  learned  Greek  after  he 
was  fifty,  why  is  the  Corn-Law  Rhymer  too 
old  to  learn  1 

However,  be  in  the  future  what  there  may, 
our  Rhymer  has  already  done  what  was  much 
more  difficult,  and  better  than  reading  printed 
books; — looked  into  the  great  prophetic-manu- 
script Book  of  Existence,  and  read  little  pas- 
sages there.  Here,  for  example,  is  a  sentence 
tolerably  spelled : 

"  Where  toils  the  Mill  by  ancient  woods  embraced. 
Hark,  how  the  cold  steel  screams  in  hissing  fire ! 
Blind  Enoch  sees  the  Grinder's  wheel  no  more, 
Couch'd  beneath  rocks  and  forests,  that  admire 
Their  beauty  in  the  waters,  ere  they  roar 
Dashed  in  white  foam  the  swift  circmnference  o'er. 
There  draws  the  Grinder  his  laborious  breath  : 
There  coughing  at  his  deadly  trade  be  bends  : 
Born  to  die  young,  he  fears  nor  man  nor  death ; 
Scorning  the  future,  what  he  earns  he  spends ;  ' 

Debauch  and  riot  are  his  bosom  friends." 
"  Behold  his  failings !  Hath  he  virtues  too  1  -i 

He  is  no  Pauper,  blackguard  though  be  be  : 
Full  well  he  knows  what  minds  combined  can  do. 
Full  well  maintains  his  birthright :  he  is  free, 
And,  frown  for  frown,  outstares  monopoly. 
Yet  Abraham  and  Elliot  both  in  vain 
Bid  Science  on  his  cheek  prolong  the  bloom : 
He  Kill  not  live  !     He  seems  in  haste  to  gain 
The  undisturbed  asylum  of  the  tomb, 
And,  old  at  two-and-thirty,  meets  his  doom !" 

Or  this  "  of  Jem,  the  rogue  avowed, 

"  Whose  trade  is  Poaching !  Honest  Jem  works  no«» 

Begs  not,  but  thrives  by  plundering  beggars  here. 

Wise  as  a  lord,  and  quite  as  good  a  shot, 

He,  like  his  betters,  lives  in  hate  and  fear 

And  feeds  on  partridge  because  bread  is  dear.  ' 

Sire  of  six  sons  apprenticed  to  thejail, 

He  prowls  in  arms,  the  Tory  of  the  night ; 

Wub  them  he  shares  his  battles  and  his  ale> 


t 


&^ 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


With  hkn  they  feel  the  majesty  of  might, 
No  Despot  better  knows  that  Power  is  Right. 
Mark  his  unpaidish  sneer,  his  lordly  frown  ; 
Hark  how  he  calls  the  beadle  and  flunky  liars; 
See  how  magnificently  he  breaks  down 
His  neighbour's  fence,  if  so  his  will  requires, 
And  how  his  struttle  emulates  the  squire's !" 
"Jem  rises  with  the  Moon  ;  but  when  she  sinks, 
Homeward  with  sack-like  pockets,  and  quick  heels, 
Hungry  as  boroughmongering  gowl,he  slinks. 
He  reads  not,  writes  not,  thinks  not ;  scarcely  feels ; 
Steals  all  he  gets ;  serves  Hell  with  all  he  steals !" 

It  is  rustic,  rude  existence ;  barren  moors, 
with  the  smoke  of  Forges  rising  over  the 
waste  expanse.  Alas,  no  Arcadia;  but  the 
actual  dwelling-place  of  actual  toil-grimed 
sons  of  Tubal-cain:  yet  are  there  blossoms  and 
the  wild  natural  fragrance  of  gorse  and  broom ; 
yet  has  the  Craftsman  pauses  in  his  toil ;  the 
Craftsman  too  has  an  inheritance  in  Earth; 
and  even  in  Heaven. 

*♦  Light !    All  is  not  corrupt,  for  thou  art  pure. 

Unchanged  and  changeless.    Though  frail  man  Is  vile. 

Thou  look'st  on  him ;  serene,  sublime,  secure. 

Yet,  like  thy  Father,  with  a  pitying  smile. 

Even  on  this  wintry  day,  as  marble  cold. 

Angels  might  quit  their  home  to  visit  thee. 

And  match  their  plumage  with  thy  mantle  roll'd 

Beneath  God's  Throne,  o'er  billows  of  a  sea 

Whose  isles  are  Worlds,  whose  bounds  Infinity. 

Why  then  is  Enoch  absent  from  my  side  1 

I  miss  the  rustle  of  his  silver  hair; 

A  guide  no  more,  I  seem  to  want  a  guide. 

While  Enoch  journeys  to  the  house  of  prayer; 

Ah,  ne'er  came  Sabbath-day  but  he  was  there ! 

Lo,  how,  like  him,  erect  and  strong,  though  gray, 

Yon  village  tower  time-touch'd  to  God  appeals ! 

And  hark !  the  chimes  of  morning  die  away : 

Hark !  to  the  heart  the  solemn  sweetness  steals, 

Like  the  heart's  voice,  unfelt  by  none  who  feels 

That  God  is  Love,  that  Man  is  living  Dust ; 

Unfelt  by  none  whom  ties  of  brotherhood 

Link  to  his  kind ;  by  none  who  puts  his  trust 

In  naught  of  Earth  that  hath  survived  the  flood, 

Save  those  mute  charities,  by  which  the  good 

Strengthen  poor  worms,  and  serve  their  Maker  best. 

*'  Hail  Sabbath !  Day  of  mercy,  peace,  and  rest  I 
Thou  o'er  loud  cities  throw'st  a  noiseless  spell. 
The  hammer  there,  the  wheel,  the  saw  molest 
Pale  Thought  no  more  :  o'er  Trade's  contentious  hell 
Jtfeek  Quiet  spreads  her  wings  invisible. 
And  when  thou  com'st,  less  silent  are  the  fields. 
Through  whose  sweet  paths  the  toil-freed  townsman 

steals, 
To  him  the  very  air  a  banquet  yields. 
Envious  he  watches  the  poised  hawk  that  wheels 
His  flight  on  chainless  winds.    Each  cloud  reveals 
A  paradise  of  beauty  to  his  eye. 
His  little  Boys  are  with  him,  seeking  flowers, 
Or  chasing  the  too  venturous  gilded  fly. 
So  by  the  daisy's  side  he  spends  the  hours, 
Renewing  friendship  with  the  budding  bowers  : 
And  while  might,  beauty,  good  without  alloy 
Are  mirror'd  in  his  children's  happy  eyes, — 
In  His  great  Temple  offiering  thankful  joy 
To  Him,  the  infinitely  Great  and  Wise, 
With  soul  attuned  to  Nature's  harmonies. 
Serene  and  cheerful  as  a  sporting  child,— 
His  heart  refuses  to  believe  that  man 
Could  turn  into  a  hell  the  blooming  wild, 
The  blissful  country  where  his  childhood  ran 
A  race  with  infant  rivers,  ere  began — " 

— "  King-humbling"  bread-tax,  "  blind    Mis- 
rule" and  enough  else. 

And  so  our  Corn-Law  Rhymer  plays  his 
part.  In  this  wise,  does  he  indite  and  act  his 
Drama  oi  Life,  which  for  him  is  all  too  Domes- 


tic-Tragical. It  is  said,  "  the  good  actor  soon 
makes  us  forget  the  bad  theatre,  were  it  but  a 
barn;  while,  again,  nothing  renders  so  ap- 
parent the  badness  of  the  bad  actor  as  a  theatre 
of  peculiar  excellence."  How  much  more  in  a 
theatre  and  drama  such  as  these  of  Life  itself! 
One  other  item,  however,  we  must  note  in  that 
ill-decorated  Sheffield  theatre;  the  back-scene 
and  bottom-decoration  of  it  all ;  which  is  no 
other  than  a  Workhouse.  Alas,  the  Work- 
house is  the  bourne  whither  all  these  actors 
and  workers  are  bound;  whence  none  that 
has  once  passed  it  returns!  A  bodeful  sound, 
like  the  rustle  of  approaching  world-devouring 
tornadoes,  quivers  through  their  whole  exist- 
ence; and  the  voice  of  it  is,  Pauperism  !  The 
thanksgiving  they  offer  up  to  Heaven  is,  that 
they  are  not  yet  Paupers ;  the  earnest  cry  of 
their  prayer  is,  that "  God  would  shield  them 
from  the  bitterness  of  Parish  Pay." 

Mournful  enough,  that  a  white  European 
Man  must  pray  wistfully  for  what  the  horse  he 
drives  is  sure  of, — That  the  strain  of  his  whole 
faculties  may  not  fail  to  earn  him  food  and 
lodging.  Mournful  that  a  gallant  manly  spirit, 
with  an  eye  to  discern  the  world,  a  heart  to 
reverence  it,  a  hand  cunning  and  willing  to 
labour  in  it,  must  be  haunted  with  such  a  fear. 
The  grim  end  of  it  all,  Beggary !  A  soul 
loathing,  what  true  souls  ever  loathe.  Depend- 
ence, help  from  the  unworthy  to  help;  yet 
sucked  into  the  world-whirlpool, — able  to  do 
no  other:  the  highest  in  man's  heart  struggling 
vainly  against  the  lowest  in  man's  destiny  !  In 
good  truth,  if  many  a  sickly  and  sulky  Byron, 
or  Byronlet,  glooming  over  the  woes  of  exist- 
ence, and  how  unworthy  God's  Universe  is  to 
have  so  distinguished  a  resident,  could  trans- 
port himself  into  the  patched  coat  and  sooty 
apron  of  a  Sheffield  Blacksmith,  made  with  as 
strange  faculties  and  feelings  as  he,  made  by 
God  Almighty  all  one  as  he  was, — it  would 
throw  a  light  on  much  for  him. 

Meanwhile,  is  it  not  frightful  as  well  as 
mournful  to  consider  how  the  wide-spread  evil 
is  spreading  wider  and  wider?  Most  persons, 
who  have  had  eyes  to  look  with,  may  have 
verified,  in  their  own  circle,  the  statement  of 
this  Sheffield  Eye-witness,  and  "  from  their 
own  knowledge  and  observation  fearlessly  de- 
clare that  the  little  master-manufacturer,"  that 
the  working  man  generally,  "is  in  a  much 
worse  condition  than  he  was  in  twenty-five 
years  ago."  Unhappily,  the  fact  is  too  plain  ; 
the  reason  and  scientific  necessity  of  it  is  too 
plain.  In  this  state  of  things,  every  new  man 
is  a  new  misfortune ;  every  new  market  a  new 
complexity;  the  chapter  of  chances  grows 
ever  more  incalculable  ;  the  hungry  gamesters 
(whose  stake  is  their  life)  are  ever  increasing 
in  numbers;  the  world-movement  rolls  on  :  by 
what  method  shall  the  weak  and  help-needing, 
who  has  none  to  help  him,  withstand  it  1  Alas, 
how  many  brave  hearts,  ground  to  pieces  in 
that  unequal  battle,  have  already  sunk  ;  in 
every  sinking  heart,  a  Tragedy,  less  famous 
than  that  of  the  Sons  of  Atreus ;  wherein, 
however,  if  no  "  kingly  house,"  yet  a  manly 
house  went  to  the  dust,  and  a  whole  manly 
"  lineage  was  swept  away."  Must  it  grow 
worse  and  worse  till  the  last  brave  heart  is 


CORN-LAW  RHYMES. 


373 


broken  in  England  ;  and  this  same  "brave 
Peasantry"  has  become  a  kennel  of  wild-howl- 
ing ravenous  Paupers  1  God  be  thanked  ! 
There  is  some  feeble  shadow  of  hopes  that  the 
change  may  have  begun  while  it  w^as  yet  time. 
You  may  lift  the  pressure  from  the  free  man's 
shoulders,  and  bid  him  go  forth  rejoicing ;  but 
lift  the  slave's  burden,  he  will  only  wallow  the 
more  composedly  in  his  sloth :  a  nation  of 
degraded  men  cannot  be  raised  up,  except  by 
what  we  rightly  name  a  miracle. 

Under  which  point  of  view  also,  these  little 
Volumes,  indicating  such  a  character  in  such 
a  place,  are  not  without  significance.  One 
faint  symptom  perhaps  that  clearness  will 
return,  that  there  is  a  possibility  of  its  return. 
It  is  as  if  from  that  Gehenna  of  Manufacturing 
Radicalism,  from  amid  its  loud  roaring  and 
cursing,  whereby  nothing  became  feasible, 
nothing  knowable,  except  this  only,  that  misery 
and  malady  existed  there,  we  heard  now  some 
manful  tone  of  reason  and  determination, 
wherein  alone  can  there  be  profit,  or  promise 
of  deliverance.  In  this  Corn-Law  Rhymer  we 
seem  to  trace  something  of  the  antique  spirit ; 
a  spirit  which  had  long  become  invisible 
among  our  working  as  among  other  classes ; 
which  here,  perhaps  almost  for  the  first  time, 
reveals  itself  in  an  altogether  modern  political 
vesture.  "The  Pariahs  of  the  Isle  of  Woe," 
as  he  passionately  names  them,  are  no  longer 
Pariahs  if  they  have  become  Men.  Here  is 
one  man  of  their  tribe ;  in  several  respects  a 
true  man ;  who  has  abjured  Hypocrisy  and 
Servility,  yet  not  therewith  trodden  Religion 
and  Loyalty  under  foot ;  not  without  justness 
of  insight,  devoutness,  peaceable  heroism  of 
resolve ;  who,  in  all  circumstances,  even  in 
these  strange  ones,  will  be  found  quitting  him- 
self like  a  man.  One  such  that  has  found  a 
voice :  who  knows  how  many  mute  but  not 
inactive  brethren  he  may  have  in  his  own  and 
in  all  other  ranks  ]  Seven  thousand  that  have 
not  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal !  These  are  the 
men,  wheresoever  found,  who  are  to  stand 
forth  in  England's  evil  day,  on  whom  the  hope 
of  England  rests.  For  it  has  been  often  said, 
and  must  often  be  said  again,  that  all  Reform 
except  a  moral  one  will  prove  unavailing. 
Political  Reform,  pressingly  enough  wanted, 
can  indeed  root  out  the  weeds  (gross  deep-fixed 
lazy  dock-weeds,  poisonous  obscene  hemlocks, 
ineffectual  spurry  in  abundance ;)  but  it  leaves 
the  ground  einpty, — ready  either  for  noble 
fruits,  or  for  new  worse  tares !  And  how  else 
is  a  Moral  Reform  to  be  looked  for  but  in  this 
way,  that  more  and  more  Good  Men  are,  by  a 
bountiful  Providence,  sent  hither  to  dissemi- 
nate Goodness ;  literally  to  sow  it,  as  in  seeds 
shaken  abroad  by  the  living  tree  1  For  such, 
in  all  ages  and  places,  is  the  nature  of  a  Good 
Man  ;  he  is  ever  a  mystic  creative  centre  of 
Goodness;  his  influence,  if  we  consider  it,  is 
not  to  be  measured ;  for  his  works  do  not  die, 
but  being  of  Eternity,  are  eternal ;  and  in  new 
transformation,  and  ever  wider  diffusion,  en- 
dure, living  and  life-giving.  Thou  who  ex- 
claimest  over  the  horrors  and  baseness  of  the 
Time,  and  how  Diogenes  would  now  need  two 
lanterns  in  daylight,  think  of  this;  over  the 
Time  thou  hast  no  power ;  to  redeem  a  World 


sunk  in  dishonesty  has  not  been  given  thee ; 
solely  over  one  man  therein  thou  hast  a  quite 
absolute  uncontrollable  power ;  him  redeem, 
him  make  honest;  it  will  be  something, it  will 
be  much,  and  thy  life  and  labour  not  in  vain. 

We  have  given  no  epitomized  abstract  of 
these  little  Books,  such  as  is  the  Reviewer's 
wont :  we  would  gladly  persuade  many  a 
reader,  high  and  low,  who  takes  interest  not  in 
rhyme  only,  but  in  reason,  and  the  condition 
of  his  fellow-man,  to  purchase  and  peruse  them 
for  himself.  It  is  proof  of  an  innate  love  of 
worth,  and  how  willingly  the  Public,  did  not 
thousand-voiced  Puffery  so  confuse  it,  would 
have  to  do  with  substances,  and  not  with  de- 
ceptive shadows,  that  these  Volumes  carry 
"  Third  Edition"  marked  on  them, — on  all  of 
them  but  the  newest,  whose  fate  with  the  read- 
ing world  we  yet  know  not;  which,  however, 
seems  to  deserve  not  worse  but  better  than 
either  of  its  forerunners. 

Nay,  it  appears  to  us  as  if  in  this  humble 
chant  of  the  Village  Patriarch  might  be  traced . 
rudiments  of  a  truly  great  idea;  great  though, 
all  undeveloped.  The  Rhapsody  of  "Enoch 
Wray"  is,  in  its  nature,  and  unconscious  ten- 
dency, Epic ;  a  whole  world  lies  shadowed  in 
it.  What  we  might  call  an  inarticulate,  half- 
audible  Epic !  The  main  figure  is  a  blind  aged 
man ;  himself  a  ruin,  and  encircled  with  the 
ruin  of  a  whole  Era.  Sad  and  great  does  that 
image  of  a  universal  Dissolution  hover  visible 
as  a  poetic  background.  Good  old  Enoch ! 
He  could  do  so  much,  was  so  wise,  so  valiant. 
No  Ilion  had  he  destroyed;  yet  somewhat  he 
had  built  up :  where  the  Mill  stands  noisy  by 
its  cataract,  making  corn  into  bread  for  men, 
it  was  Enoch  that  reared  it,  and  made  the  rude 
rocks  send  it  water ;  where  the  mountain 
Torrent  now  boils  in  vain,  and  is  mere  passing 
music  to  the  traveller,  it  was  Enoch's  cunning 
that  spanned  it  with  that  strong  Arch,  grim, 
time-defying.  Where  Enoch's  hand  or  mind 
has  been.  Disorder  has  become  Order;  Chaos 
has  receded  some  little  handbreadth  ;  must 
give  up  some  new  handbreath  of  his  realm. 
Enoch  too  has  seen  his  followers  fall  round 
him,  (by  stress  of  hardship,  and  the  arrows  of 
the  gods,)  has  performed  funeral  games  for 
them,  and  raised  sandstone  memorials,  and 
carved  his  Miit  ad  Plures  thereon,  with  his  own 
hand.  The  living  chronicle  and  epitome  of  a 
whole  century;  when  he  departs,  a  whole  cen- , 
tury  will  become  dead,  historical.  '^ 

Rudiments  of  an  Epic,  we  say ;  and  of  the 
true  Epic  of  our  Time, — were  the  genius  but 
arrived  that  could  sing  it!  Not  "Arms  and 
the  Man;"  "Tools  and  the  Man,"  that  were 
now  our  Epic.  What  indeed  are  Tools,  from 
the  Hammer  and  Plummet  of  Enoch  Wray  to 
this  Pen  we  now  write  with,  but  Arms,  where- 
with to  do  battle  against  Unheaso-v  without  or 
within,  and  smite  in  pieces  not  miserable  fel- 
low-men, but  the  Arch  Enemy  that  makes  us 
all  miserable;  henceforth  the  only  legitimate 
battle! 

Which  Epic,  as  we  granted,  is  here  alto- 
gether imperfectly  sung;  scarcely  a  few  notes 
thereof  brought  freely  out :  nevertheless  with 
indication,  with  prediction  that  it  will  be  sung. 
2  1 


3T4 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Such  is  the  purport  and  merit  of  the  Village 
Patriarch;  it  struggles  towards  a  noble  utter- 
ance, which  however  it  can  nowise  find.  Old 
Enoch  is  from  the  first  speechless,  heard  of 
rather  than  heard  or  seen;  at  best,  mute,  mo- 
tionless like  a  stone-pillar  of  his  own  carving. 
Indeed,  to  find  fit  utterance  for  such  meaning 
as  lies  struggling  here  is  a  problem,  to  which 
the  highest  poetic  minds  may  long  be  content 
to  accomplish  only  approximate  solutions. 
Meanwhile,  our  honest  Rhymer,  with  no  guide 
but  the  instinct  of  a  clear  natural  talent,  has 
created  and  adjusted  somewhat,  not  without 
vitality  of  union ;  has  avoided  somewhat,  the 
road  to  which  lay  open  enough.  His  Village 
Patriach,  for  example,  though  of  an  elegiac 
strain,  is  not  wholly  lachrymose,  not  without 
touches  of  rugged  gayety ; — is  like  Life  itself, 
with  tears  and  toil,  with  laughter  and  rude 
play,  such  as  metallurgie  Yorkshire  sees  it : — 
in  which  sense,  that  wondrous  Courtship  of 
the  sharp-tempered,  oft-widowed  Alice  Green 
may  pass,  questionable,  yet  with  a  certain  air 
of  soot-stained  genuineness.  And  so  has,  not 
a  Picture,  indeed,  yet  a  sort  of  genial  Study 
or  Cartoon  come  together  for  him:  and  may 
endure  there,  after  some  flary  oil-daubings, 
which  we  have  seen  framed  with  gilding,  and 
hung  up  in  proud  galleries,  have  become  rags 
and  rubbish. 

To  one  class  of  readers  especially,  such 
Books  as  these  ought  to  be  interesting; — to  ihe 
highest,  that  is  to  say,  the  richest  class.  Among 
our  Aristocracy,  there  are  men,  we  trust  there 
are  many  men,  who  feel  that  they  also  are 
workmen,  born  to  toil,  ever  in  their  great 
Taskmaster's  eye,  faithfully  with  heart  and 
head  for  those  that  with  heart  and  hand  do, 
under  the  same  great  Taskmaster,  toil  for 
them  ; — who  have  even  this  noblest  and  hard- 
est work  set  before  them — To  deliver  out  of 
that  Egyptian  bondage  to  Wretchedness,  and 
Ignorance,  and  Sin,  the  hardhanded  millions, 
of  whom  this  hardhanded,  earnest  witness, 
and  writer,  is  here  representative.  To  such 
men  his  writing  will  be  as  a  Document,  which 
they  will  lovingly  interpret :  what  is  dark 
and  exasperated  and  acrid,  in  their  hum- 
ble Brother,  they  for  themselves  will  en- 
lighten and  sweeten ;  taking  thankfully  what 
is  the  real  purport  of  his  message,  and  lay- 
ing it  earnestly  to  heart.  Might  an  instruc- 
tive relation  and  interchange  between  High 
and  Low,  at  length  ground  itself,  and  more 
and  more  perfect  itself,  to  the  unspeaka- 
ble profit  of  all  parties ;  for  if  all  parties 
are  to  love  and  help  one  another,  the  first 
step  towards  this  is,  that  all  thoroughly  un- 
derstand one  another.  To  such  rich  men 
an  authentic  message  from  the  hearts  of  poor 
men,  from  the  heart  of  one  poor  man,  will  be 
welcome. 

To  another  class  of  our  Aristocracy,  again, 
who  unhappily  feel  rather  that  they  are  not 
workmen ;  and  profess  not  so  much  to  bear 
any  burden,  as  to  be  themselves,  with  utmost 
attainable  steadiness,  and  if  possible,  graceful- 
ness, borne, — such  a  phenomenon  as  this  of  the 
Shefiield  Corn-Law  Rhymer,  with  a  Manches- 
ter Detrosier,  and  much  else,  pointing  the 
same  way,  will  be  quite  unwelcome ;  indeed,  to 


the  clearer-sighted,  astonishing  and  alarming. 
It  indicates  that  they  find  themselves,  as  Na- 
poleon was  wont  to  say,  "  in  a  new  position ;" 
— a  position  wonderful  enough ;  of  extreme 
singularity;  to  which,  in  the  whole  course  of 
History,  there  is  perhaps  but  one  case  in  some 
measure  parallel.  The  case  alluded  to  stands 
recorded  in  the  Book  of  Numbers:  the  case  of 
Balaam  the  son  of  Beor.  Truly,  if  we  con- 
sider it,  there  are  few  passages  more  notable 
and  pregnant  in  their  way,  than  this  of  Ba- 
laam. The  Midianitish  Soothsayer  (Truth- 
speaker,  or  as  we  should  now  say.  Counsel- 
giver  and  Senator)  is  journeying  forth,  as  he 
has  from  of  old  quite  prosperously  done,  in 
the  way  of  his  vocation ;  not  so  much  to 
"  curse  the  people  of  the  Lord,"  as  to  earn 
for  himself  a  comfortable  penny  by  such 
means  as  are  possible  and  expedient;  some- 
thing, it  is  hoped,  midway  between  cursing 
and  blessing;  which  shall  not,  except  in  case 
of  necessity,  be  either  a  curse  or  a  blessing, 
or  any  thing  so  much  as  a  Nothing  that  will 
look  like  a  Something  and  bring  wages  in. 
For  the  man  is  not  dishonest;  far  from  it;  still 
less  is  he  honest;  but  above  all  things,  he  is, 
has  been,  and  will  be,  respectable.  Did  calum- 
ny ever  dare  to  fasten  itself  on  the  fair  fame 
of  Balaam?  In  his  whole  walk  and  conver- 
sation, has  he  not  shown  consistency  enough ; 
ever  doing  and  speaking  the  thing  that  was 
decent;  with  proper  spirit,  maintaining  his 
status  ;  so  that  friend  and  opponent  must  often 
compliment  him,  and  defy  the  spiteful  world 
to  say.  Herein  art  thou  a  Knave?  And  now 
as  he  jogs  along,  in  oflTicial  comfort,  with 
brave  oflicial  retinue,  his  heart  filled  with  good 
things,  his  head  with  schemes  for  the  suppres- 
sion of  Vice,  and  the  Cause  of  civil  and  re- 
ligious Liberty  all  over  the  world; — consider 
what  a  spasm,  and  life-clutching,  ice-taloned 
pang,  must  have  shot  through  the  brain  and 
pericardium  of  Balaam,  when  his  Ass  not 
only  on  the  sudden  stood  stock-still,  defying 
spur  and  cudgel,  but — began  to  talk,  and  that 
in  a  reasonable  manner!  Did  not  his  face, 
elongating,  collapse,  and  tremor  occupy  his 
joints  ?  For  the  thin  crust  of  Respectability 
has  cracked  asunder;  and  a  bottomless  pre- 
ternatural Inane  yawns  under  him  instead. 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  greatness  J 
the  spirit-stirring  Vote,  ear-piercing  Hear  ;  the 
big  Speech  that  makes  ambition  virtue ;  soft 
Palm-greasing  first  of  raptures,  and  Cheers 
that  emulate  sphere-music :  Balaam's  occupa- 
tion's gone! — 

As  for  our  stout  Corn-Law  Rhymer,  what 
can  we  say  by  way  of  valediction  but  this, — 
Well  done;  come  again,  doing  better?  Ad- 
vices enough  there  were ;  but  all  lie  included 
under  one, — To  keep  his  eyes  open,  and  do 
honestly  whatsoever  his  hand  shall  find  to  do. 
We  have  praised  him  for  sincerity ;  let  him 
become  more  and  more  sincere ;  casting  out 
all  remnants  of  Hearsay,  Imitation,  ephemeral 
Speculation  ;  resolutely  ''clearing  his  mind  of 
Cant."  We  advised  a  wider  course  of  read- 
ing :  would  he  forgive  us  if  we  now  suggested 
the  question.  Whether  Rhyme  is  the  only  dia- 
lect he  can  write  in ;  whether  Rhyme  is.  after 
all,  the  natural  or  fittest  dialect  for  him  ?     In 


NOVELLE. 


375 


good  Prose,  which  differs  inconceivably  from 
bad  Prose,  what  may  not  be  written,  what  may 
not  be  read ;  from  a  Waverley  Novel,  to  an 
Arabic  Koran,  to  an  English  Bible !  Rhyme 
has  plain  advantages ;  which,  however,  are 
often  purchased  too  dear.  If  the  inward 
thought  can  speak  itself  and  not  sing  itself,  let 
it,  especially  in  these  quite  unmusical  days, 
do  the  former.  In  any  case,  if  the  inward 
Thought  do  not  sing  itself,  that  singing  of  the 
outward  Phrase  is  a  timber-toned,  false  matter 
we  could  well  dispense  with.  Will  our  Rhy- 
mer consider  himself,  then ;  and  decide  for 
what  is  actually  best.  Rhyme,  up  to  this  hour, 
never  seems  altogether  obedient  to  him ;  and 
disobedient  Rhyme, — who  would  ride  on  it 
that  had  once  learned  walking  1 

He  takes  amiss  that  some  friends  have  ad- 
monished him  to  quit  Politics  ;  we  will  not 
repeat  that  admonition.  Let  him,  on  this  as  on 
all  other  matters,  take  solemn  counsel  with  his 
own  Socrates'-Demon  ;  such  as  dwells  in  every 
mortal :  such  as  he  is  a  happy  mortal  who  can 
hear  the  voice  of,  follow  the  behests  of,  like  an 
unalterable  law.  At  the  same  time,  we  could 
truly  wish  to  see  such  a  mind  as  his  engaged 
rather  in  considering  what,  in  his  own  sphere, 
could  be  done,  than  what,  in  his  own  or  other 
spheres,  ought  to  be  destroyed ;  rather  in  pro- 
ducing or  preserving  the  True,  than  in  mangling 
and  slashing  asunder  the  False.  Let  him  be 
at  ease :  the  False  is  already  dead,  or  lives 
only  with  a  mock  life.  The  death-sentence  of 
the  False  was  of  old,  from  the  first  beginning 


of  it,  written  in  Heaven  ;  and  is  now  proclaimed 
in  the  Earth,  and  read  aloud  at  all  market- 
crosses  ;  nor  are  innumerable  volunteer  tip- 
staves and  headsmen  wanting  to  execute  the 
same :  for  which  needful  service  men  inferior 
to  him  may  suffice.  Why  should  the  heart  of 
the  Corn-Law  Rhymer  be  troubled  1  Spite  of 
"  Bread-tax,"  he  and  his  brave  children,  who 
will  emulate  their  sire,  have  yet  bread :  the 
Workhouse,  as  we  rejoice  to  fancy,  has  receded 
into  the  safe  distance ;  and  is  now  quite  shut 
out  from  his  poetic  pleasure-ground.  Why 
should  he  afflict  himself  with  devices  of  "  Bo- 
ron ghmonge  ring  gowls,"  or  the  rage  of  the 
Heathen  imagining  a  vain  thing?  This  matter, 
which  he  calls  Corn-Law,  will  not  have  com- 
pleted itself,  adjusted  itself  into  clearness,  for 
the  space  of  a  century  or  two  ;  nay,  after 
twenty  centuries,  what  will  there,  or  can  there 
be  for  the  son  of  Adam,  but  Work,  Work,  two 
hands  quite  full  of  Work !  Meanwhile,  is  not 
the  Corn-Law  Rhymer  already  a  king,  though 
a  belligerent  one ;  king  of  his  own  mind  and 
faculty,  and  what  man  in  the  long  run  is  king 
of  more  ?  Not  one  in  the  thousand,  even 
among  sceptered  kings,  of  so  much.  Be  dili- 
gent in  business,  then ;  fervent  in  spirit.  Above 
all  things,  lay  aside  anger,  unchariiableness, 
hatred,  noisy  tumult;  avoid  them,  as  worse 
than  Pestilence,  worse  than  "  Bread-tax"  itself: 

For  it  well  beseenieth  kings,  all  mortals  it  beseemeth 

well, 
To  possess  their  souls  in  patience,  and  await  what  can 

betide. 


NOVELLE. 


TRANSLATED    FROM    GOETHE. 


[Eraser's  Magazine,  1832.] 


The  spacious  courts  of  the  Prince's  Castle  I 
were  still  veiled  in  thick  mists  of  an  autumnal 
morning;  through  which  veil,  meanwhile,  as 
it  melted  into  clearness,  you  could  more  or 
less  discern  the  whole  Hunter-company,  on 
horseback  and  on  foot,  all  busily  astir.  The 
hasty  occupations  of  the  nearest  were  distin- 
guishable :  there  was  lengthening,  shortening 
of  stirrup-leathers ;  there  was  handling  of  rifles 
and  shot-pouches,  there  was  putting  of  game- 
bags  to  rights  ;  while  the  hounds,  impatient  in 
their  leashes,  threatened  to  drag  their  keepers 
off  with  them.  Here  and  there,  too,  a  horse 
showed  spirit  more  than  enough;  driven  on 
by  its  fiery  nature,  or  excited  by  the  spur  of 
its  rider,  who  even  now  in  the  half-dusk  could 
not  repress  a  certain  self-complacent  wish  to 
exhibit  himself.  All  wailed,  however,  on  the 
Prince,  who,  taking  leave  of  his  young  consort, 
was  now  delaying  too  long. 

United  a  short  while  ago,  they  already  felt 
the  happiness  of  consentaneous  dispositions  ; 
both  were  of  active  vivid  character ;  each  will- 


ingly participated  in  the  tastes  and  endeavours 
of  the  other.  The  Prince's  father  had  already, 
in  his  time,  discerned  and  improved  the  season 
when  it  became  evident  that  all  members  of 
the  commonwealth  should  pass  their  days  in 
equal  industry ;  should  all,  in  equal  working 
and  producing,  each  in  his  kind,  first  earn  and 
then  enjoy. 

How  well  this  had  prospered  was  visible  in 
these  very  days,  when  the  head-market  was  a 
holding,  which  you  might  well  enough  have 
named  a  fair.  The  Prince  yester-even  had  led 
his  Princess  on  horseback  through  the  tumult 
of  the  heaped-up  wares ;  and  pointed  out  to 
her  how  on  this  spot  the  Mountain  region  met 
the  Plain  country  in  profitable  barter :  he  could 
here,  with  the  objects  before  hini,  awaken  her 
attention  to  the  various  industry  of  his  Land. 

If  the  Prince  at  this  time  occupied  himself 
and  his  servants  almost  exclusively  with  these 
pressing  concerns,  and  in  particular  worked 
incessantly  with  his  Finance-minister,  yet 
would  the  Hunt-master  too  have  his  right;  on 


979 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


whose  pleading,  the  temptation  could  not  be 
resisted  to  undertake,  in  this  choice  autumn 
weather,  a  Hunt  that  had  already  been  post- 
poned; and  so  for  the  household  itself,  and  for 
the  many  stranger  visitants,  prepare  a  peculiar 
and  singular  festivity. 

The  Princess  stayed  behind  with  reluctance  : 
but  it  was  proposed  to  push  far  into  the  Moun- 
tains, and  stir  up  the  peaceable  inhabitants  of 
the  forests  there  with  an  unexpected  invasion. 

At  parting,  her  lord  failed  not  to  propose  a 
ride  for  her,  with  Friedrich,  the  Prince-Uncle, 
as  escort:  "I  will  leave  thee,"  said  he,  "our 
Honorio  too,  as  Equerry  and  Page,  who  will 
manage  all."  In  pursuance  of  which  words, 
he,  in  descending,  gave  to  a  handsome  young 
man  the  needful  injunctions ;  and  soon  there- 
after disappeared  with  guests  and  train. 

The  Princess,  who  had  waved  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  husband  while  still  down  in 
the  court,  now  retired  to  the  back  apartments, 
which  commanded  a  free  prospect  towards  the 
Mountains ;  and  so  much  the  lovelier,  as  the 
Castle  itself  stood  on  a  sort  of  elevation,  and 
thus,  behind  as  well  as  before,  afforded  mani- 
fold magnificent  views.  She  found  the  fine 
telescope  still  in  the  position  where  they  had 
left  it  yester-even,  when  amusing  themselves 
over  bush  and  hill  and  forest-summit,  with  the 
lofty  ruins  of  the  primeval  Stammburg,  or 
Family  Tower;  which  in  the  clearness  of  eve- 
ning stood  out  noteworthy,  as  at  that  hour,  with 
its  great  light-and-shade  masses,  the  best  aspect 
of  so  venerable  a  memorial  of  old  time  was  to 
be  had.  This  morning  too,  with  the  approxi- 
mating glasses,  might  be  beautifully  seen  the 
autumnal  tinge  of  the  trees,  many  in  kind  and 
number,  which  had  struggled  up  through  the 
masonry  unhindered  and  undisturbed  during 
long  years.  The  fair  dame,  however,  directed 
the  tube  somewhat  lower,  to  a  waste  stony  flat, 
over  which  the  Hunting-train  was  to  pass :  she 
waited  the  moment  with  patience,  and  was  not 
disappointed;  for  with  the  clearness  and  mag- 
nifying power  of  the  instrument  her  glancing 
eyes  plainly  distinguished  the  Prince  and  the 
Head-Equerry ;  nay,  she  forbore  not  again  to 
wave  her  handkerchief,  as  some  momentary 
pause  and  looking-back  was  fancied  perhaps, 
rather  than  observed. 

Prince-Uncle,  Friedrich  by  name,  now  with 
announcement,  entered,  attended  by  his  Pain- 
ter, who  carried  a  large  portfolio  under  his 
arm.  "Dear  Cousin,"  said  the  hale  old  gen- 
tleman, "we  here  present  you  with  the  Views 
of  the  Stammburg,  taken  on  various  sides  to 
show  how  the  mighty  Pile,  warred  on  and 
warring,  has  from  old  times  fronted  the  year 
and  its  weather;  how  here  and  there  its  wall 
had  to  yield,  here  and  there  rush  down  into 
waste  ruins.  However,  we  have  now  done 
much  to  make  the  wild  mass  accessible;  for 
more  there  wants  not  to  set  every  traveller, 
every  visitor,  into  astonishment,  into  admira- 
tion." 

As  the  Prince  now  exhibited  the  separate 
leaves,  he  continued:  "Here  where,  advancing 
up  the  hollow-way,  through  the  outer  ring- 
walls,  you  reach  the  Fortress  proper,  rises 
against  us  a  rock,  the  firmest  of  the  whole 
mountain ;  on  this  there  stands  a  tower  built, 


yet  when  Nature  leaves  off,  and  Art  and  Han- 
dicraft begin,  no  one  can  distinguish.  Farther 
you  perceive  sidewards  walls  abutting  on  it, 
and  donjons  terrace-wise  stretching  down. 
But  I  speak  wrong,  for  to  the  eye  it  is  but  a 
wood  that  encircles  that  old  summit;  these 
hundred  and  fifty  years  no  axe  has  sounded 
there,  and  the  massiest  stems  have  on  all  sides 
sprung  up ;  wherever  you  press  inwards  to  the 
walls,  the  smooth  maple,  the  rough  oak,  th? 
taper  pine,  with  trunk  and  roots  oppose  you ; 
round  these  we  have  to  wind,  and  pick  our 
footsteps  with  skill.  Do  but  look  how  artfully 
our  Master  has  brought  the  character  of  it  on 
paper;  how  the  roots  and  stems,  the  species 
of  each  distinguishable,  twist  themselves 
among  the  masonry,  and  the  huge  boughs 
come  looping  through  the  holes.  It  is  a  wil- 
derness like  no  other;  an  accidentally  unique 
locality,  where  ancient  traces  of  long-vanished 
power  of  Man,  and  the  ever-living,  ever-work- 
ing power  of  Nature  show  themselves  in  the 
most  earnest  conflict." 

Exhibiting  another  leaf,  he  went  on :  "  What 
say  you  now  to  the  Castle-court,  which,  be- 
come inaccessible  by  the  falling  in  of  the  old 
gate-tower,  had  for  immemorial  time  been 
trodden  by  no  foot?  We  sought  to  get  at 
it  by  a  side;  have  pierced  through  walls, 
blasted  vaults  asunder,  and  so  provided  a  con- 
venient but  secret  way.  Inside  it  needed  no 
clearance;  here  stretches  a  flat  rock-summit, 
smoothed  by  nature:  but  yet  strong  trees  have 
in  spots  found  luck  and  opportunity  for  rooting 
themselves  there ;  they  have  softly  but  de- 
cidedly grown  up,  and  now  stretch  out  their 
boughs  into  the  galleries  where  the  knights 
once  walked  to  and  fro ;  nay,  through  the  doors 
and  windows  into  the  vaulted  halls;  out  of 
which  we  would  not  drive  them :  they  have 
even  got  the  mastery,  and  may  keep  it.  Sweep- 
ing away  deep  strata  of  leaves,  we  have  found 
the  notablest  place  all  smoothed,  the  like  of 
which  were  perhaps  not  to  be  met  with  in  the 
world. 

"After  all  this,  however,  it  is  still  to  be  re- 
marked, and  on  the  spot  itself  well  worth  ex- 
amining, how  on  the  steps  that  lead  up  to  the 
main  tower,  a  maple  has  struck  root  and  fash- 
ioned itself  to  a  stout  tree,  so  that  you  can 
hardly  with  difficulty  press  by  it,  to  mount  the 
battlements  and  gaze  over  the  unbounded  pros- 
pect. Yet  here  too,  you  linger  pleased  in  the 
shade;  for  that  tree  is  it  which  high  over  the 
whole  wondrously  lifts  itself  into  the  air. 

"Let  us  thank  the  brave  Artist,  then,  who  so 
deservingly  in  various  pictures  teaches  us  the 
whole,  even  as  if  we  saw  it:  he  has  spent  the 
fairest  hours  of  the  day  and  of  the  season 
therein,  and  for  weeks  long  kept  moving  about 
these  scenes.  Here  in  this  corner  has  there 
for  him,  and  the  warder  we  gave  him,  been  a 
little  pleasant  dwelling  fitted  up.  You  could 
not  think,  my  Best,  what  a  lovely  outlook  into 
the  country,  into  court  and  walls,  he  has  got 
there.  But  now  when  all  is  once  in  outline,  so 
pure,  so  characteristic,  he  may  finish  it  down 
here  at  his  ease.  With  these  pictures  we  will 
decorate  our  garden-hall;  and  no  one  shall 
recreate  his  eyes  over  our  regular  parterres, 
our  groves  and  shady  walks,  without  wishing 


NOVELLE. 


va 


himself  up  there,  to  follow,  in  actual  sight  of 
the  old  and  of  the  new,  of  the  stubborn,  inflex- 
ible, indestructible,  and  of  the  fresh,  pliant, 
irresistible,  what  reflections  and  comparisons 
would  rise  for  him." 

Honorio  entered,  with  notice  that  the  horses 
were  brought  out;  then  said  the  Princess,  turn- 
ing to  the  Uncle:  "Let  us  ride  up;  and  you 
will  show  me  in  reality  what  you  have  here 
set  before  me  in  image.  Ever  since  I  came 
among  you,  I  have  heard  of  this  undertaking; 
and  should  now  like  of  all  things  to  see  with 
my  own  eyes  what  in  the  narrative  seemed 
impossible,  and  in  the  depicting  remains  im- 
probable.— "Not  yet,  my  Love,"  answered  the 
Prince:  "what  you  here  saw  is  what  it  can 
become  and  is  becoming;  for  the  present 
much  in  the  enterprise  stands  still  amid  im- 
pediments; Art  must  first  be  complete,  if  Na- 
ture is  not  to  shame  it." — "Then  let  us  ride  at 
least  upwards,  were  it  only  to  the  foot:  I  have 
the  greatest  wish  to-day  to  look  about  me  far 
in  the  world." — "  Altogether  as  you  will  it," 
replied  the  Prince. — "Let  us  ride  through  the 
Town,  however,"  continued  the  Lady,  "over 
the  great  market-place,  where  stands  the  in- 
numerable crowd  of  booths,  looking  like  a 
little  city,  like  a  camp.  It  is  as  if  the  wants 
and  occupations  of  all  the  families  in  the  land 
were  turned  outwards,  assembled  in  this  cen- 
tre, and  brought  into  the  light  of  day :  for  the 
attentive  observer  can  descry  whatsoever  it  is 
that  man,  performs  and  needs ;  you  fancy,  for 
the  moment,  there  is  no  money  necessary,  that 
all  business  could  here  be  managed  by  barter, 
and  so  at  bottom  it  is.  Since  the  Prince,  last 
night,  set  me  on  these  reflections,  it  is  pleasant 
to  consider  how  here,  where  Mountain  and  Plain 
meet  together,  both  so  clearly  speak  out  what 
they  require,  and  wish.  For  as  the  High- 
lander can  fashion  the  timber  of  his  woods 
into  a  hundred  shapes,  and  mould  his  iron  for 
all  manner  of  uses,  so  these  others  from  below 
come  to  meet  him  with  most  manifold  wares, 
in  which  often  you  can  hardly  discover  the 
material  or  recognise  the  aim." 

"I  am  aware,"  answered  the  Prince,  "that 
my  Nephew  turns  his  utmost  care  to  these 
things ;  for  specially,  on  the  present  occasion, 
this  main  point  comes  to  be  considered,  that 
one  receive  more  than  one  give  out:  which  to 
manage  is,  in  the  long  run,  the  sum  of  all  Po- 
litical Economy,  as  of  the  smallest  private 
housekeeping.  Pardon  me,  however,  my  Best: 
I  never  like  to  ride  through  markets ;  at  every 
step  you  are  hindered  and  kept  back;  and  then 
flames  up  in  my  imagination  the  monstrous 
misery  which,  as  it  were,  burnt  itself  into  my 
eyes,  when  I  witnessed  one  such  world  of 
wares  go  ofi"  in   fire.     I  had  scarcely  got  to 

"Let  us  not  lose  the  bright  hours,"  inter- 
rupted the  Princess,  for  the  worthy  man  had 
already  more  than  once  afflicted  her  with  the 
minute  description  of  that  mischance:  how  he 
being  on  a  long  journey,  resting  in  the  best 
inn,  on  the  market-place  which  was  just  then 
swarming  with  a  fair,  had  gone  to  bed  exceed- 
ingly fatigued;  and  in  the  night-time  been,  by 
shrieks,  and  flames  rolling  up  against  his 
lodging,  hideously  awakened. 
48 


The  Princess  hastened  to  mount  her  favour- 
ite horse:  and  led,  not  through  the  backgate 
upwards,  but  through  the  foregate  downwards, 
her  reluctant-willing  attendant;  for  who  but 
would  gladly  have  ridden  by  her  side,  who  but 
would  gladly  have  followed  after  her.  And  so 
Honorio  too  had  without  regret  stayed  back 
from  the  otherwise  so  wished-for  Hunt,  to  be 
exclusively  at  her  service. 

As  was  to  be  anticipated,  they  could  only 
ride  through  the  market  step  by  step:  but  the 
fair  Lovely  one  enlivened  every  stoppage  by 
some  sprightly  remark,  "  I  repeat  my  lessoa 
of  y ester-night,"  said  she,  "since  Necessity  is 
trying  our  patience."  And  in  truth,  the  whole 
mass  of  men  so  crowded  about  the  riders,  that 
their  progress  was  slow.  The  people  gazed 
with  joy  at  the  young  dame  ;  and,  on  so  many 
smiling  countenances,  might  be  read  the  plea- 
sure they  felt  to  see  that  the  first  womaa 
in  the  land  was  also  the  fairest  and  grace- 
fullest. 

Promiscuously  mingled  stood,  Mountaineers, 
who  had  built  their  still  dwellings  amid  rocks, 
firs,  and  spruces;  Lowlanders  from  hills, 
meadows,  and  leas ;  craftsmen  of  the  little 
towns  ;  and  what  else  had  all  assembled  there.^ 
After  a  quiet  glance,  the  Princess  remarked  to, 
her  attendant,  how  all  these,  whencesoeve'r 
they  came,  had  taken  more  stuff'than  necessary 
for  their  clothes,  more  cloth  and  linen,  more 
ribands  for  trimming.  It  is  as  if  the  womeji 
could  not  be  bushy  enough,  the  men  not  pufify 
enough,  to  please  themselves. 

"  We  will  leave  them  that,"  answered  the. 
uncle :  "  spend  his  superfluity  on  what  he  will, 
a  man  is  happy  in  it;  happiest  when  he  there- 
with decks  and  dizens  himself."  The  fair 
dame  nodded  assent. 

So  had  they  by  degrees  got  upon  a  clear 
space,  which  led  out  to  the  suburbs,  when,  at 
the  end  of  many  small  booths  and  stands,  a 
larger  edifice  of  boards  showed  itself,  which 
was  scarcely  glanced  at  till  an  ear-lacerating, 
bellow  sounded  forth  from  it.  The  feeding- 
hour  of  the  wild  beasts  there  exhibited  seemed 
to  have  come:  the  Lion  let  his  forest  and 
desert-voice  be  heard  in  all  vigour;  the  horses 
shuddered,  and  all  must  remark  how,  in  the 
peaceful  ways  and  workings  of  the  cultivated 
world,  the  King  of  the  wilderness  so  fearfully 
announced  himself.  Coming  nearer  the  booth, 
you  could  not  overlook  the  variegated  colossal 
pictures  representing  with  violent  colours  and 
strong  emblems  those  foreign  beasts ;  to  a 
sight  of  which  the  peaceful  burgher  was  to  be; 
irresistibly  enticed.  The  grim  monstrous 
tiger  was  pouncing  on  a  blackamoor,  on  tha 
point  of  tearing  him  in  shreds;  a  lion  stood 
earnest  and  majestic,  as  if  he  saw  no  prey, 
worthy  of  him ;  other  wondrous  party-co-. 
loured  creatures,  beside  these  mighty  ones, 
deserved  less  attention. 

"  As  we  come  back,"  said  the  Princess,  "  wq 
will  alight  and  take  a  nearer  view  of  these 
gentry." — "  It  is  strange,"  observed  the  Prince, 
"that  man  always  seeks  excitement  by  Terror. 
Inside,  there,  the  Tiger  lies  quite  quiet  in  his 
cage ;  and  here  must  he  ferociously  dart  upoa 
a  black,  that  the  people  may  fancy  the  like  is* 
to  be  seen  within ;  of  murder  and  sudden  death, 
2  12 


378 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  burning  and  destruction,  there  is  not  enough ; 
but  ballad-singers  must  at  every  corner  keep 
repeating  it.  Good  man  will  have  himself 
frightened  a  little;  to  feel  the  belter,  in  secret, 
how  beautiful  and  laudable  it  is  to  draw  breath 
in  freedom." 

Whatever  of  apprehensiveness  from  such 
bugbear  images  might  have  remained,  was 
soon  all  and  wholly  effaced,  as,  issuing  through 
the  gate,  our  party  entered  on  the  cheerfuUest 
of  scenes.  The  road  led  first  up  the  River,  as 
yet  but  a  small  current,  and  bearing  only  light 
boats,  but  which  by  and  by,  as  renowned  world- 
stream,  would  carry  forth  its  name  and  waters, 
and  enliven  distant  lands.  They  proceeded 
next  through  well  cultivated  fruit-gardens  and 
pleasure-grounds,  softly  ascending;  and  by 
degrees  you  could  look  about  you  in  the 
now-disclosed  much-peopled  region,  till  first  a 
thicket,  then  a  little  wood  admitted  our  riders, 
and  the  gracefullest  localities  refreshed  and 
limited  their  view.  A  meadow  vale  leading 
upwards,  shortly  before  mown  for  the  second 
time,  velvet-like  to  look  upon,  watered  by  a 
brook  rushing  out  lively,  copious  at  once  from 
the  uplands  above,  received  them  as  with  wel- 
come ;  and  so  they  approached  a  higher,  freer 
station,  which,  on  issuing  from  the  wood,  after 
a  stiff  ascent,  they  gained;  and  could  now 
descry,  over  new  clumps  of  trees,  the  old 
Castle,  the  goal  of  their  pilgrimage,  rising  in 
the  distance,  as  pinnacle  of  the  rock  and  forest. 
Backward^  again,  (for  never  did  one  mount 
hither  without  turning  round,)  they  caught, 
through  accidental  openings  of  the  high  trees, 
the  Prince's  Castle,  on  the  left,  lightened  by 
the  morning  sun  ;  the  well-built  higher  quarter 
of  the  Town  softened  under  light  smoke-clouds ; 
and  so  on,  rightwards,  the  under  Town,  the 
River  in  several  bendings,  with  its  meadows 
and  mills;  on  the  farther  side,  an  extensive 
fertile  region. 

Having  satisfied  themselves  with  the  pros- 
pect, or  rather  as  usually  happens  when  we 
look  round  from  so  high  a  station,  become 
doubly  eager  for  a  wider,  less  limited  view, 
they  rode  on,  over  a  broad  stony  flat,  where 
the  mighty  Ruin  stood  fronting  them,  as  a 
green-crowned  summit,  a  few  old  trees  far 
down  about  its  foot:  they  rode  along;  and 
so  arrived  there,  just  at  the  steepest,  most 
inaccessible  side.  Great  rocks  jutting  out 
from  of  old,  insensible  of  every  change,  firm, 
well-founded,  stood  clenched  together  there; 
and  so  it  towered  upwards :  what  had  fallen  at 
intervals  lay  in  huge  plates  and  fragments 
confusedly  heaped,  and  seemed  to  forbid  the 
boldest  any  attempt.  But  the  steep,  the  pre- 
cipitous is  inviting  to  youth  :  to  undertake  it, 
to  storm  and  conquer  it,  is  for  young  limbs  an 
enjoyment.  The  Princess  testified  desire  for 
an  attempt;  Honorio  was  at  her  hand;  the 
Prince-Uncle,  if  easier  to  satisfy,  took  it  cheer- 
fully, and  would  show  that  he  too  had  strength  : 
the  horses  were  to  wait  below  among  the  trees  ; 
our  climbers  make  for  a  certain  point,  where 
a  huge  projecting  rock  affords  a  standing-room, 
and  a  prospect,  which  indeed  is  already  pass- 
ing over  into  the  bird's-eye  kind,  yet  folds  itself 
together  there  picturesquely  enough. 

The  sun,   almost  at  its  meridian,  lent  the 


clearest  light ;  the  Prince's  Castle,  with  its 
compartments,  main  buildings,  wings,  domes, 
and  lowers,  lay  clear  and  stately ;  the  upper 
Town  in  its  whole  extent ;  into  the  lower  also 
you  could  conveniently  look,  nay,  by  the  tele- 
scope distinguish  the  booths  in  the  market- 
place. So  furthersome  an  instrument  Honorio 
would  never  leave  behind :  they  looked  at  the 
River  upwards  and  downwards,  on  this  side 
the  mountainous,  terrace-like,  interrupted  ex- 
panse, on  that  the  upswelling,  fruitful  land, 
alternating  in  level  and  low  hill ;  places  in- 
numerable ;  for  it  was  long  customary  to  dis- 
pute how  many  of  them  were  here  to  be  seen. 

Over  the  great  expanse  lay  a  cheerful  still- 
ness, as  is  common  at  noon ;  when,  as  the 
Ancients  were  wont  to  say.  Pan  is  asleep,  and 
all  Nature  holds  her  breath  not  to  awaken 
him. 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time,"  said  the  Princess, 
"  that  I,  on  some  such  high  far-seeing  spot, 
have  reflected  how  Nature  all  clear  looks  so 
pure  and  peaceful,  and  gives  you  the  impres- 
sion as  if  there  were  nothing  contradictory  in 
the  world;  and  yet  when  you  return  back  into 
the  habitation  of  man,  be  it  lofty  or  low,  wide 
or  narrow,  there  is  ever  somewhat  to  contend 
with,  to  battle  with,  to  smooth  and  put  to 
rights." 

Honorio,  who,  meanwhile,  was  looking 
through  the  glass  at  the  Town,  exclaimed: 
"See!  see!  There  is  fire  in  the  market!" 
They  looked,  and  could  observe  some  smoke, 
the  flames  were  smothered  in  the  daylight. 
"  The  fire  spreads  !"  cried  he,  still  looking 
through  the  glass ;  the  mischief  indeed  now 
became  noticeable  to  the  good  eyes  of  the 
Princess ;  from  time  to  time  you  observed  a 
red  burst  of  flame;  the  smoke  mounted  aloft; 
and  Prince-Uncle  said :  "  Let  us  return  :  that 
is  not  good ;  I  always  feared  I  should  see 
that  misery  a  second  time."  They  descended, 
got  back  to  their  horses.  "Ride,"  said  the 
Princess  to  the  Uncle,  "fast,  but  not  without 
a  groom ;  leave  me  Honorio,  we  will  follow 
without  delay.  The  Uncle  felt  the  reason- 
ableness, nay  necessity  of  this ;  and  started 
off  down  the  waste  stony  slope,  at  the  quickest 
pace  the  ground  allowed. 

As  the  Princess  mounted,  Honorio  said: 
"  Please  your  Excellency  to  ride  slow !  In  the 
Town  as  in  the  Castle,  the  fire-apparatus  is  in 
perfect  order;  the  people,  in  this  unexpected 
accident,  will  not  lose  their  presence  of  mind. 
Here,  moreover,  we  have  bad  ground,  little 
stones  and  short  grass ;  quick  riding  is  unsafe ; 
in  any  case,  before  we  arrive,  the  fire  will  be 
got  under."  The  Princess  did  not  think  so ; 
she  observed  the  smoke  spreading,  she  fancied 
that  she  saw  a  flame  flash  up,  that  she  heard 
an  explosion ;  and  now  in  her  imagination  all 
the  terrific  things  awoke,  which  the  worthy 
Uncle's  repeated  narrative  of  his  experiences 
in  that  market-conflagration  had  too  deeply 
implanted  there. 

Prightful  doubtless  had  that  business  been, 
alarming  and  impressive  enough  to  leave  be- 
hind it,  painfully  through  life  long,  a  boding 
and  image  of  its  recurrence,  when,  in  the  night- 
season,  on  the  great  booth-covered  market- 
space,  a  sudden  fire  had  seized  booth  after 


NOVELLE. 


379 


booth,  before  the  sleepers  in  these  light  huts 
could  be  shaken  out  of  deep  dreams :  the 
Prince  himself,  as  a  wearied  stranger  arriving 
only  for  rest,  started  from  his  sleep,  sprang  to 
the  window,  saw  all  fearfully  illuminated; 
flame  after  flame,  from  the  right,  from  the  left, 
darting  through  each  other,  rolls  quivering  to- 
wards him.  The  houses  of  the  market-place, 
reddened  in  the  shine,  seemed  already  glowing, 
threatened  every  moment  to  kindle,  and  burst 
forth  in  fire  :  below,  the  element  raged  without 
let;  planks  cracked,  laths  cracked,  the  canvas 
flew  abroad,  and  its  dusky  fire-peaked  tatters 
whirled  themselves  round  and  aloft,  as  if  bad 
spirits,  in  their  own  element,  with  perpetual 
change  of  shape,  were,  in  capricious  dance, 
devouring  one  another;  and  there  and  yonder 
would  dart  up  out  from  their  penal  fire.  And 
then  with  wild  howls  each  saved  what  was  at 
hand :  servants  and  masters  laboured  to  drag 
forth  bales  already  seized  by  the  flames,  to 
snatch  away  yet  somewhat  from  the  burning 
shelves,  and  pack  it  into  the  chests,  which  too 
they  must  at  last  leave  a  prey  to  the  hastening 
flame.  How  many  a  one  could  have  prayed 
but  for  a  moment's  pause  to  the  loud-advanc- 
ing fire ;  as  he  looked  round  for  the  possibility 
of  some  device,  and  was  with  all  his  possession 
already  seized  :  on  the  one  side,  burnt  and 
glowed  already,  what  on  the  other  still  stood  in 
dark  night.  Obstinate  characters,  will-strong 
men  grimly  fronted  the  grim  foe,  and  saved 
much,  with  loss  of  their  eyebrows  and  hair. 
Alas,  all  this  waste  confusion  now  rose  anew 
before  the  fair  spirit  of  the  Princess  ;  the  gay 
morning  prospect  was  all  overclouded,  and 
her  eyes  darkened ;  wood  and  meadow  had 
put  on  a  look  of  strangeness,  of  danger. 

Entering  the  peaceful  vale,  heeding  little  its 
refreshing  coolness,  they  were  but  a  few  steps 
down  from  the  copious  fountain  of  the  brook 
which  flowed  by  them,  when  the  Princess  de- 
scried, quite  down  in  the  thickets,  something 
singular,  whieh  she  soon  recognised  for  the 
tiger:  springing  on,  as  she  a  short  while  ago 
had  seen  him  painted,  he  came  towards  her ; 
and  this  image,  added  to  the  frightful  ones  she 
was  already  busy  with,  made  the  strangest 
impression.  "Fly!  your  Grace," cried  Honorio, 
"fly !"  She  turned  her  horse  towards  the  steep 
hill  they  had  just  descended.  The  young  man, 
rushing  on  towards  the  monster,  drew  his 
pistol  and  fired  when  he  thought  himself  near 
enough;  but,  alas,  without  effect;  the  tiger 
sprang  to  a  side,  the  horse  faltered,  the  pro- 
voked wild  beast  followed  his  course,  upwards 
straight  after  the  Princess.  She  galloped,  what 
her  horse  could,  up  the  steep  stony  space; 
scarcely  apprehending  that  so  delicate  a  crea- 
ture,unused  to  such  exertion, could  not  hold  out. 
It  overdid  itself,  driven  on  by  the  necessitated 
Princess ;  it  stumbled  on  the  loose  gravel  of 
the  steep,  and  again  stumbled ;  and  at  last 
fell,  after  violent  effbrts,  powerless  to  the 
ground.  The  fair  dame,  resolute  and  dextrous, 
failed  not  instantly  to  get  upon  her  fbet ;  the 
horse  too  rose,  but  the  tiger  was  approaching; 
though  not  with  vehement  speed  ;  the  uneven 
ground,  the  sharp  stones  seemed  to  damp  his 
impetuosity;  and  only  Honorio  flying  after  him, 
riding  with  checked  speed  along  with  him,  ap- 


peared to  stimulate  and  provoke  his  force 
anew.  Both  runners,  at  the  same  instant, 
reached  the  spot  where  the  Princess  was  stand- 
ing by  her  horse:  the  Knight  bent  himself, 
fired,  and  with  this  second  pistol  hit  the  mon- 
ster through  the  head,  so  that  it  rushed  down  ; 
and  now,  stretched  out  in  full  length,  first 
clearly  disclosed  the  might  and  terror  where- 
of only  the  bodily  hull  was  left  lying.  Honorio 
had  sprung  from  his  horse  ;  was  already  kneel- 
ing on  the  beast,  quenching  its  last  movements, 
and  held  his  drawn  hanger  in  his  right  hand. 
The  youth  was  beautiful ;  he  had  come  dash- 
ing on  as  in  sports  of  the  lance  and  the  ring 
the  Princess  had  often  seen  him  do.  Even  so 
in  the  riding-course  would  his  bullet,  as  he 
darted  by,  hit  the  Turk's-head  on  the  pole, 
right  under  the  turban  in  the  brow ;  even  so 
would  he,  lightly  prancing  up,  prick  his  naked 
sabre  into  the  fallen  mass,  and  lift  it  from  the 
ground.  In  all  such  arts  he  was  dextrous 
and  felicitous;  both  now  stood  him  in  good 
stead. 

"Give  him  the  rest,"  said  the  Princess:  "I 
fear  he  will  hurt  you  with  his  claws." — "  Par- 
don !"  answered  the  youth :  "  he  is  already 
dead  enough ;  and  I  would  not  hurt  the  skin, 
which  next  winter  shall  shine  upon  your 
sledge." — *'  Sport  not,"  said  the  Princess  : 
"  whatsoever  of  pious  feeling  dwells  in  the 
depth  of  the  heart  unfolds  itself  in  such  a  mo- 
ment."— "  I  too,"  cried  Honorio,  "  was  never 
more  pious  than  even  now ;  and  therefore  do  I 
think  of  what  is  joyful  lest ;  I  look  at  the  tiger's 
fell  only  as  it  can  attend  you  to  do  you  plea- 
sure."— "It  would  for  ever  remind  me,"  said 
she,  "of  this  fearful  moment." — "Yet  is  it," 
replied  the  youth  with  glowing  cheeks,  "a  more 
harmless  spoil  than  when  the  weapons  of  slain 
enemies  are  carried  for  show  before  the  vic- 
tor."— "  I  shall  bethink  me,  at  sight  of  it,  of 
your  boldness  and  cleverness;  and  need  not 
add  that  you  may  reckon  on  my  thanks  and 
the  Prince's  favour  for  your  life  long.  But 
rise ;  the  beast  is  clean  dead,  let  us  consider 
what  is  next:  before  all  things  rise  !" — "As  I 
am  once  on  my  knees,"  replied  the  youth, 
"once  in  a  posture  which  in  other  circum- 
stances would  have  been  forbid,  let  me  beg  at 
this  moment  to  receive  assurance  of  the  favour, 
of  the  grace  which  you  vouchsaft  me.  I  have 
already  asked  so  often  of  your  high  consort  for 
leave  and  promotion  to  go  on  my  travels.  He 
who  has  the  happiness  to  sit  at  your  table, 
whom  you  honour  with  the  privilege  to  enter- 
tain your  company,  should  have  seen  the 
world.  Travellers  stream  in  on  us  from  all 
parts  ;  and  when  a  town,  an  important  spot  in 
any  quarter  of  the  world  comes  in  course,  the 
question  is  sure  to  be  asked  of  us,  were  we 
ever  there  1  Nobody  allows  one  sense,  till  one 
has  seen  all  that:  it  is  as  if  you  had  to  instruct 
yourself  only  for  the  sake  of  others." 

"  Rise  !"  repeated  the  Princess  ;  "  I  were  loth 
to  wish  or  request  aught  that  went  against  the 
will  of  my  Husband ;  however,  if  T  mistake 
not,  the  cause  why  he  has  retained  you  hitherto 
will  soon  be  at  an  end.  His  intention  was  to 
see  you  ripened  into  a  complete  self-guided 
nobleman,  to  do  yourself  and  him  credit  in 
foreign  parts,  as  hitherto  at  court ;  and  I  should 


980 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


think  this  deed  of  yours  was  as  good  a  recom- 
mendatory passport  as  a  young  man  could 
wish  for  to  take  abroad  with  him." 

That,  instead  of  a  youthful  joy,  a  certain 
mournfulness  came  over  his  face,  the  Princess 
had  not  time  to  observe,  nor  had  he  to  indulge 
his  emotion;  for,  in  hot  haste,  up  the  steep, 
came  a  woman,  with  a  boy  at  her  hand,  straight 
to  the  group  so  well  known  to  us  ;  and  scarcely 
had  Honorio,  bethinking  him,  arisen,  when 
they  howling  and  shrieking  cast  themselves  on 
the  carcass ;  by  which  action,  as  well  as  by 
their  cleanly  decent,  yet  party-coloured  and 
unusual  dress,  might  be  gathered  that  it  was 
the  mistress  of  this  slain  creature,  and  the 
black-eyed,  black-locked  boy,  holding  a  flute  in 
his  hand,  her  son ;  weeping  like  his  mother, 
less  violent  but  deeply  moved,  kneeling  beside 
her. 

Now  came  strong  outbreakings  of  passion 
from  this  woman;  interrupted,  indeed,  and 
pulse-wise ;  a  stream  of  words,  leaping  like  a 
stream  in  gushes  from  rock  to  rock.  A  natu- 
ral language,  short  and  discontinuous,  made 
itself  impressive  and  pathetic :  in  vain  should 
we  attempt  translating  it  into  our  dialects ;  the 
approximate  purport  of  it  we  must  not  omit. 
"  They  have  murdered  thee,  poor  beast !  mur- 
dered without  need!  Thou  wert  tame,  and 
wouldst  fain  have  laid  down  at  rest  and  waited 
our  coming;  for  thy  foot-balls  were  sore,  thy 
claws  had  no  force  left.  The  hot  sun  to  ripen 
them  was  wanting.  Thou  wert  the  beaulifullest 
of  thy  kind :  who  ever  saw  a  kingly  tiger  so 
gloriously  stretched  out  in  sleep,  as  thou  here 
liest,  dead,  never  to  rise  more.  When  thou 
awokest  in  the  early  dawn  of  morning,  and 
openedst  thy  throat,  stretching  out  thy  red 
tongue,  thou  wert  as  if  smiling  on  us ;  and 
even  when  bellowing,  thou  tookest  thy  food 
from  the  hands  of  a  woman,  from  the  fingers 
of  a  child.  How  long  have  we  gone  with  thee 
on  thy  journeys ;  how  long  has  thy  company 
been  useful  and  fruitful  to  us !  To  us,  to  us 
of  a  very  truth,  meat  came  from  the  eater,  and 
sweetness  out  of  the  strong.  So  will  it  be  no 
more.     Wo!  wo!" 

She  had  not  done  lamenting,  when  over  the 
smoother  part  of  the  Castle  Mountain,  came 
riders  rushing  down;  soon  recognised  as  the 
Prince's  Hunting-train,  himself  the  foremost. 
Following  their  sport,  in  the  backward  hills, 
they  had  observed  the  fire-vapours ;  and  fast 
through  dale  and  ravine,  as  in  fierce  chase, 
taken  the  shortest  path  towards  this  mournful 
sign.  Galloping  along  the  stony  vacancy,  they 
stopped  and  stared  at  sight  of  the  unexpected 
group,  which  in  that  empty  expanse  stood  out 
so  markworthy.  After  the  first  recognition 
there  was  silence;  some  pause  of  breathing- 
time  ;  and  then  what  the  view  itself  did  not 
impart,  was  with  brief  words  explained.  So  I 
stood  the  Prince,  contemplating  the  strange  j 
unheard-of  incident;  a  circle  round  him  of 
riders,  and  followers  that  had  run  on  foot. 
What  to  do  was  still  undetermined;  the  Prince 
intent  on  ordering,  executing,  when  a  man 
pressed  forward  into  the  circle ;  large  of  sta- 
ture, party-coloured,  wondrously-apparelled, 
like  wife  and  child.  And  now  the  family  in 
union  testified  their  sorrow  and  astonishment. ' 


The  man,  however,  soon  restrained  himself, 
bowed  in  reverent  distance  before  the  Prince, 
and  said:  "It  is  not  the  time  for  lamenting; 
alas,  my  lord  and  mighty  hunter,  the  lion  too 
is  loose,  hither  towards  the  mountains  is  he 
gone:  but  spare  him,  have  mercy  that  he 
perish  not  like  this  good  beast." 

"The  Lion!"  said  the  Prince:  "Hast  thou 
the  trace  of  him  1" — "Yes,  Lord!  A  peasant 
down  there,  who  had  heedlessly  taken  shelter 
on  a  tree,  directed  me  farther  up  this  way,  to 
the  left;  but  I  saw  the  crowd  of  men  and 
horses  here ;  anxious  for  tidings  of  assistance, 
I  hastened  hither." — "So  then,"  commanded 
the  Prince,  "  draw  to  the  left,  Huntsmen  ;  you 
will  load  your  pieces,  go  softly  to  work,  if  you 
drive  him  into  the  deep  woods,  it  is  no  matter: 
but  in  the  end,  good  man,  we  shall  be  obliged 
to  kill  your  animal ;  why  were  you  improvi- 
dent enough  to  let  him  loose V* — "The  fire 
broke  out,"  replied  he,  "we  kept  quiet  and 
attentive ;  it  spread  fast,  but  at  a  distance  from 
us,  we  had  water  enough  for  our  defence;  but 
a  heap  of  powder  blew  up,  and  threw  the 
brands  on  to  us,  and  over  our  heads ;  we  were 
too  hasty,  and  are  now  ruined  people." 

The  Prince  was  still  busy  directing ;  but  for 
a  moment  all  seemed  to  pause,  as  a  man  was 
observed  hastily  springing  down  from  the 
heights  of  the  old  Castle;  whom  the  troop  soon 
recognised  for  the  watchman  that  had  been 
stationed  there  to  keep  the  Painter's  apart- 
ments, while  he  lodged  there  and  took  charge 
of  the  workmen.  He  came  running,  out  of 
breath,  yet  in  few  words  soon  made  known 
that  the  Lion  had  laid  himself  down,  within 
the  high  ring-wall,  in  the  sunshine,  at  the  foot 
of  a  large  beech,  and  was  behaving  quite 
quietly.  With  an  air  of  vexation,  however, 
the  man  concluded :  "  Why  did  I  take  my  rifle 
to  town  yester-night,  to  have  it  cleaned;  he 
had  never  risen  again,  the  skin  had  been  mine, 
and  I  might  all  my  life  have  had  the  credit  of 
the  thing." 

The  Prince,  whom  his  military  experiences 
here  also  stood  in  stead,  for  he  had  before  now 
been  in  situations  where  from  various  sides 
inevitable  evil  seemed  to  threaten,  said  here- 
upon: "What  surety  do  you  give  me  that  if 
we  spare  your  lion,  he  will  not  work  destruo 
tion  among  us,  among  my  people  ?" 

"This  woman  and  this  child,"  answered  the 
father  hastily,  "  engage  to  tame  him,  to  keep 
him  peaceable,  till  I  bring  up  the  cage,  and 
then  we  can  carry  him  back  unharmed  and 
without  harming  any  one." 

The  boy  put  his  flute  to  his  lips;  an  instru- 
ment of  the  kind  once  named  soft,  or  sweet 
flutes;  short-beaked  like  pipes:  he,  who  un- 
derstood the  art,  could  bring  out  of  it  the 
gracefuUest  tones.  Meanwhile  the  Prince  had 
inquired  of  the  watchman  how  the  lion  came 
up.  "  By  the  hollow-way,"  answered  he, 
"  which  is  walled  in  on  both  sides,  and  was 
formerly  the  only  entrance,  and  is  to  be  the 
only  one  still:  two  footpaths,  which  led  in 
elsewhere,  we  have  so  blocked  up  and  de- 
stroyed that  no  human  being,  except  by  that 
first  narrow  passage,  can  reach  the  Magic  Cas- 
tle which  Prince  Friedrich's  talent  and  taste 
is  making  of  it." 


NGVELLE. 


m 


After  a  little  thought,  during  which  the 
Prince  looked  round  at  the  boy,  who  still  con- 
tinued as  if  softly  preluding,  he  turned  to 
Honorio,  and  said:  "Thou  hast  done  much 
to-day,  complete  thy  task.  Secure  that  nar- 
row path ;  keep  your  rifles  in  readiness,  but 
do  not  shoot  till  the  creature  can  no  otherwise 
be  driven  back:  in  any  case,  kindle  a  fire, 
which  will  frighten  him  if  he  make  down- 
wards. The  man  and  woman  take  charge  of 
the  rest."  Honorio  rapidly  bestirred  himself 
to  execute  these  orders. 

The  child  continued  his  tune,  which  was  no 
tune ;  a  series  of  notes  without  law,  and  per- 
haps even  on  that  account  so  heart-touching: 
the  by-standers  seemed  as  if  enchanted  by  the 
movement  of  a  song-like  melody,  when  the 
father  with  dignified  enthusiasm  began  to 
speak  in  this  sort : 

<'  God  has  given  the  Prince  wisdom,  and  also 
knowledge  to  discern  that  all  God's  works  are 
wise,  each  after  its  kind.  Behold  the  rock, 
how  he  stands  fast  and  stirs  not,  defies  the 
weather  and  the  sunshine;  primeval  trees 
adorn  his  head,  and  so  crowned  he  looks 
abroad ;  neither  if  a  mass  rush  away,  will  this 
continue  what  it  was,  but  falls  broken  into 
many  pieces  and  covers  the  side  of  the  de- 
scent. But  there  too  they  will  not  tarry,  ca- 
priciously they  leap  far  down,  the  brook  re- 
ceives them,  to  the  river  he  bears  them.  Not 
resisting,  not  contradictory,  angular;  no, 
smooth  and  rounded  they  travel  now  quicker 
on  their  way,  arrive,  from  river  to  river,  finally 
at  the  ocean,  whither  march  the  giants  in 
hosts,  and  in  the  depths  whereof  dwarfs  are 
busy. 

"  But  who  shall  exalt  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
whom  the  stars  praise  from  Eternity  to  Eter- 
nity !  Why  look  ye  far  into  the  distance  ? 
Consider  here  the  bee :  late  at  the  end  of  har- 
vest she  still  busily  gathers,  builds  her  a  house, 
tight  of  corner,  straight  of  wall,  herself  the 
architect  and  mason.  Behold  the  ant:  she 
knows  her  way,  and  loses  it  not;  she  piles  her 
a  dwelling  of  grass-halms,  earth-crumbs,  and 
needles  of  the  fir;  she  piles  it  aloft  and  arches 
it  in ;  but  she  has  laboured  in  vain,  for  the 
horse  stamps,  and  scrapes  it  all  in  pieces  :  lo ! 
he  has  trodden  down  her  beams,  and  scattered 
her  planks ;  impatiently  he  snorts  and  cannot 
rest ;  for  the  Lord  has  made  the  horse  comrade 
of  the  wind  and  companion  of  the  storm,  to 
carry  man  whither  he  wills,  and  woman 
whither  she  desires.  But  in  the  Wood  of 
Palms  arose  he,  the  Lion,  with  earnest  step 
traversed  the  wildernesses ;  there  rules  he  over 
all  creatures,  his  might  who  shall  withstand  1 
Yet  man  can  tame  him;  and  the  fiercest  of 
living  things  has  reverence  for  the  image  of 
God,  in  which  too  the  angels  are  made,  who 
serve  the  Lord  and  his  servants.  For  in  the 
den  of  Lions  Daniel  was  not  afraid  :  he  re- 
mained fast  and  faithful,  and  the  wild  bellow- 
ing interrupted  not  his  song  of  praise." 

This  speech,  delivered  with  expression  of  a 
natural  enthusiasm,  the  child  accompanied 
here  and  there  with  graceful  tones;  but  now, 
the  father  having  ended,  he,  with  clear  melo- 
dious voice  and  skilful  passaging,  struck  up 
his  warble,  whereupon  the   father    took  the 


flute,  and  gave  note  in  tmisbn,  while  the  child 
sang: 

From  the  Dens,  I,  in  a  deeper, 

Prophet's  song  of  praise  can  hear ; 

Angel-host  he  hath  for  keeper. 
Needs  the  good  man  there  to  fear  1 

Lion,  Lioness,  agazing. 
Mildly  pressing  round  him  came; 

Yea,  that  humble,  holy  praising, 
It  hath  made  them  tame. 

The  father  continued  accompanying  this 
strophe  with  his  flute ;  the  mother  here  and 
there  touched  in  as  second  voice. 

Impressive,  however,  in  a  quite  peculiar 
degree,  it  was,  when  the  child  now  began  to 
shufiie  the  lines  of  the  strophe  into  other 
arrangement;  and  thereby  if  not  bring  out  a 
new  sense,  yet  heighten  the  feeling  by  leading 
it  into  self-excitement : 

Angel-host  around  doth  hover, 

Us  in  heavenly  tones  to  cheer : 
In  the  dens  our  head  doth  cover : 

Needs  the  poor  child  there  to  fearT 

For  that  humble  holy  pt'aising 

Will  permit  no  evil  nigh  : 
Angels  hover,  keeping,  gazing. 

Who  so  safe  as  II 

Hereupon  with  emphasis  and  devation  be- 
gan all  three : 

For  th'  Eternal  rules  above  «b. 

Lands  and  oceans  rules  his  will; 
Lions  even  as  lambs  shall  love  us. 

And  the  proudest  waves  be  still. 

Whetted  sword  to  scabbard  cleaving, 

Faith  and  Hope  victorious  see  : 
Strong,  who,  loving  and  believing, 

Prays,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

All  were  silent,  hearing,  hearkening;  and 
only  when  the  tones  ceased  could  you  remark 
and  distinguish  the  impression  they  had  made. 
All  was  as  if  appeased ;  each  aflTscted  in  his 
way.  The  Prince,  as  if  he  now  first  saw  the 
misery  that  a  little  ago  had  threatened  him, 
looked  down  on  his  spouse,  who  leaning  on 
him  forebore  not  to  draw  out  the  little  em- 
broidered handkerchief,  and  therewith  covered 
her  eyes.  It  was  blessedness  for  her  to  feel 
her  young  bosom  relieved  from  the  pressure 
with  which  the  preceding  minutes  bad  loaded 
it.  A  perfect  silence  reigned  over  the  crowd ; 
they  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  dangers: 
the  conflagration  below ;  and  abovie,  the  rising 
up  of  a  dubiously-reposing  Lion. 

By  a  sign  to  bring  the  horses,  the  Prince 
first  restored  the  group  to  motion ;  he  turned 
to  the  woman,  and  said  :  "  You  think  then  that, 
once  find  the  lion,yt)U  could,  by  your  singing, 
b^  the  singing  of  this  child,  with  help  of  these 
flute-tones,  appease  him,  and  carry  him  back 
to  his  prison,  unhurt  and  hurting  no  onel" 
They  answered  Yes,  assuring  and  affirming; 
the  Castellan  was  given  them  as  guide.  And 
now  the  Prince  started  ofi"  in  all  speed  with 
a  few;  the  Princess  follow^ed  slower  with  the 
rest  of  the  train :  mother  and  son,  on  their 
side,  under  conduct  of  the  warder,  who  had 
got  himself  a  musket,  mounted  up  the  steeper 
part  of  the  height. 


38S 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Before  the  entrance  of  the  hollow-way  which 
opened  their  access  to  the  Castle,  they  found 
the  hunters  busy  heaping  up  dry  brushwood, 
to  have,  in  any  case,  a  large  fire  ready  for 
kindling.  "  There  is  no  need,"  said  the  woman : 
"it  will  all  go  well  and  peaceably,  without 
that." 

Farther  on,  sitting  on  a  wall,  his  double- 
barrel  resting  in  his  lap,  Honorio  appeared ;  at 
his  post,  as  if  ready  for  every  occurrence. 
However,  he  seemed  hardly  to  notice  our 
party;  he  sat  as  if  sunk  in  deep  thoughts,  he 
looked  round  like  one  whose  mind  was  not 
there.  The  woman  addressed  him  with  a 
prayer  not  to  let  the  fire  be  lit ;  he  appeared 
not  to  heed  her  words ;  she  spoke  on  with 
vivacity,  and  cried:  "  Handsome  young  man, 
thou  hast  killed  my  tiger,  I  do  not  curse  thee; 
spare  my  lion,  good  young  man,  I  will  bless 
thee." 

Honorio  was  looking  straight  out  before  him, 
to  where  the  sun  on  his  course  began  to  sink. 
"Thou  lookest  to  the  west,"  cried  the  woman  ; 
"thou  dost  well,  there  is  much  to  do  there; 
hasten,  delay  not,  thou  wilt  conquer.  But  first 
conquer  thyself."  At  this  he  appeared  to  give 
a  smile ;  the  woman  stept  on  ;  could  not,  how- 
ever, but  look  back  once  more  at  him :  a  ruddy 
sun  was  overshininghis  face;  she  thought  she 
had  never  seen  a  handsomer  youth. 

"If  your  child,"  said  the  warder  now,  "with 
his  fluting  and  singing,  can,  as  you  are  per- 
suaded, entice  and  pacify  the  lion,  we  shall 
soon  get  mastery  of  him  after,  for  the  creature 
has  lain  down  quite  close  to  the  perforated 
vaults  through  which,  as  the  main  passage 
was  blocked  up  with  ruins,  we  had  to  bore 
ourselves  an  entrance  into  the  Castle-Court. 
If  the  child  entice  him  into  this  latter,  I  can 
close  the  opening  with  little  diflficulty ;  then  the 
boy,  if  he  like,  can  glide  out  by  one  of  the  lit- 
tle spiral  stairs  he  will  find  in  the  corner.  We 
must  conceal  ourselves ;  but  I  shall  so  take 
my  place  that  a  rifle-ball  can,  at  any  moment, 
help  the  poor  child  in  case  of  extremity." 

"All  these  precautions  are  unnecessary; 
God  and  skill,  piety  and  a  blessing,  must  do  the 
work." — "May  be,"  replied  the  warder,  "how- 
ever, I  know  my  duties.  First,  I  must  lead 
you,  by  a  difficult  path  to  the  top  of  the  wall, 
right  opposite  the  vaults  and  opening  I  have 
mentioned:  the  child  may  then  go  down,  as 
into  the  arena  of  the  show,  and  lead  away  the 
animal,  if  it  will  follow  him."  This  was 
done :  warder  and  mother  looked  down  in 
concealment  as  the  child,  descending  the  screw- 
stairs,  showed  himself  in  the  open  space  of 
the  Court,  and  disappeared  opposite  them  in 
the  gloomy  opening;  but  forthwith  gave  his 
flute  voice,  which  by  and  by  grew  weaker,  and 
at  last  sank  dumb.  The  pause  was  bodefiil 
enough ;  the  old  Hunter,  familiar  with  danger, 
felt  heart-sick  at  the  singular  conjuncture  ;  the 
mother,  however,  with  cheerful  face,  bending 
over  to  listen,  showed  not  the  smallest  discom- 
posure. 

At  last  the  flute  was  again  heard  ;  the  child 
stept  forth  from  the  cavern  with  glittering  sa- 


tisfied eyes,  the  lion  after  him,  but  slowly,  and 
as  it  seemed,  with  difiiculty.  He  showed  here 
and  there  desire  to  lie  down;  yet  the  boy  led 
him  in  a  half-circle  through  the  few  disleaved, 
many-tinted  trees,  till  at  length,  in  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun  which  poured  in  through  a 
hole  in  the  ruins,  he  set  him  down,  as  if  trans- 
figured in  the  bright  red  light;  and  again  com- 
menced his  pacifying  song,  the  repetition  of 
which  we  also  cannot  forbear: 

From  the  Dens,  I,  in  a  deeper. 
Prophet's  song  of  praise  can  bear; 

Angel-host  he  hath  for  keeper, 
Needs  the  good  man  there  to  fear  1 

Lion,  Lioness,  agazing, 
Mildly  pressing  round  him  came  ; 

Yea,  that  humble,  holy  praising, 
It  bath  made  them  tame. 

Meanwhile  the  lion  had  laid  itself  down, 
quite  close  to  the  child,  and  lifted  its  heavy 
right  fore-paw  into  his  bosom ;  the  boy  as  he 
sung  gracefully  stroked  it ;  but  was  not  long 
in  observing  that  a  sharp  thorn  had  stuck  it- 
self between  the  balls.  He  carefully  pulled  it 
out ;  with  a  smile,  took  the  party-coloured  silk 
handkerchief  from  his  neck,  and  bound  up  the 
frightful  paw  of  the  monster;  so  that  his  mo- 
ther for  joy  bent  herself  back  with  outstretched 
arms,  and  perhaps,  according  to  custom,  would 
have  shouted  and  clapped  applause,  had  not  a 
hard  hand  gripe  of  the  warder  reminded  her 
that  the  danger  was  not  yet  over. 

Triumphantly  the  child  sang  on,  having  with 
a  few  tones  preluded: 

For  th'  Eternal  rules  above  us. 
Lands  and  oceans  rules  his  will ; 

Lions  even  as  lambs  shall  love  us. 
And  the  proudest  waves  be  still. 

Whetted  sword  to  scabbard  cleaving, 
Faith  and  Hope  victorious  see  : 

Strong,  who,  loving  and  believing, 
Prays,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Were  it  possible  to  fancy  that  in  the  counte- 
nance of  so  grim  a  creature,  the  tyrant  of  the 
woods,  the  despot  of  the  animal  kingdom,  an 
expression  of  friendliness,  of  thankful  con- 
tentment could  be  traced,  then  here  was  such 
traceable;  and  truly  the  child  in  his  illustrated 
look  had  the  air  as  of  a  mighty  triumphant 
victor ;  the  other  figure,  indeed,  not  of  that  one 
vanquished,  for  his  strength  lay  concealed  in 
him  ;  but  yet  of  one  tamed,  of  one  given  up  to 
his  own  peaceful  will.  The  child  fluted  and 
sang  on,  changing  the  lines  according  to  his 
way,  and  adding  new : 

A.nd  80  to  good  children  bringeth 

Blessed  Angel  help  in  need ; 
Fetters  o'er  the  cruel  flingeth. 
Worthy  art  with  wings  doth  speed. 

So  have  tamed,  and  firmly  iron'd 
To  a  poor  child's  feeble  knee, 
Him  the  forest's  lordly  tyrant, 
Song  and  Piety. 


THE   TALE. 


388 


THE  TALE. 

BY    GOETHE. 

[Fraser's  Magazine,  1832.] 


That  Goethe,  many  years  ago,  wrote  a  piece 
named  Das  Mahrchen,  (The  Tale ;)  which  the 
admiring  critics  of  Germany  contrived  to  cri- 
ticise by  a  stroke  of  the  pen;  declaring  that  it 
was  indeed  The  Tale,  and  worthy  to  be  called 
the  Tale  of  Tales,  (das  Mahrchen  alter  Mahrchen,) 
— may  appear  certain  to  most  English  readers, 
for  they  have  repeatedly  seen  as  much  in 
print.  To  some  English  readers  it  may  ap- 
pear certain,  furthermore,  that  they  personally 
know  this  Tale  of  Tales ;  and  can  even  pro- 
nounce it  to  deserve  no  such  epithet,  and  the 
admiring  critics  of  Germany  to  be  little  other 
than  blockheads. 

English  readers  !  the  first  certainty  is  alto- 
gether indubitable ;  the  second  certainty  is  not 
worth  a  rush. 

That  same  Mahrchen  aller  Mahrchen  you  may 
see  with  your  own  eyes,  at  this  hour,  in  the 
Fifteenth  Volume  of  Goethe's  Werke ;  and  see- 
ing is  believing.  On  the  other  hand,  that 
English  "  Tale  of  Tales,"  put  forth  some  years 
ago  as  the  Translation  thereof,  by  an  indivi- 
dual connected  with  the  Periodical  Press  of 
London,  (his  Periodical  vehicle,  if  we  remem- 
ber, broke  down  soon  after,  and  was  rebuilt, 
and  still  runs,  under  the  name  of  Court  Jour- 
nal,)—was  a  Translation,  miserable  enough, 
of  a  quite  different  thing;  a  thing,  not  a  Miihr- 
chen  (Fabulous  Tale)  at  all,  but  an  Erzahlung 
or  common  fictitious  Narrative;  having  no 
manner  of  relation  to  the  real  piece,  (beyond 
standing  in  the  same  volume;)  not  so  much 
as  Milton's  Tetrachordon  of  Divorce  has  to  his 
Allegro  and  Penseroso !  In  this  way  do  indivi- 
duals connected  with  the  Periodical  Press  of 
London  play  their  part,  and  commodiously 
befool  thee,  O  Public  of  English  readers,  and 
can  serve  thee  with  a  mass  of  roasted  grass, 
and  name  it  stewed  venison ;  and  will  con- 
tinue to  do  so,  till  thou — open  thy  eyes,  and 
from  a  blind  monster  become  a  seeing  one. 

This  mistake  we  did  not  publicly  note  at  the 
time  of  its  occurrence  ;  for  two  good  reasons  : 
first,  that  while  mistakes  are  increasing,  like 
Population,  at  the  rate  of  Twelve  Hundred  a 
day,  the  benefit  of  seizing  one,  and  throttling 
it,  would  be  perfectly  inconsiderable :  second, 
that  we  were  not  then  in  existence.  The 
highly  composite,  astonishing  Entity,  which 
here  as  "  0.  Y."  addresses  mankind  for  a  sea- 
son, still  slumbered  (his  elements  scattered 
over  Infinitude,  and  working  under  other 
shapes)  in  the  womb  of  Nothing!  Meditate 
on  us  a  little,  O  Reader:  if  thou  wilt  consider 
who  and  what  we  are ;  what  Powers,  of  Cash, 
Esurience,  Intelligence,  Stupidity,  and  Mystery 
created  us,  and  what  work  we  do  and  will  do, 
there  shall  be  no  end  to  thy  amazement. 

This  mistake,  however,  we  do  now  note;  in- 
duced thereto  by  occasion.  By  the  fact,  name- 
ly, that  a  genuine  English  Translation  of  that 
Mahrchen  has  been  handed  in  to  us  for  judg- 
ment ;  and  now  (such  judgment  having  proved 


merciful)  comes  out  from  us  in  the  way  of 
publication.  Of  the  Translation  we  cannot 
say  much  ;  by  the  colour  of  the  paper,  it  may 
be  some  seven  years  old,  and  have  lain  per- 
haps in  smoky  repositories :  it  is  not  a  good 
Translation  ;  yet  also  not  wholly  bad ;  faithful 
to  the  original,  (as  we  can  vouch,  after  strict 
trial;)  conveys  the  real  meaning,  though  with 
an  effort :  here  and  there  our  pen  has  striven 
to  help  it,  but  could  not  do  much.  The  poor 
Translator,  who  signs  himself  "D.  T.,"  and 
afiects  to  carry  matters  wiih  a  high  hand, 
though,  as  we  have  ground  to  surmise,  he  is 
probably  in  straits  for  the  necessaries  of  life, 
— has,  at  a  more  recent  date,  appended  nu- 
merous Notes  ;  wherein  he  will  con.vince  him- 
self that  more  meaning  lies  in  his  Muhrchen 
"than  in  all  the  Literature  of  our  century:** 
some  of  these  we  have  retained,  now  and  then 
with  an  explanatory  or  exculpatory  word  of 
our  own;  the  most  we  have  cut  away,  as  su- 
perfluous and  even  absurd.  Superfluous  and 
even  absurd,  we  say:  D.  T.  can  take  this  of 
us  as  he  likes ;  we  know  him,  and  what  is  in 
him,  and  what  is  not  in  him  ;  believe  that  he 
will  prove  reasonable;  can  do  either  way.  At 
all  events,  let  one  of  the  notablest  Perform- 
ances produced  for  the  last  thousand  years,  be 
now,  through  his  organs,  (since  no  other,  in 
this  elapsed  half-century,  have  oflered  them- 
selves,) set  before  an  undiscerning  public. 

We  too  will  premise  our  conviction  that 
this  Mahrchen  presents  aphantasmagoric  Adum- 
bration, pregnant  with  deepest  significance; 
though  nowise  that  D.  T.  has  so  accurately 
evolved  the  same.  Listen  notwithstanding  to 
a  remark  or  two,  extracted  from  his  immea- 
surable Proem : 

"Dull  men  of  this  country,"  says  he,  "  who 
pretend  to  admire  Goethe,  smiled  on  me  when 
I  first  asked  the  meaning  of  this  Tale.  ♦  Mean- 
ing !'  answered  they  :  '  it  is  a  wild  arabesque, 
without  meaning  or  purpose  at  all,  except  to 
dash  together,  copiously  enough,  confused  hues 
of  Imagination,  and  see  what  will  come  of 
them.'  Such  is  still  the  persuasion  of  several 
heads ;  which  nevertheless  would  perhaps 
grudge  to  be  considered  ■mgblocks." — Not  im- 
possible :  the  first  Sin  in  our  Universe  was 
Lucifer's,  that  of  Self-c»nceit.  But  hear  again; 
what  is  more  to  the  point: 

"  The  difficulties  of  interpretation  are  ex- 
ceedingly enhanced  by  one  circumstance,  not 
unusual  in  other  such  writings  of  Goethe's ; 
namely,  that  this  is  no  Allegory;  which,  as  in 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  you  have  only  once  for 
all  to  find  the  key  of,  and  so  go  on  unlocking: 
it  is  a  Phantasmagory,  rather;  wherein  things 
the  most  heterogeneous  are,  with  homogeneity 
of  figure,  emblemed  forth ;  which  would  re- 
quire not  one  key  to  unlock  it,  but,  at  different 
stages  of  the  business,  a  dozen  successive 
keys."  Here  you  have  epochs  of  time  sha- 
dowed forth,  there  Qualities  of  the  Human 


smi 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Soul;  now  it  is  Institutions,  Historical  Events, 
now  Doctrines,  Philosophic  Truths  :  thus  are 
all  manner  of  *  entities  and  quiddities  and 
ghosts  of  defunct  bodies'  set  flying ;  you  have 
the  whole  Four  Elements  chaotico-creatively 
jumbled  together,  and  spirits  enough  imbody- 
ing  themselves,  and  roguishly  peering  through, 
in  the  confused  wild-working  mass  !"     *     *  * 

"  So  much,  however,  I  will  stake  my  whole 
money  capital  and  literary  character  upon : 
that  here  is  a  wonderful  Emblem  of  Univer- 
sal HisTORx  set  forth;  more  especially  a 
wonderful  Emblem  of  this  our  wonderful  and 
woful  'Age  of  Transition;'  what  men  have 
been  and  done,  what  they  are  to  be  and  do,  is, 
in  this  Tale  of  Tales,  poetico-prophetically 
typified,  in  such  a  style  of  grandeur  and  celes- 
tial brilliancy  and  life,  as  the  Western  Imagi- 
nation has  not  elsewhere  reached ;  as  only  the 
Oriental  Imagination,  and  in  the  primeval  ages, 
was  wont  to  attempt." — Here  surely  is  good 
wine,  with  a  big  bush!  Study  the  Tale  of 
Tales,  O  reader :  even  in  the  bald  version  of 
D.  T.,  there  will  be  meaning  found.  He  con- 
tinues in  this  triumphant  style : 

"  Can  any  mortal  head  (not  a  wigblock)  doubt 
that  the  Giant  of  this  Poem  means  Supersti- 
TI02T 1  That  the  Ferryman  has  something  to 
do  with  the  Priesthood  ;  his  Hut  with  the 
Church  1 

"Again,  might  it  not  be  presumed  that  the 
River  were  Time  ;  and  that  it  flowed  (as  Time 
does)  between  two  worlds?  Call  the  world, 
or  country  on  this  side,  where  the  fair  Lily 
dwells,  the  world  of  Supernaturalism  ;  the 
country  on  that  side,  Naturalism,  the  work- 
ing week-day  world  where  we  all  dwell  and 
toil:  whosoever  or  whatsoever  introduces  it- 
self, and  appears  in  the  firm  earth  of  human 
business,  or  as  we  well  say,  comes  into  Exist- 
ence, must  proceed  from  Lily's  supernatural 
country;  whatsoever  of  a  material  sort  de- 
ceases and  disappears  might  be  expected  to 
go  thither.  Let  the  reader  consider  this,  and 
note  what  comes  of  it. 

"To  get  a  free  solid  communication  esta- 
blished over  this  same  wondrous  River  of 
Time,  so  that  the  Natural  and  Supernatural 
may  stand  in  friendliest  neighbourhood  and 
union,  forms  the  grand  action  of  this  Phantas- 
magoric Poem :  is  not  such  also,  let  me  ask 
thee,  the  grand  action  and  summary  of  Uni- 
versal History ;  the  one  problem  of  Human 
Culture  ;  the  thing  which  Mankind  (once  the 
three  daily  meals  of  victual  were  moderately 
secured)  has  ever  striven  after,  and  must  ever 
strive  after] — Alas!  we  observe  very  soon, 
matters  stand  on  a  most  distressful  footing,  in 
this  of  Natural  and  Supernatural :  there  are 
three  conveyances  across,  and  all  bad,  all  in- 
cidental, temporary,  uncertain :  the  worst  of 
the  three,  one  would  think,  and  the  worst  con- 
ceivable, were  the  Giant's  Shadow,  at  sunrise 
and  sunset;  the  best  that  Snake-bridge  at  noon, 
yet  still  only  a  bad  best.  Consider  again  our 
trustless,  rotten,  revolutionary  *  age  of  transi- 
tion,' and  see  whether  this  too  does  not  fit  it! 

"If  you  ask  next,  Who  these  other  strange 
characters  are,  the  Snake,  the  Will-o'-Wisps, 
the  Man  with  the  Lamp  1  I  will  answer,  in 
general  and  afar  off",  that  LiglU  must  signify 


human  Insight,  Cultivation,  in  one  sort  or 
other.  As  for  the  Snake,  I  know  not  well  what 
name  to  call  it  by ;  nay  perhaps,  in  our  scanty 
vocabularies,  there  is  no  name  for  it,  though 
that  does  not  hinder  its  being  a  thing,  genuine 
enough.  Meditation ;  Intellectual  Research  ; 
Understanding;  in  the  most  general  accepta- 
tion. Thought:  all  these  come  near  designat- 
ing it;  none  actually  designates  it.  Were  I 
bound,  under  legal  penalties,  to  give  the  crea- 
ture a  name,  I  should  say  Thought  rather  than 
another. 

"But  what  if  our  Snake,  and  so  much  else 
that  works  here  beside  it,  were  neither  a  quali- 
ty, nor  a  reality,  nor  a  slate,  nor  an  action,  in 
any  kind ;  none  of  these  things  purely  and 
alone,  but  something  intermediate  and  partak- 
ing of  them  all !  In  which  case,  to  name  it,  in 
vulgar  speech,  were  a  still  more  frantic  at- 
tempt: it  is  unnameable  in  speech;  and  re- 
mains only  the  allegorical  Figure  known  in 
this  Tale  by  the  name  of  Snake,  and  more  or 
less  resembling  and  shadowing  forth  somewhat 
that  speech  has  named,  or  might  name.  It  is 
this  heterogeneity  of  nature,  pitching  your 
solidest  Predicables  heels  over  head,  throwing 
you  half  a  dozen  Categories  into  the  melting- 
pot  at  once, — that  so  unspeakably  bewilders  a 
Commentator,  and  for  moments  is  nigh  reduc- 
ing him  to  delirium  saltans. 

"  The  Will-o'-wisps,  that  laugh  and  jig,  and 
compliment  the  ladies,  and  eat  gold  and  shake 
it  from  them,  I  for  my  own  share  take  the  li- 
berty of  viewing  as  some  shadow  of  Elegas^t 
Culture,  or  modern  Fine  Literature ;  which 
by  and  by  became  so  skeptical-destructive; 
and  did,  as  French  Philosophy,  eat  Gold  (or 
Wisdom)  enough,  and  shake  it  out  again.  In 
which  sense,  their  coming  (into  Existence)  by 
the  old  Ferryman's  (by  the  Priesthood's)  as- 
sistance, and  almost  oversetting  his  boat,  and 
then  laughing  at  him,  and  trying  to  skip  off 
from  him,  yet  being  obliged  to  stop  till  they 
had  satisfied  him :  all  this,  to  the  discerning 
eye,  has  its  significance. 

"  As  to  the  Man  with  the  Lamp,  in  him  and 
his  gold-giving,  jewel-forming,  and  otherwise 
so  miraculous  Light,  which  'casts  no  shadow,' 
and  'cannot  illuminate  what  is  wholly  other- 
wise in  darkness,' — I  see  what  you  might 
name  the  celestial  Reason  of  Man,  (Reason  as 
contrasted  with  Understanding,  and  superordi- 
nated  to  it,)  the  purest  essence  of  his  seeing 
Faculty ;  which  manifests  itself  as  the  Spirit 
of  Poetry,  of  Prophecy,  or  whatever  else  of 
highest  in  the  intellectual  sort  man's  mind  can 
do.  We  behold  this  respectable,  venerable 
Lamp-bearer  everywhere  present  in  time  of 
need  ;  directing,  accomplishing,  working,  won- 
der-working, finally  victorious  ; — as,  in  strict 
reality,  it  is  ever  (if  we  will  study  it)  the  Po- 
etic Vision  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  other 
Knowledge  or  Action ;  and  is  the  source  and 
creative  fountain  of  whatsoever  mortal  ken  or 
can,  and  mystically  and  miraculously  guides 
them  forward  whither  they  are  to  go.  Be  the 
Man  with  the  Lamp,  then,  named  Reason  ; 
mankind's  noblest  inspired  Insight  and  Light; 
whereof  all  the  other  lights  are  but  effluences, 
and  more  or  less  discoloured  emanations. 

"  His  Wife,  poor  old  woman,  we  shall  call 


THE  TALE. 


Practical  Endeatour  ;  which  as  married  to 
Reason,  to  spiritual  Vision  and  Belief,  first 
makes  up  man's  being  here  below.  Unhappi- 
ly the  ancient  couple,  we  find,  are  but  in  a  de- 
cayed condition :  the  better  emblems  are  they 
of  Reason  and  Endeavour  in  this  our  "transi- 
tionary  age !"  The  Man  presents  himself  in 
the  garb  of  a  peasant,  the  Woman  has  grown 
old,  garrulous,  querulous ;  both  live  neverthe- 
less in  their  *  ancient  cottage,'  better  or  worse, 
the  roof-tree  of  which  still  holds  together  over 
them.  And  then  those  mischievous  Will-o'- 
wisps,  who  pay  the  old  lady  such  court,  and 
eat  all  the  old  gold  (all  that  was  wise  and  beau- 
tiful and  desirable)  off  her  walls ;  and  show 
the  old  stones,  quite  ugly  and  bare,  as  they  had 
not  been  forages!  Besides,  they  have  killed 
poor  Mops,  the  plaything,  and  joy  and  fondling 
of  the  house ; — as  has  not  that  same  Elegant 
Culture,  or  French  Philosophy  done,  whereso- 
ever it  has  arrived  1  Mark,  notwithstanding, 
how  the  Man  with  the  Lamp  puts  it  all  right 
again,  reconciles  every  thing,  and  makes  the 
finest  business  out  of  what  seemed  the  worst. 

"With  regard  to  the  Four  Kings,  and  the 
Temple  which  lies  fashioned  under  ground, 
please  to  consider  all  this  as  the  Future  lying 
prepared  and  certain  under  the  Present:  you 
observe,  not  only  inspired  Reason  (or  the  Man 
with  the  Lamp)  but  scientific  Thought  (or  the 
Snake)  can  discern  it  lying  there :  neverthe- 
less much  work  must  be  done,  innumerable 
difficulties  fronted  and  conquered,  before  it  can 
rise  out  of  the  depths,  (of  the  Future,)  and  re- 
alize itself  as  the  actual  worshipping-place  of 
man,  and  'the  most  frequented  Temple  in  the 
whole  Earth.' 

"As  for  the  fair  Lily  and  her  ambulatory 
necessitous  Prince,  these  are  objects  that  I 
shall  admit  myself  incapable  of  naming;  yet 
nowise  admit  myself  incapable  of  attaching 
meaning  to.  Consider  them  as  the  two  dis- 
jointed Halves  of  this  singular  Dualistic  Being 
of  ours  ;  a  Being,  I  must  say,  the  most  utterly 
Dualistic ;  fashioned,  from  the  very  heart  of 
it,  out  of  Positive  and  Negative,  (what  we  hap- 
pily call  Light  and  Darkness,  necessity  and 
Freewill,  Good  and  Evil,  and  the  like ;)  every- 
where out  of  two  mortally  opposed  things, 
which  yet  must  be  united  in  vital  love,  if  there 
is  to  be  any  Life  ;—a.  being,  I  repeat,  Dualistic 
beyond  expressing ;  which  will  split  in  two, 
strike  it  in  any  direction,  on  any  of  its  six 
sides;  and  doesof  itself  split  in  two,  (into  Con- 
tradiction,) every  hour  of  the  day,— were  not 
Life  perpetually  there,  perpetually  knitting  it 
together  again !  But  as  to  that  cutting  up,  and 
parcelling,  and  labelling  of  the  indivisible 
Human  Soul  into  what  are  called  "Faculties," 
it  is  a  thing  I  have  from  of  old  eschewed,  and 
even  hated.  A  thing  which  you  must  some- 
times do,  (or  you  cannot  speak;)  yet  which  is 
never  done  without  Error  hovering  near  you; 
for  most  part,  without  her  pouncing  on  you, 
and  quite  blindfolding  you. 

"  Let  not  us,  therefpre,  in  looking  at  Lily 
and  her  Prince  be  tempted  to  that  practice : 
why  should  we  try  to  name  them  at  all  1  Enough 
if  we  do  feel  that  man's  whole  Being  is  riven 
asunder  every  way  (in  this '  transitionary  age,') 
and  yawning  in  hostile,  irreconcilable  contra- 
49 


diction  with  itself:  what  good  were  it  to  know 
farther  in  what  direction  the  rift  (as  our  Poet 
here  pleased  to  represent  it)  had  taken  effect  1 
Fancy,  however,  that  these  two  Halves  of 
Man's  Soul  and  Being  are  separated,  in  paia 
and  enchanted  obstruction,  from  one  another. 
The  better,  fairer  Half  sits  in  the  Supernatural 
country,  deadening  and  killing;  alas,  not  per- 
mitted to  come  across  into  the  Natural  visible 
country,  and  there  make  ail  blessed  and  alive ! 
The  rugged  stronger  Half,  in  such  separation, 
is  quite  lamed  and  paralytic ;  wretched,  for- 
lorn, in  a  state  of  death-life,  must  he  wander  to 
and  fro  over  the  River  of  Time  ;  all  that  is  dear 
and  essential  to  him,  imprisoned  there;  which 
if  he  look  at  he  grows  still  weaker,  which  if 
he  touch,  he  dies.  Poor  Prince  !  And  let  the 
judicious  reader,  who  had  read  the  Era  he  lives 
in,  or  even  spelt  the  alphabet  thereof,  say 
whether,  with  the  paralytic-lamed  Activity  of 
man  (hampered  and  hamstrung  *  in  a  transi- 
tionary age'  of  Skepticism,  Methodism;  atheis- 
tic Sarcasm,  hysteric  Orgasm ;  brazen-faced 
Delusion,  Puffery,  Hypocrisy,  Stupidity,  and 
the  whole  Bill  and  nothing  but  the  Bill,)  it  is 
not  even  so"?  Must  not  poor  man's  Activity 
(like  this  poor  Prince)  wander  from  Natural  to 
Supernatural,  and  back  again,  disconsolate 
enough;  unable  to  do  any  thing, except  merely 
wring  its  hands,  and,  whimpering  and  blub- 
bering, lamentably  inquire  :  What  shall  I  do? 
"But  Courage!  Courage!  The  Temple  is 
built,  (though  under-ground ;)  the  Bridge  shall 
arch  itself,  the  divided  Two  shall  clasp  each 
other  as  flames  do,  rushing  into  one ;  and  all 
that  ends  well  shall  be  well !  Mark  only  how, 
in  this  imitable  Poem,  worthy  an  Olympic 
crown,  or  prize  of  the  Literary  Society,  it  is 
represented  as  proceeding !" 

So  far  D.  T.;  a  commentator  who  at  least 
does  not  want  confidence  in  himself;  whom 
we  shall  only  caution  not  to  be  too  confident ; 
to  remember  always  that,  as  he  once  says, 
" Phantasmagory  is  not  Allegory;"  that  much 
exists,  under  our  very  noses,  which  has  no 
"  name,"  and  can  get  none ;  that  the  "  River 
of  Time"  and  so  forth  may  be  one  thing,  or 
more  than  one,  or  none ;  that,  in  short,  there 
is  risk  of  the  too  valiant  D.  T.'s  bamboozling 
himself  in  this  matter  ;  being  led  from  puddle 
to  pool;  and  so  lef^  standing  at  last,  like  a 
foolish  mystified  nose-of-wax,  wondering  where 
the  devil  he  is. 

To  the  simpler  sort  of  readers  we  shall  also 
extend  an  advice ;  or  be  it  rather,  proffer  a 
petition.  It  is  to  fancy  themselves,  for  the 
time  being,  delivered  altogether  from  D.  T.'s 
company;  and  to  read  this  Mdhrchen,  as  if  it 
were  there  only  for  its  own  sake,  and  those 
tag-rag  Notes  of  his  were  so  much  blank 
paper.  Let  the  simpler  sort  of  readers  say 
now  how  they  like  it!  If  unhappily  on  look- 
ing back,  some  spasm  of  "the  malady  of 
thought,"  begin  afflicting  them,  let  such  Notes 
be  then  inquired  of,  but  not  till  then,  and  then 
also  with  distrust.  Pin  thy  faith  to  no  man's 
sleeve;  hast  thou  not  two  eyes  of  thy  own  1 

The  Commentator  himself  cannot,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  imagine  that  he  has  exhausted  the  mat- 
ter.    To  decipher  and  represent  the  genesis  of 
2K 


886 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


this  extraordinary  Production,  and  what  was 
the  Author's  state  of  mind  in  producing  it;  to 
see,  with  dim,  common  eyes,  what  the  great 
Goethe,  with  inspired  poetic  eyes,  then  saw ; 
and  paint  to  oneself  the  thick-coming  shapes 
and  many-coloured  splendours  of  his  "  Pros- 
pero's  Grotto,"  at  that  hour:  this  were  what 
we  could  call  complete  criticism  and  com- 
mentary ;  what  D.  T.  is  far  from  having  done, 
and  ought  to  fall  on  his  face,  and  confess  that 
he  can  never  do. 

We  shall  conclude  with  remarking  two 
things.  First,  that  D.  T.  does  not  appear  to 
have  set  eye  on  any  of  those  German  Com- 
mentaries on  this  Tale  of  Tales ;  or  even  to 
have  heard,  credently,  that  such  exist:  an 
omission,  in  a  professed  Translator,  which  he 
himself  may  answer  for.  Secondly,  that  with 
all  his  boundless  preluding,  he  has  forgot  to 
insert  the  Author's  own  prelude ;  the  passage, 
namely,  by  which  this  Mdhrchen  is  especially 
ushered  in,  and  the  key-note  of  it  struck  by  the 
Composer  himself,  and  the  tone  of  the  whole 
prescribed!  This  latter  altogether  glaring 
omission  we  now  charitably  supply ;  and  then 
let  D.  T.,  and  his  illustrious  Original,  and  the 
Readers  of  this  Magazine  take  it  among  them. 
Turn  to  the  latter  part  of  the  Deutschen  Jusge- 
wanderten  (page  208,  Volume  XV.  of  the  last 
Edition  of  Goethe^s  Werke ;)  it  is  written  there 
as  we  render  it : 

"'The  Imagination,'  said  Karl,  *is  a  fine 
faculty;  yet  I  like  not  when  she  works  on 
what  has  actually  happened :  the  airy  forms 
she  creates  are  welcome  as  things  of  their 
own  kind;  but  uniting  with  Truth  she  pro- 
duces oftenest  nothing  but  monsters ;  and 
seems  to  me,  in  such  cases,  to  fly  into  direct 
variance  with  Reason  and  Common  sense. 
She  ought,  you  might  say,  to  hang  upon  no 
object,  to  force  no  object  on  us;  she  must,  if 
she  is  to  produce  Works  of  Art,  play  like  a 
sort  of  music  upon  us ;  move  us  within  our- 
selves, and  this  in  such  a  way  that  we  forget 
there  is  any  thing  without  us  producing  the 
movement.' 

" '  Proceed  no  farther,'  said  the  old  man, 
*  with  your  conditionings  !  To  enjoy  a  pro- 
duct of  Imagination  this  also  is  a  condition, 
that  we  enjoy  it  unconditionally;  for  Imagina- 
tion herself  cannot  condition  and  bargain  ;  she 
must  wait  what  shall  be  given  her.  She  forms 
no  plans,  prescribes  for  herself  no  path ;  but 
is  borne  and  guided  by  her  own  pinions  ;  and 
hovering  hither  and  thither,  marks  out  the 
strangest  courses ;  which  in  their  direction 
are  ever  altering.  Let  me  but,  on  my  evening 
walk,  call  up  again  to  life  within  me,  some 
wondrous  figures  I  was  wont  to  play  with  in 
earlier  years.  This  night  I  promise  you  a  Tale, 
which  shall  remind  you  of  Nothing  and  of  AIL' " 

And  now  for  it !  O.  Y. 

THE  TALE. 

Isr  his  little  Hut,  by  the  great  River,  which 
a  heavy  rain  had  swoln  to  overflowing,  lay  the 
ancient  Ferryman,  asleep,  wearied  by  the  toil 
of  the  day.    In  the  middle  of  the  night,*  loud 

*  In  the  middle  of  the  night  truly !  In  the  middle  of  the 
Dark  Ages,  when  what  with  Mohammedan  Conquests, 


voices  awoke  him ;  he  heard  that  it  was  travel- 
lers wishing  to  be  carried  over. 

Stepping  out,  he  saw  two  large  Will-o'-wisps, 
hovering  to  and  fro  on  his  boat,  which  lay 
moored  ;  they  said,  they  were  in  violent  haste, 
and  should  have  been  already  on  the  other 
side.  The  old  Ferryman  made  no  loitering; 
pushed  off",  and  steered  with  his  usual  skill 
obliquely  through  the  stream  :  while  the  two 
strangers  whiffled  and  hissed  together,  in  an 
unknown  very  rapid  tongue,  and  every  now 
and  then  broke  out  in  loud  laughter,  hopping 
about,  at  one  time  on  the  gunwale  and  the 
seats,  at  another  on  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"The  boat  is  heeling!"  cried  the  old  man 
"if  you   don't  be   quiet,  it   will  overset;   be 
seated,  gentlemen  of  the  wisp  !" 

At  this  advice  they  burst  into  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter, mocked  the  old  man,  and  were  more  un- 
quiet than  ever.  He  bore  their  mischief  with 
patience,  and  soon  reached  the  farther  shore. 

"  Here  is  for  your  labour !"  cried  the  travellers, 
and  as  they  shook  themselves,  a  heap  of  glit- 
tering gold-pieces  jingled  down  into  the  wet 
boat.  "For  Heaven's  sake,  what  are  you 
about  ?"  cried  the  old  man  ;  "  you  will  ruin  me 
for  ever !  Had  a  single  piece  of  gold  got 
into  the  water,  the  stream  which  cannot  suffer 
gold,  would  have  risen  in  horrid  waves,  and 
swallowed  both  my  skiff"  and  me ;  and  who 
knows  how  it  might  have  fared  with  you  in 
that  case  :  here,  take  back  your  gold." 

"  We  can  take  nothing  back,  which  we  have 
once  shaken  from  us,"  said  the  Lights. 

"Then  you  give  me  the  trouble,"  said  the  old 
man,  stooping  down,  and  gathering  the  pieces 
into  his  cap,  "  of  raking  them  together,  and 
carrying  them  ashore,  and  burying  them." 

The  Lights  had  leaped  from  the  boat,  but  the 
old  man  cried :  "  Stay  ;  where  is  ray  fare  ?" 

"  If  you  take  no  gold,  you  may  work  for  no- 
thing," cried  the  Will-o'-wisps. — "You  must 
know  that  I  am  only  to  be  paid  with  fruits  of 
the  earth." — "  Fruits  of  the  earth  1  we  despise 
them  and  have  never  tasted  them." — "  And  yet 
I  cannot  let  you  go,  till  you  have  promised  that 
3'^ou  will  deliver  me  three  Cabbages,  three  Arti- 
chokes, and  three  large  Onions." 

The  Lights  were  making  off"  with  jests ;  but 
they  felt  themselves,  in  some  inexplicable 
manner,  fastened  to  the  ground:  it  was  the  un- 
pleasantest  feeling  they  had  ever  had.  They 
engaged  to  pay  him  his  demand  as  soon  as 
possible :  he  let  them  go,  and  pushed  away. 
He  was  gone  a  good  distance,  when  they  called 
to  him :  "  Old  Man !  Holla,  old  man  !  the  main 
point  is  forgotten  !"*  He  was  off",  however,  and 
did  not  hear  them.  He  had  fallen  quietly  down 
that  side  of  the  River,  where,  in  a  rocky  spot, 
which  the  water  never  reached,  he  meant  to 
bury  the  pernicious  gold.  Here,  between  two 
high  crags,  he  found  a  monstrous  chasm ;  shook 


what  with  Christian  Crusadings,  Destructions  of  Con- 
stantinople, Discoveries  of  America,  the  Time-River 
was  indeed  swoln  to  overflowing;  and  the  Iirnes  Fatui 
(of  Elegant  Culture,  of  I-ilerature.)  must  needs  feel  in 
haste  to  get  over  into  Existence,  being  much  wanted ; 
and  apply  to  the  Priesthood,  (respectable  old  Ferryman, 
roused  out  of  sleep  thereby  !)  wlio  willingly  introduced 
them,  mischievous,  ungrateful  imps  as  they  were. — D.  T. 
*  What  could  this  be?  To  ask  whither  their  next 
road  lay  1  It  was  useless  to  ask  there  :  the  respectable 
old  Priesthood  *'  did  not  hear  them." — D.  T. 


THE  TALE. 


the  metal  into  it,  and  steered  back  to  his  cot- 
tage. 

Now,  in  this  chasm,  lay  the  fair  green  Snake, 
who  was  roused  from  her  sleep  by  the  gold 
coming  chinking  down.*  No  sooner  did  she 
fix  her  eye  on  the  glittering  coins,  than  she 
ate  them  all  up,  with  the  greatest  relish,  on  the 
spot;  and  carefully  picked  out  such  pieces  as 
were  scattered  in  the  chinks  of  the  rock. 

Scarcely  had  she  swallowed  them,  when,  with 
extreme  delight,  she  began  to  feel  the  metal 
melting  in  her  inwards,  and  spreading  all  over 
her  body ;  and  soon,  to  her  lively  joy,  she  ob- 
served that  she  was  grown  transparent  and 
luminous.  Long  ago  she  had  been  told  that 
this  was  possible;  but  now  being  doubtful 
whether  such  a  light  could  last,  her  curiosity 
and  the  desire  to  be  secure  against  the  future, 
drove  her  from  her  cell,  that  she  might  see 
who  it  was  that  had  shaken  in  this  precious 
metal.  She  found  no  one.  The  more  delight- 
ful was  it  to  admire  her  own  appearance,  and 
her  graceful  brightness,  as  she  crawled  along 
through  roots  and  bushes,  and  spread  out  her 
light  among  the  grass.  Every  leaf  seemed  of 
emerald,  every  flower  was  dyed  with  new  glory. 
It  was  in  vain  that  she  crossed  the  solitary 
thickets ;  but  her  hopes  rose  high,  when,  on 
reaching  the  open  country,  she  perceived  from 
afar  a  brilliancy  resembling  her  own.  "  Shall 
I  find  my  like  at  last,  then]"  cried  she,  and 
hastened  to  the  spot.  The  toil  of  crawling 
through  bog  and  reeds  gave  her  little  thought ; 
for  though  she  liked  best  to  live  in  dry  grassy 
spots  of  the  mountains,  among  the  clefts  of 
rocks,  and  for  most  part  fed  on  spicy  herbs, 
and  slaked  her  thirst  with  mild  dew  and  fresh 
spring  water,  yet  for  the  sake  of  this  dear  gold, 
and  in  the  hope  of  this  glorious  light,  she 
would  have  undertaken  any  thing  you  could 
propose  to  her. 

At  last,  with  much  fatigue,  she  reached  a  wet 
rushy  spot  in  the  swamp,  where  our  two  Will- 
o'-wisps  were  frisking  to  and  fro.  She  shoved 
herself  along  to  them  ;  saluted  them,  was  happy 
to  meet  such  pleasant  gentlemen  related  to  her 
family.  The  Lights  glided  towards  her, 
skipped  up  over  her,  and  laughed  in  their 
fashion.  "Lady  Cousin,"  said  they,  "you  are 
of  the  horizontal  line,  yet  what  of  that  1  It  is 
true  we  are  related  only  by  the  look ;  for  ob- 
serve you,"  here  both  the  Flames,  compressing 
their  whole  breadth,  made  themselves  as  high 
and  peaked  as  possible,  "  how  prettily  this 
taper  length  beseems  us  gentlemen  of  the  ver- 
tical line !  Take  it  not  amiss  of  us,  good 
Lady;  what  family  can  boast  of  such  a  thing] 
Since  there  ever  was  a  Jack-oManthorn  in  the 
world,  no  one  of  them  has  either  sat  or  lain." 

The  Snake  felt  exceedingly  uncomfortable 
in  the  company  of  these  relations  ;  for  let  her 
hold  her  head  as  high  as  possible,  she  found 
that  she  must  bend  it  to  the  earth  again,  would 
she  stir  from  the  spot  ;f  and  if  in  the  dark 


*  Thought,  Understanding,  roused  from  her  \ot\g 
sleep  by  the  first  produce  of  modern  Belles  Lettrea ; 
which  she  eagerly  devours. — D.  T. 

f  True  enough :  Thought  cannot  fly  and  dance,  as 
your  wildfire  of  Belles  Lettres  may ;  she  proceeds  in  the 
systole-diastole,  up-and-down  method  ;  and  must  ever 
"bend  h«r  head  to  the  earth  again,"  (in  the  way  of  Ba- 
conian Experiment,)  or  she  will  not  stir  from  the  spot. — 
D.  T. 


thicket  she  had  been  extremely  satisfied  with 
her  appearance,  her  splendour  in  the  presence 
of  these  cousins  seemed  to  lesson  every  mo- 
ment, nay  she  was  afraid  that  at  last  it  would 
go  out  entirely. 

In  this  embarrassment  she  hastily  asked: 
if  the  gentlemen  could  not  inform  her,  whence 
the  glittering  gold  came,  that  had  fallen  a 
short  while  ago  into  the  cleft  of  the  rock ;  her 
own  opinion  was,  that  it  had  been  a  golden 
shower,  and  had  trickled  down  direct  from  the 
sky.  The  Will-o'-wisps  laughed,  and  shook 
themselves,  and  a  multitude  of  gold-pieces 
came  clinking  down  about  them.  The  snake 
pushed  nimbly  forward  to  eat  the  coin.  "  Much 
good  may  it  do  you.  Mistress,"  said  the  dap- 
per gentlemen  :  "  we  can  help  you  to  a  little 
more."  They  shook  themselves  again  several 
times  with  great  quickness,  so  that  the  Snake 
could  scarcely  gulp  the  precious  victuals  fast 
enough.  Her  splendour  visibly  began  increas- 
ing; she  was  really  shining  beautifully,  while 
the  Lights  had  in  the  mean  time  grown  rather 
lean  and  short  of  stature,  without  however  in 
the  smallest  losing  their  good-humour. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  ever,"  said  the 
Snake,  having  got  her  wind  again  after  the  re- 
past ;  "  ask  of  me  what  you  will ;  all  that  I  can 
I  will  do." 

"  Very  good !"  cried  the  Lights.  "  Then  tell 
us  where  the  fair  Lily  dwells  ]  Lead  us  to  the 
fair  Lily's  palace  and  garden  ;  and  do  not  lose  a 
moment,  we  are  dying  of  impatience  to  fall 
down  at  her  feet." 

"This  service,"  said  the  Snake  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  I  cannot  now  do  for  you.  The  fair  Lily 
dwells,  alas,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water." — 
"  Other  side  of  the  water  1  And  we  have  come 
across  it,  this  stormy  night !  How  cruel  is  the 
River  to  divide  us!  Would  it  not  be  possible 
to  call  the  old  man  back?" 

"  It  would  be  useless,"  said  the  Snake  ;  "  for 
if  you  found  him  ready  on  the  bank,  he  would 
not  take  you  in ;  he  can  carry  any  one  to  this 
side,  none  to  yonder." 

"  Here  is  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish !"  cried  the 
Lights  .-"are  there  no  other  means  of  getting 
through  the  water]" — "  There  are  other  means, 
but  not  at  this  moment.  I  myself  could  take 
you  over,  gentlemen,  but  not  till  noon." — "  That 
is  an  hour  we  do  not  like  to  travel  in." — "  Then 
you  may  go  across  in  the  evening,  on  the  great 
Giant's  shadow." — "  How  is  that  ]" — "  The  great 
Giant  lives  not  far  from  this  ;  with  his  body  he 
has  no  power ;  his  hands  cannot  lift  a  straw,  his 
shoulders  could  not  bear  a  fagot  of  twigs ;  but 
with  his  shadow  he  has  power  over  much,  nay 
all.*  At  sunrise  and  sunset  therefore  he  is  strong- 
est ;  so  at  evening  you  merely  put  yourself  upon 
the  back  of  his  shadow,  the  Giant  walks  softly  to 
the  bank,  and  the  shadow  carries  you  across  the 
water.  But  if  you  please,  about  the  hour  of 
noon,  to  be  in  waiting  at  that  corner  of  the 
wood,  where  the  bushes  overhang  the  bank,  I 
myself  will  take  you  over  and  present  you  to 
the  fair  Lily:  or  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  dis- 
like the  noontide,  you  have  just  to  go  at  night- 
fall to  that  bend  of  the  rocks,  and  pay  a  visit  to 


*  Is  not  Superstition  strongest  when  the  sun  is  lowl 
with    body,  powerless;    with  shadow,  omnipotent?— 


388 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  Giant ;  he  will  certainly  receive  you  like 
a  gentleman." 

With  a  slight  bow,  the  flames  went  ofF;  and 
the  Snake  at  bottom  was  not  discontented  to 
get  rid  of  them ;  partly  that  she  might  enjoy 
the  brightness  of  her  own  light,  partly  satisfy  a 
curiosity  with  which,  for  a  long  time,  she  had 
been  agitated  in  a  singular  way. 

In  the  chasm,  where  she  often  crawled  hither 
and  thither,  she  had  made  a  strange  discovery. 
For  although  in  creeping  up  and  down  this 
abyss,  she  had  never  had  a  ray  of  light,  she 
could  well  enough  discriminate  the  objects  in 
it,  by  her  sense  of  touch.  Generally  she  met 
with  nothing  but  irregular  productions  of 
nature;  at  one  time  she  would  wind  between 
the  teeth  of  large  crystals,  at  another  she  would 
feel  the  barbs  and  hairs  of  native  silver,  and 
now  and  then  carry  out  with  her  to  the  light 
some  straggling  jewels.*  But  to  her  no  small 
wonder,  in  a  rock  which  was  closed  on  every 
side,  she  had  come  on  certain  objects  which 
betrayed  the  shaping  band  of  man :  smooth 
walls  on  which  she  could  not  climb,  sharp 
regular  corners,  well-formed  pillars;  and  what 
seemed  strangest  of  all,  human  figures  which 
she  had  entwined  more  than  once,  and  which 
appeared  to  her  to  be  of  brass,  or  of  the  finest 
polished  marble.  All  these  experiences  she 
now  wished  to  combine  by  the  sense  of  sight, 
thereby  to  confirm  what  as  yet  she  only  guessed. 
She  believed  she  could  illuminate  the  whole  of 
that  subterranean  vault  by  her  own  light ;  and 
hoped  to  get  acquainted  with  these  curious 
things  at  once.  She  hastened  back;  and  soon 
found,  by  the  usual  way,  the  cleft  by  which  she 
used  to  penetrate  the  Sanctuary. 

On  reaching  the  place,  she  gazed  around  with 
eager  curiosity;  and  though  her  shining  could 
not  enlighten  every  object  in  the  rotunda,  yet 
those  nearest  her  were  plain  enough.  With 
astonishment  and  reverence  she  looked  up  into 
a  glancing  niche,  where  the  image  of  an 
august  King  stood  formed  of  pure  Gold.  In 
size  the  figure  was  beyond  the  stature  of  man, 
but  by  its  shape  it  seemed  the  likeness  of  a 
little  rather  than  a  tall  person.  His  handsome 
body  was  encircled  with  an  unadorned  mantle ; 
and  a  garland  of  oak  bound  his  hair  together. 

No  sooner  had  the  Snake  beheld  this  reve- 
rend figure,  than  the  King  began  to  speak,  and 
asked:  "Whence  comest  thou?" — "From  the 
chasms  where  the  gold  dwells,"  said  the  Snake. 
"  What  is  grander  than  gold  1"  inquired  the 
King.— " Light,"  replied  the  Snake.  "What 
is  more  refreshing  than  light  ]"  said  he. — 
"  Speech,"  answered  she. 

During  this  conversation  she  had  squinted 
to  a  side,  and  in  the  nearest  niche  perceived 
another  glorious  image.  It  was  a  Silver  King 
in  a  sitting  posture;  his  shape  was  long  and 
rather  languid ;  he  was  covered  with  a  deco- 
rated robe ;  crown,  girdle,  and  sceptre  were 
adorned  with  precious  stones:  the  cheerfulness 
of  pride  was  in  his  countenance ;  he  seemed 


*  Primitive  employments,  and  attainments,  of 
Thought,  in  this  durk  den  whither  it  is  sent  to  dwell. 
For  many  long  ages,  it  discerns  "nothing  but  irrecular 
productions  of  Nature  ;"  having  indeed  to  pick  material 
bed  and  board  out  of  Nature  aud  her  irregular  produc- 
tions.—D.  T. 


about  to  speak,  when  a  vein  which  ran  dimly- 
coloured  over  the  marble  wall,  on  a  sudden 
became  bright,  and  diffused  a  cheerful  light 
throughout  the  whole  Temple.  By  this  bril- 
liancy the  Snake  perceived  a  third  King,  made 
of  Brass,  and  sitting  mighty  in  shape,  leaning 
on  his  club,  adorned  with  a  laurel  garland,  and 
more  like  a  rock  than  a  man.  She  was  looking 
for  the  fourth,  which  was  standing  at  the 
greatest  distance  from  her ;  but  the  wall  opened, 
while  the  glittering  vein  started  and  split,  as 
lightning  does,  and  disappeared. 

A  Man  of  middle  stature,  entering  through 
the  cleft,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Snake. 
He  was  dressed  like  a  peasant,  and  carried  in 
his  hand  a  little  Lamp,  on  whose  still  flame  you 
liked  to  look,  and  which  in  a  strange  manner, 
without  casting  any  shadow,  enlightened  the 
whole  dome.* 

"  Why  comest  thou,  since  we  have  light  V* 
said  the  golden  King. — "  You  know  that  I  may 
not  enlighten  what  is  dark."f — "Will  my 
Kingdom  end  ?"  said  the  silver  King. — ^"Late 
or  never,"  said  the  old  Man. 

With  a  stronger  voice  the  brazen  King 
began  to  ask:  "When  shall  I  arise?" — 
"  Soon,"  replied  the  Man. — ''  With  whom  shall 
I  combine?"  said  the  King.— "With  thy  elder 
brothers,"  said  the  Man. — "  What  will  the 
youngest  do  1"  inquired  the  King. — "  He  will 
sit  down,"  replied  the  Man. 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  cried  the  fourth  King,  with 
a  rongh  faltering  voice.t 

While  this  speech  was  going  on,  the  Snake 
had  glided  softly  round  the  temple,  viewing 
every  thing;  she  was  now  looking  at  the  fourth 
King  close  by  him.  He  stood  leaning  on  a 
pillar;  his  considerable  form  was  heavy  rather 
than  beautiful.  But  what  metal  it  was  made 
of  could  not  be  determined.  Closely  inspected, 
it  seemed  a  mixture  of  the  three  metals  which 
its  brothers  had  been  formed  of.  But  in  the 
founding,  these  materials  did  not  seem  to  have 
combined  together  fully;  gold  and  silver  veins 
ran  irregularly  through  a  brazen  mass,  and 
gave  the  figure  an  unpleasant  aspect. 

Meanwhile  the  gold  King  was  asking  of  the 
Man,  "How  many  secrets  knowest  thou?" — 
"Three,"  replied  the  Man. — ^"  Which  is  the 
most  important?"  said  the  silver  King. — "The 
open  one,"  replied  the  other.§ — "  Wilt  thou 
open  it  to  us  also?"  said  the  brass  King. — 
"  When  I  know  the  fourth,"  replied  the  Man. — 
"  What  care  I  ?"  grumbled  the  composite  King, 
in  an  under  tone. 

"I  know  the  fourth,"  said  the  Snake;  ap- 
proached the  old  Man,  and  hissed  somewhat  in 
his  ear.  "The  time  is  at  hand  ?"  cried  the  old 
Man,  with   a   strong  voice.     The   temple  re- 

*  Poetic  Light,  celestial  Reason  !— D.  T. 

Let  the  reader,  in  one  word,  attend  well  to  these  four 
Kings  :  much  annotation  from  D.  T.  is  here  necessarily 
swept  out. — O.  Y. 

t  What  is  wholly  dark.  Understanding  precedes 
Reason  :  modern  Science  is  come  :  modern  Poesy  is  still 
but  coming, -in  Goethe,  (and  whom  else?)— D.  T. 

t  Consider  these  Kings  as  Eras  ofthe  World's  History ; 
CO,  not  as  Eras,  but  as  Principles  which  jointly  or  seve- 
rally rule  Eras.  Alas,  poor  we,  in  this  chaotic  soft- 
soldered  "  transitionary  age,"  are  so  unfortunate  as  to 
live  under  the  Fourth  King.— D.  T. 

$  Reader,  hast  thou  any  glimpse  ofthe  "  open  secret  1" 
I  fear,  not.— D.  T.— Writer,  art  thou  a  goose  1  1  fear, 
yes.— O.  Y. 


THE  TALE. 


889 


echoed,  the  metal  statues  sounded;  and  that 
instant  the  old  Man  sank  away  to  the  west- 
ward, and  the  Snake  to  the  eastward;  and  both 
of  them  passed  through  the  clefts  of  the  rock, 
with  the  greatest  speed. 

All  the  passages,  through  which  the  old 
Man  travelled,  tilled  themselves  immediately 
behind  him  with  gold ;  for  his  Lamp  had  the 
strange  property  of  changing  stone  into  gold, 
wood  into  silver,  dead  animals  into  precious 
stones,  and  of  annihilating  all  metals.  But  to 
display  this  power,  it  must  shine  alone.  If 
another  light  were  beside  it,  the  Lamp  only 
cast  from  it  a  pure  clear  brightness,  and  all 
living  things  were  refreshed  by  it.* 

The  old  Man  entered  his  cottage,  which  was 
built  on  the  slope  of  the  hill.  He  found  his 
Wife  in  extreme  distress.  She  was  sitting  at 
the  fire  weeping,  and  refusing  to  be  consoled. 
"  How  unhappy  am  I !"  cried  she  :  "  Did  I  not 
entreat  thee  not  to  go  away  to-night  1" — "  What 
is  the  matter,  then  1"  inquired  the  husband, 
quite  composed. 

"  Scarcely  wert  thou  gone,"  said  she,  sobbing, 
"  when  there  came  two  noisy  Travellers  to  the 
door :  unthinkingly  I  let  them  in  ;  they  seemed 
to  be  a  couple  of  genteel,  very  honourable 
people ;  they  were  dressed  in  flames,  you 
would  have  taken  them  for  Will-o'-wisps. 
But  no  sooner  were  they  in  the  house,  than 
they  began,  like  impudent  varlets,  to  compli- 
ment me,-(-  and  grew  so  forward  that  I  feel 
ashamed  to  think  of  it." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  the  husband  with  a  smile, 
"  the  gentlemen  were  jesting  :  considering  thy 
age,  they  might  have  held  by  general  politeness." 

"  Age  !  what  age  1"  cried  the  Wife  :  "  wilt 
thou  always  be  talking  of  my  agel  How  old 
am  I  then  1 — General  politeness  !  But  I  know 
what  I  know.  Look  round  there  what  a  face 
the  walls  have;  look  at  the  old  stones,  which  I 
have  not  seen  these  hundred  years;  every  film 
of  gold  have  they  licked  away,  thou  couldst  not 
think  how  fast;  and  still  they  kept  assuring  me 
that  it  tasted  far  beyond  common  gold.  Once 
they  had  swept  the  walls,  the  fellows  seemed 
to  be  in  high  spirits,  and  truly  in  that  little 
while  they  had  grown  much  broader  and 
brighter.  They  now  began  to  be  impertinent 
again,  they  patted  me,  and  called  me  their 
queen,  they  shook  themselves,  and  a  shower 
of  gold  pieces  sprang  from  them !  See  how  they 
are  shining  there  under  the  bench  !  But  ah  ! 
what  misery  !  Poor  Mops  ate  a  coin  or  two  ; 
and  look,  he  is  lying  in  the  chimney,  dead.  Poor 
Pug !  O  well-a-day !  I  did  not  see  it  till  they 
were  gone ;  else  I  had  never  promised  to  pay 
the  Ferryman  the  debt  they  owe  him." — "  What 
do  they  owe  him  V  said  the  Man. — "  Three 
Cabbages,"  replied  the  Wife, "  three  Artichokes 
and  three  Onions  :  I  engaged  to  go  when  it  was 
day,  and  take  them  to  the  River." 

"Thou  mayest  do  them  that  civility,"  said 


*  In  Illiiniinated  Ages,  the  Age  of  Miracles  is  said  to 
cease  ;  but  it  is  only  we  that  cease  to  see  it,  for  we  are 
still  "  refreshed  by  it."— D.  T. 

f  Poor  old  Practical  Endeavour  !  Listen  to  many  an 
JBnc?/cZop^(iic-Diderot,  humanized  Philosophe,  didactic 
singer,  march-of-intellect  men,  and  other  "  impudent 
varlets"  (that  would  never  put  their  own  finger  to  the 
work  ;)  and  hear  what  "  coniplJmentfl"  they  uttered,— 
D.  T. 


the  old  Man  ;  "  they  may  chance  to  be  of  use 
to  us  again." 

"  Whether  they  will  be  of  use  to  us  I  know 
not ;  but  they  promised  and  vowed  that  they 
would." 

Meantime  the  fire  on  the  hearth  had  burnt 
low ;  the  old  Man  covered  up  the  embers  with 
a  heap  of  ashes,  and  put  the  glittering  gold 
pieces  aside;  so  that  his  little  Lamp  now 
gleamed  alone,  in  the  fairest  brightness.  The 
walls  again  coated  themselves  with  gold,  and 
Mops  changed  into  the  prettiest  onyx  that 
could  be  imagined.  The  alternation  of  the 
brown  and  black  in  this  precious  stone  made 
it  the  most  curious  piece  of  workmanship. 

"Take  thy  basket,"  said  the  Man,  "and 
put  the  onyx  into  it;  then  take  the  three 
Cabbages,  the  three  Artichokes,  and  the  three 
Onions ;  place  them  round  little  Mops,  and 
carry  them  to  the  River.  At  noon  the  Snake 
will  take  thee  over ;  visit  the  fair  Lily,  give 
her  the  onyx,  she  will  make  it  alive  by  her 
touch,  as  by  her  touch  she  kills  whatever  is 
alive  already.  She  will  have  a  true  com- 
panion in  the  little  dog.  Tell  her  not  to 
mourn ;  her  deliverance  is  near ;  the  greatest 
misfortune  she  may  look  upon  as  the  greatest 
happiness ;  for  the  lime  is  at  hand." 

The  old  Woman  filled  her  basket,  and  set 
out  as  soon  as  it  was  day.  The  rising  sun 
shone  clear  from  the  other  side  of  the  River, 
which  was  glittering  in  the  distance :  the  old 
Woman  walked  with  slow  steps,  for  the  bas- 
ket pressed  upon  her  head,  and  it  was  not  the 
onyx  that  so  burdened  her.  Whatever  lifeless 
thing  she  might  be  carrying,  she  did  not  feel 
the  weight  of  it;  on  the  other  hand,  in  those 
cases  the  basket  rose  aloft,  and  hovered  along 
above  her  head.  But  to  carry  any  fresh  herb- 
age, or  any  little  living  animal,  she  found  ex- 
ceedingly laborious.*  She  had  travelled  on 
for  some  time,  in  a  sullen  humour,  when  she 
halted  suddenly  in  fright,  for  she  had  almost 
trod  upon  the  Giant's  shadow,  which  was 
stretching  towards  her  across  the  plain.  And 
now,  lifting  up  her  eyes,  she  saw  the  monster 
of  a  Giant  himself,  who  had  been  bathing  in 
the  River,  and  was  just  come  out,f  and  she 
knew  not  how  she  should  avoid  him.  The 
moment  he  perceived  her,  he  began  saluting 
her  in  sport,  and  the  hands  of  his  shadow  soon 
caught  hold  of  the  basket;  with  dexterous 
ease  they  picked  away  from  it  a  Cabbage,  an 
Artichoke,  and  an  Onion,  and  brought  them  to 
the  Giant's  mouth,  who  then  went  his  way  up 
the  River,  and  let  the  Woman  go  in  peace. 

She  considered  whether  it  would  not  be  bet- 
ter to  return,  and  supply  from  her  garden  the 
pieces  she  had  lost ;  and  amid  these  doubts, 
she  still  kept  walking  on,  so  that  in  a  little 
while  she  was  at  the  bank  of  the  River.  She 
sat  long  waiting  for  the  Ferryman,  whom  she 
perceived  at  last,  steering  over  with  a  very 


*Why  sol  Is  it  because  with  "lifeless  things" 
(with  inanimate  machinery)  all  goes  like  clock-work, 
which  it  is,  and  'Mhe  basket  hovers  aloft ;"  while  with 
living  things,  (were  it  but  the  culture  of  forest-trees) 
poor  Endeavour  has  more  difficulty  1— D.  T.— Or,  is  it 
chiefly  because  a  Tale  must  be  a  Tale  ?— O.  Y. 

t  Very  proper  in  the  huse  Logeerbead  Superstition,  to 
bathe  himself  in  the  element  of  Time,  and  get  refresh- 
ment  thereby.— 1>.  T. 

2k2 


390 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


singular  traveller.  A  young,  noble-looking, 
handsome  man,  whom  she  could  not  gaze 
upon  enough,  stepped  out  of  the  boat. 

"  What  is  it  you  bring  V  cried  the  old  man. 
"The  greens  which  those  two  Will-o'-wisps 
owe  you,"  said  the  Woman,  pointing  to  her 
ware.  As  the  Ferryman  found  only  two  of 
each  sort  he  grew  angry,  and  declared  he 
would  have  none  of  them.  The  Woman  ear- 
nestly entreated  him  to  take  them  ;  told  him 
that  she  could  not  now  go  home,  and  that  her 
burden  for  the  way  which  still  remained  was 
very  heavy.  He  stood  by  his  refusal,  and  as- 
sured her  that  it  did  not  rest  with  him.  "  What 
belongs  to  me,"  said  he"  I  must  leave  lying 
nine  hours  in  a  heap,  touching  none  of  it,  till 
I  have  given  the  River  its  third."  After  much 
higgling,  the  old  man  at  last  replied:  "There 
is  still  another  way.  If  you  like  to  pledge 
yourself  to  the  River,  and  declare  yourself  its 
debtor,  I  will  take  the  six  pieces  ;  but  there  is 
some  risk  in  it." — "  If  I  keep  my  word,  I  shall 
run  no  riskl" — "Not  the  smallest.  Put  your 
hand  into  the  stream,"  continued  he,  "and  pro- 
mise that  within  four-and-twenty  hours  you 
will  pay  the  debt." 

The  old  Woman  did  so ;  but  what  was  her 
affright,  when,  on  drawing  out  her  hand,  she 
found  it  black  as  coal !  She  loudly  scolded 
the  old  Ferryman  ;  declared  that  her  hands 
had  always  been  the  fairest  part  of  her ;  that 
in  spile  of  her  hard  work,  she  had  all  along 
contrived  to  keep  these  noble  members  white 
and  dainty.  She  looked  at  the  hand  with  in- 
dignation, and  exclaimed  in  a  despairing  tone: 
"Worse  and  worse!  Look,  it  is  vanishing 
entirely ;  it  is  grown  far  smaller  than  the 
other."* 

"  For  the  present  it  but  seems  so,"  said  the 
old  man  ;  if  you  do  not  keep  your  word,  how- 
ever, it  may  prove  so  in  earnest.  The  hand 
will  gradually  diminish,  and  at  length  disap- 
pear altogether,  though  you  have  the  use  of  it 
as  formerly.  Every  thing  as  usual  you  will 
be  able  to  perform  with  it,  only  nobody  will 
see  it." — "I  had  rather  that  I  could  not  use  it, 
and  no  one  could  observe  the  want,"  cried 
she ;  "  but  what  of  that,  I  will  keep  my  word, 
and  rid  myself  of  this  black  skin,  and  all  anxi- 
eties about  it."  Thereupon  she  hastily  took 
up  her  basket,  which  mounted  of  itself  over 
her  head,  and  hovered  free  above  her  in  the 
air,  as  she  hurried  after  the  Youth,  who  was 
walking  softly  and  thoughtfully  down  the  bank. 
His  noble  form  and  strange  dress  had  made  a 
deep  impression  on  her. 

His  breast  was  covered  with  a  glittering 
coat  of  mail ;  in  whose  wavings  might  be 
traced  every  motion  of  his  fair  body.  From 
his  shoulders  hung  a  purple  cloak;  around  his 
uncovered  head  flowed  abundant  brown  hair 
in  beautiful  locks  :  his  graceful  face,  and  his 
well-formed  feet  were  exposed  to  the  scorch- 
ing of  the  sun.  With  bare  soles  he  walked 
composedly  over  the  hot  sand  ;  and  a  deep  in- 
ward sorrow  seemed  to  blunt  him  against  all 
external  things. 

»  A  dangerous  thin?  to  pledge  yourself  to  the  Time- 
River  ;— as  many  a  National  Debt,  and  the  like,  black- 
ening, bewitching  the  "  beautiful  hand  "  of  Endeavour, 
can  witness. — D.  T.— Heavens  1 — O.  Y. 


The  garrulous  old  Woman  tried  to  lead  him 
into  conversation  ;  but  with  his  short  answers 
he  gave  her  small  encouragement  or  informa- 
tion ;  so  that  in  the  end,  notwithstanding  the 
beauty  of  his  eyes,  she  grew  tired  of  speaking 
with  him  to  no  purpose,  and  took  leave  of  him 
with  these  words:  "You  walk  too  slow  for 
me,  worthy  sir  ;  I  must  not  lose  a  moment,  for 
I  have  to  pass  the  River  on  the  green  Snake, 
and  carry  this  fine  present  from  my  husband 
to  the  fair  Lily."  So  saying  she  stepped  faster 
forward  ;  but  the  fair  Youth  pushed  on  with 
equal  speed,  and  hastened  to  keep  up  with 
her.  "You  are  going  to  the  fair  Lily!"  cried 
he ;  "  then  our  roads  are  the  same.  But 
what  present  is  this  you  are  bringing  her?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  Woman,  "it  is  hardly  fair, 
after  so  briefly  dismissing  the  questions  I  put 
to  you,  to  inquire  with  such  vivacity  about 
my  secrets.  But  if  you  like  to  barter,  and  tell 
me  your  adventures,  I  will  not  conceal  from 
you  how  it  stands  with  me  and  my  presents." 
They  soon  made  a  bargain ;  the  dame  disclosed 
her  circumstances  to  him ;  told  the  history  of 
the  Pug,  and  let  him  see  the  singular  gift. 

He  lifted  his  natural  curiosity  from  the  bas- 
ket, and  took  Mops,  who  seemed  as  if  sleeping 
softly,  into  his  arms.  "Happy  beast!"  cried 
he  ;  "thou  wilt  be  touched  by  her  hands,  thou 
wilt  be  made  alive  by  her ;  while  the  living 
are  obliged  to  fly  from  her  presence  to  escape 
a  mournful  doom.  Yet  why  say  I  mournful ! 
Is  it  not  far  sadder  and  more  frightful  to  be  in- 
jured by  her  look,  than  it  would  be  to  die  by 
her  hand  ?  Behold  me,"  said  he  to  the  Wo- 
man ;  "at  my  years,  what  a  miserable  fate 
have  I  to  undergo.  This  mail  which  I  have 
honourably  borne  in  war,  this  purple  which  I 
sought  to  merit  by  a  wise  reign,  Destiny  has 
left  me ;  the  one  as  a  useless  burden,  the  other 
as  an  empty  ornament.  Crown,  and  sceptre, 
and  sword  are  gone  ;  and  I  am  as  bare  and 
needy  as  any  other  son  of  earth ;  for  so  un- 
blessed are  her  bright  eyes,  that  they  take  from 
every  living  creature  they  look  on  all  its  force, 
and  those  whom  the  touch  of  her  hand  does 
not  kill  are  changed  to  the  state  of  shadows 
wandering  alive." 

Thus  did  he  continue  to  bewail,  nowise  con- 
tenting the  old  Woman's  curiosity,  who  wished 
for  information  not  so  much  of  his  internal  as 
of  his  external  situation.  She  learned  neither 
the  name  of  his  father,  nor  of  his  kingdom. 
He  stroked  the  hard  Mops,  whom  the  sun- 
beams and  the  bosom  of  the  youth  had  warmed 
as  if  he  had  been  living.  He  inquired  nar- 
ro\Yly  about  the  man  with  the  Lamp,  about 
the  influences  of  the  sacred  light,  appearing 
to  expect  much  good  from  it  in  his  melan- 
choly case. 

Amid  such  conversation,  they  descried  from 
afar  the  majestic  arch  of  the  Bridge,  which 
extended  from  the  one  bank  to  the  other,  glit- 
tering with  the  strangest  colours  in  the  splen- 
dours of  the  sun.  Both  were  astonished;  for 
until  now  they  had  never  seen  this  edifice  so 
grand.  "How!"  cried  the  Prince!  "was  it 
not  beautiful  enough,  as  it  stood  before  our 
eyes,  piled  out  of  jasper  and  agate?  Shall 
we  not  fear  to  tread  it,  now  that  it  appears 
combined  in  graceful  complexity,  of  emerald 


THE  TALE. 


and  chrysopras  and  chrysolite  1"  Neither  of 
them  knew  the  alteration  that  had  taken  place 
upon  the  Snake  :  for  it  was  indeed  the  Snake, 
who  every  day  at  noon  curved  herself  over 
the  River,  and  stood  forth  in  the  form  of  a 
bold-swelling  bridge.*  The  travellers  stepped 
upon  it  with  a  reverential  feeling,  and  passed 
over  it  in  silence. 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  other  shore, 
than  the  bridge  began  to  heave  and  stir;  in  a 
little  while,  it  touched  the  surface  of  the  water, 
and  the  green  Snake  in  her  proper  form  came 
gliding  after  the  wanderers.  They  had  scarcely 
thanked  her  for  the  privilege  of  crossing  on 
her  back,  when  they  found  that,  besides  them 
three,  there  must  be  other  persons  in  the  com- 
pany, whom  their  eyes  could  not  discern.  They 
heard  a  hissing,  which  the  Snake  also  answer- 
ed with  a  hissing ;  they  listened,  and  at  length 
caught  what  follows:  "We  shall  first  look 
about  us  in  the  fair  Lily's  Park,"  said  a  pair 
of  alternating  voices  ;  "  and  then  request  you 
at  nightfall,  so  soon  as  we  are  anywise  pre- 
sentable, to  introduce  us  to  this  paragon  of 
beauty.  At  the  shore  of  the  great  Lake, 
you  will  fi.nd  us." — "  Be  it  so,"  replied  the 
Snake ;  and  a  hissing  sound  died  away  in  the 
air. 

Our  three  travellers  now  consulted  in  what 
order  they  should  introduce  themselves  to  the 
fair  Lady;  for  however  many  people  might  be 
in  her  company,  they  were  obliged  to  enter  and 
depart  singly,  under  pain  of  suffering  very  hard 
severities. 

The  Woman  with  the  metamorphosed  Pug 
in  the  basket  first  approached  the  garden, 
looking  round  for  her  Patroness  ;  who  was  not 
difficult  to  find,  being  just  engaged  in  singing 
to  her  harp.  The  finest  tones  proceeded  from 
her,  first  like  circles  on  the  surface  of  the  still 
lake,  then  like  a  light  breath  they  set  the  grass 
and  the  bushes  in  motion.  In  a  green  enclo- 
sure, under  the  shadow  of  a  stately  group  of 
many  diverse  trees,  was  she  seated;  and  again 
did  she  enchant  the  eyes,  the  ear,  and  the  heart 
of  the  woman,  who  approached  with  rapture, 
and  swore  within  herself  that  since  she  saw 
her  last,  the  fair  one  had  grown  fairer  than 
ever.  With  eager  gladness  from  a  distance 
she  expressed  her  reverence  and  admiration 
for  the  lovely  maiden.  "  What  a  happiness  to 
see  you,  what  a  Heaven  does  your  presence 
spread  around  you  !  How  charmingly  the 
harp  is  leaning  on  your  bosom,  how  softly 
your  arms  surround  it,  how  it  seems  as  if 
longing  to  be  near  you,  and  how  it  sounds  so 
meekly  under  the  touch  of  your  slim  fingers  ! 
Thrice  happy  youth,  to  whom  it  were  permitted 
to  be  there !" 

So  speaking  she  approached;  the  fair  Lily 
raised  her  eyes:  let  her  hands  drop  from  the 
harp,  and  answered:  "Trouble  me  not  v/ith 
untimely  praise  ;  I  feel  my  misery  but  the  more 
deeply.  Look  here,  at  my  feet  lies  the  poor 
Canary-bird,  which  used  so  beautifully  to  ac- 
company my  singing;  it  would  sit  upon  my 
harp,  and  was  trained  not  to  touch  me;  but  to- 


*If  auslit  can  overspan  the  Time-River,  then  what 
but  Understandinir,  but  Thought,  in  its  moment  of  ple- 
nitude, in  its  favourable  noon-moment  1— D.  T. 


day,  while  I,  refreshed  by  sleep,  was  raising  a 
peaceful  morning  hymn,  and  my  little  singer 
was  pouring  forth  his  harmonious  tones  more 
gaily  than  ever,  a  Hawk  darts  over  my  head ; 
the  poor  little  creature,  in  affright,  takes  refuge 
in  my  bosom,  and  I  feel  the  last  palpitations 
of  its  departing  life.  The  plundering  Hawk 
indeed  was  caught  by  my  look,  and  fluttered 
fainting  down  into  the  water;  but  what  can 
his  punishment  avail  mel  my  darling  is  dead, 
and  his  grave  will  but  increase  the  mournful 
bushes  of  my  garden." 

"Take  courage,  fairest  Lily!"  cried  the 
Woman,  wiping  off  a  tear,  which  the  story  of 
the  hapless  maiden  had  called  into  her  eyes; 
"  compose  yourself;  my  old  man  bids  me  tell 
you  to  moderate  your  lamenting,  to  look  upon 
the  greatest  misfortune  as  a  forerunner  of  the 
greatest  happiness,  for  the  time  is  at  hand ; 
and  truly,"  continued  she,  "the  world  is  going 
strangely  on  of  late.  Do  but  look  at  my  hand, 
how  black  it  is  !  As  I  live  and  breathe,  it  is 
grown  far  smaller:  I  must  hasten,  before  it 
vanish  altogether !  Why  did  I  engage  to  do 
the  Will-o'-wisps  a  service,  why  did  I  meet  the 
Giant's  shadow,  and  dip  my  hand  in  the  Riverl 
Could  you  not  afford  me  a  single  cabbage,  an 
artichoke,  and  an  onion  1  I  would  give  them 
to  the  River,  and  my  hand  were  white  as  ever, 
so  that  I  could  almost  show  it  with  one  of 
yours. 

"  Cabbages  and  onions  thou  mayest  still  find ; 
but  artichokes  thou  wilt  search  for  in  vain.  No 
plant  in  my  garden  bears  either  flowers  or 
fruit ;  but  every  twig  that  I  break,  and  plant 
upon  the  grave  of  a  favourite,  grows  green 
straightway,  and  shoots  up  in  fair  boughs.  All 
these  groups,  these  bushes,  these  groves  my 
hard  destiny  has  so  raised  around  me.  These 
pines  stretching  out  like  parasols,  thjese 
obelisks  of  cypresses,  these  colossal  oaks  and 
beeches,  were  all  little  twigs  planted  by  my 
hand,  as  mournful  memorials  in  a  soil  that 
otherwise  is  barren."* 

To  this  speech  the  old  Woman  had  paid 
little  heed ;  she  was  looking  at  her  hand,  which, 
in  presence  of  the  fair  Lily,  seemed  every  mo- 
ment growing  blacker  and  smaller.  She  was 
about  to  snatch  her  basket  and  hasten  off,  when 
she  noticed  that  the  best  part  of  her  errand  had 
been  forgotten.  She  lifted  out  the  onyx  Pug, 
and  set  him  down,  not  far  from  the  fair  one,  in 
the  grass.  "My  husband,"  said  she,  "sends 
you  this  memorial;  you  know  that  you  can 
make  a  jewel  live  by  touching  it.  This  pretty 
faithful  dog  will  certd^inly  afford  you  much 
enjoyment;  and  my  grief  at  losing  him  is 
brightened  only  by  the  thought  that  he  will  be 
in  your  possession." 

The  fair  Lily  viewed  the  dainty  creature 
with  a  pleased,  and  as  it  seemed,  with  an  as- 
tonished look.  "Many  signs  combine,"  said 
she,  "  that  breathe  some  hope  into  me  :  but  ah ! 
is  it  not  a  natural  deception  which  makes  us 
fancy,  when  misfortunes  crowd  upon  us,  that  a 
better  day  is  near? 

*  In  SupERNATunALisM,  trulv,  what  is  there  either  of 
flower  or  of  frniti  Nothins  that  will  (altoKether) 
content  the  greedy  Time-River.  Stupendous,  funereal 
sacred-groves,  "in  a  soil  that  otherwise  is  barren  I"— 
D.  T. 


892 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


**  What  can  these  many  signs  avail  me, 

My  Singer's  Death,  thy  coal-black  Hand"? 
This  Dog  of  Onyx,  that  can  never  fail  me  1 
And  coming  at  the  Lamp's  command ! 

"From  human  joys  removed  for  ever, 

With  sorrows  compassed  round  I  sit : 
Is  there  a  Temple  at  the  River"? 
Is  there  a  Bridge  1    Alas,  not  yet !" 

The  good  old  dame  had  listened  with  impa- 
tience to  this  singing,  which  the  fair  Lily  ac- 
companied with  her  harp,  in  a  way  that  would 
have  charmed  any  other.  She  was  on  the 
point  of  taking  leave,  when  the  arrival  of  the 
green  Snake  again  detained  her.  The  Snake 
had  caught  the  last  lines  of  the  song,  and  on 
this  matter  forthwith  began  to  speak  comfort 
to  the  fair  Lily. 

"  The  Prophecy  of  the  Bridge  is  fulfilled !" 
cried  the  Snake:  "you  may  ask  this  worthy 
dame  how  royally  the  arch  looks  now.  What 
formerly  was  untransparent  jasper,  or  agate, 
allowing  but  a  gleam  of  light  to  pass  about  its 
edges,  is  now  become  transparent  precious 
stone.  No  beryl  is  so  clear,  no  emerald  so 
beautiful  of  hue." 

"I  wish  you  joy  of  it,"  said  Lily;  "but  you 
will  pardon  me  if  I  regard  the  prophecy  as  yet 
unaccomplished.  The  lofty  arch  of  your  bridge 
can  still  but  admit  foot-passengers ;  and  it  is 
promised  us  that  horses  and  carriages  and 
travellers  of  every  sort  shall,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, cross  this  bridge  in  both  directions.  Is 
there  not  something  said,  too,  about  pillars, 
which  are  to  arise  of  themselves  from  the 
waters  of  the  River  1 

The  old  Woman  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 
her  hand;  she  here  interrupted  their  dialogue, 
and  was  taking  leave.  "  Wait  a  moment," 
said  the  fair  Lily,  "and  carry  my  little  bird 
with  you.  Bid  the  Lamp  change  it  into  topaz  ; 
I  will  enliven  it  by  my  touch;  with  your  good 
Mops  it  shall  form  my  dearest  pastime :  but 
hasten,  hasten  ;  for,  at  sunset,  intolerable 
putrefaction  will  fasten  on  the  hapless  bird, 
and  tear  asunder  the  fair  combination  of  its 
form  for  ever." 

The  old  Woman  laid  the  little  corpse,  wrap- 
ped in  soft  leaves,  into  her  basket,  and  hast- 
ened away. 

"  However  it  may  be,"  said  the  Snake,  re- 
commencing their  interrupted  dialogue,  "  the 
Temple  is  built." 

"  But  it  is  not  at  the  River,"  said  the  fair 
one. 

"  It  is  yet  resting  in  the  depths  of  the  Earth," 
said  the  Snake ;  "  I  have  seen  the  Kings  and 
conversed  with  them." 

"  But  when  will  they  arise  ?"  inquired  Lily. 

The  Snake  replied  :  "I  heard  resounding  in 
the  Temple  these  deep  words,  The  time  is  at 
hand:' 

A  pleasing  cheerfulness  spread  over  the  fair 
Lily's  face  :  "  'Tis  the  second  time,"  said  she, 
"  that  I  have  heard  these  happy  words  to-day  : 
when  will  the  day  come  for  me  to  hear  them 
thrice  r' 

She  rose,  and  immediately  there  came  a 
lovely  maiden  from  the  grove,  and  took  away  her 
harp.  Another  followed  her,  and  folded  up  the 
fine-carved  ivory  stool,  on  which  the  fair  one 


had  been  sitting,  and  put  the  silvery  cushion 
under  her  arm.  A  third  then  made  her  ap- 
pearance, with  a  large  parasol  worked  with 
pearls;  and  looked  whether  Lily  would  require 
her  in  walking.  These  three  maidens  were 
beyond  expression  beautiful;  and  yet  their 
beauty  but  exalted  that  of  Lily,  for  it  was  plain 
to  every  one  that  they  could  never  be  com- 
pared to  her.* 

Meanwhile  the  fair  one  had  been  looking, 
with  a  satisfied  aspect,  at  the  strange  onyx 
Mops.  She  bent  down,  and  touched  him,  and 
that  instant  he  started  up.  Gaily  he  looked 
around,  ran  hither  and  thither,  and  at  last,  in 
his  kindest  manner,  hastened  to  salute  his 
benefactress.  She  took  him  in  her  arm3,  and 
pressed  him  to  her.  "Cold  as  thou  art,"  cried 
she,  "  and  though  but  a  half-life  works  in  thee, 
thou  art  welcome  to  me;  tenderly  will  I  love 
thee,  prettily  will  I  play  with  thee,  softly  caress 
thee,  and  firmly  press  thee  to  my  bosom."  She 
then  let  him  go,  chased  him  from  her,  called 
him  back,  and  played  so  daintily  with  him, 
and  ran  about  so  gayly  and  so  innocently  with 
him  on  the  grass,  that  with  new  rapture  you 
viewed  and  participated  in  her  joy,  as«a  little 
while  ago  her  sorrow  had  attuned  every  heart 
to  sympathy. 

•  This  cheerfulness,  these  graceful  sports 
were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  woful 
Youth.  He  stepped  forward,  in  his  former 
guise  and  aspect;  save  that  the  heat  of  the 
day  appeared  to  have  fatigued  him  still  more, 
and  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress  he  grew 
paler  every  moment.  He  bore  upon  his  hand 
a  Hawk,  which  was  sitting  quiet  as  a  dove, 
with  its  body  shrunk  and  its  wings  drooping. 

"It  is  not  kind  in  thee,"  cried  Lily  to  him, 
"to  bring  that  hateful  thing  before  my  eyes, 
the  monster,  which  to-day  has  killed  my  little 
singer." 

"Blame  not  the  unhappy  bird!"  replied  the 
Youth  ;  "  rather  blame  thyself  and  thy  destiny ; 
and  leave  me  to  keep  beside  me  the  companion 
of  my  wo." 

Meanwhile  Mops  ceased  not  teasing  the  fair 
Lily;  and  she  replied  to  her  transparent 
favourite,  with  friendly  gestures.  She  clapped 
her  hands  to  scare  him  off';  then  ran,  to  entice 
him  after  her.  She  tried  to  get  him  when  he 
fled,  and  she  chased  him  away  when  he 
attempted  to  press  near  her.  The  Youth 
looked  on  in  silence,  with  increasing  anger; 
but  at  last,  when  she  look  the  odious  beast, 
which  seemed  to  him  unutterably  ugly,  on  her 
arm,  pressed  it  to  her  white  bosom,  and  kissed 
its  black  snout  with  her  heavenly  lips,  his  pa- 
tience altogether  failed  him,  and  full  of  despe- 
ration he  exclaimed:  "Must  I,  who  by  a  bale- 
ful fate  exist  beside  thee,  perhaps  to  the  end, 
in  an  absent  presence,  who  by  thee  have  lost 
my  all,  my  very  self,  must  I  see  before  my 
e)'es,  that  so  unnatural  a  monster  can  charm 
thee  into  gladness,  can  awaken  thy  attachment, 
and  enjoy  thy  embraced  Shall  I  any  longer 
keep  wandering  to  and  fro,  measuring  my 
dreary  course  to  that  side  of  the  River  and  to 


♦  Who  are  these  three  1  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  or 
others  of  that  kin  1— D.  T.— Faith,  Hope,  and  Fiddle- 
stick !— O.  Y. 


THE  TALE. 


393 


this  1  No,  there  is  still  a  spark  of  the  old 
heroic  spirit  sleeping  in  my  bosom  ,  let  it  start 
this  instant  into  its  expiring  flame  !  If  stones 
may  rest  in  thy  bosom,  let  me  be  changed  to 
stone;  if  thy  touch  kills,  I  will  die  by  thy 
hands." 

So  saying  he  made  a  violent  movement ;  the 
Hawk  flew  from  his  finger,  but  he  himself 
rushed  towards  the  fair  one ;  she  held  out  her 
hands  to  keep  him  off",  and  touched  him  only 
the  sooner.  Consciousness  forsook  him ;  and 
she  felt  with  horror  the  beloved  burden  lying 
on  her  bosom.  With  a  shriek  she  started 
back,  and  the  gentle  youth  sank  lifeless  from 
her  arms  upon  the  groifnd. 

The  misery  had  happened  !  The  sweet  Lily 
stood  motionless,  gazing  on  the  corpse.  Her 
heart  seemed  to  pause  in  her  bosom ;  and  her 
eyes  were  without  tears.  In  vain  did  Mops 
try  to  gain  from  her  any  kindly  gesture;  with 
her  friend,  the  world  for  her  was  all  dead  as 
the  grave.  Her  silent  despair  did  not  look 
round  for  help;  she  knew  not  of  any  help. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Snake  bestirred  her- 
self the  more  actively;  she  seemed  to  meditate 
deliverance;  and  in  fact  her  strange  move- 
ments served  at  last  to  keep  away,  for  a  little, 
the  immediate  consequences  of  the  mischief. 
With  her  limber  body,  she  formed  a  wide  cir- 
cle round  the  corpse,  and  seizing  the  end  of 
her  tail  between  her  teeth,  she  lay  quite  still. 

Ere  long  one  of  Lily's  fair  waiting-maids 
appeared ;  brought  the  ivory  folding-stool,  and 
with  friendly  beckoning  constrained  her  mis- 
tress to  sit  down  on  it.  Soon  afterwards  there 
came  a  second ;  she  had  in  her  hand  a  fire- 
coloured  veil,  with  which  she  rather  decorated 
than  concealed  the  fair  Lily's  head.  The  third 
handed  her  the  harp,  and  scarcely  had  she 
drawn  the  gorgeous  instrument  towards  her, 
and  struck  some  tones  from  its  strings,  when 
the  first  maid  returned  with  a  clear  round 
mirror;  took  her  station  opposite  the  fair  one; 
caught  her  looks  in  the  glass,  and  threw  back 
to  her  the  loveliest  image  that  was  to  be  found 
in  nature.*  Sorrow  heightened  her  beauty, 
the  veil  her  charms,  the  harp  her  grace  ;  and 
deeply  as  you  wished  to  see  her  mournful 
situation  altered,  not  less  deeply  did  you  wish 
to  keep  her  image,  as  she  now  looked,  for  ever 
present  with  you. 

With  a  still  look  at  the  mirror,  she  touched 
the  harp ;  now  melting  tones  proceeded  from 
the  strings,  now  her  pain  seemed  to  mount, 
and  the  music  in  strong  notes  responded  to 
her  wo;  sometimes  she  opened  her  lips  to 
sing,  but  her  voice  failed  her ;  and  ere  long 
her  sorrow  melted  into  tears,  two  maidens 
caught  her  helpfully  in  their  arms,  the  harp 
sank  from  her  bosom,  scarcely  could  the  quick 
servant  snatch  the  instrument  and  carry  it 
aside. 

"  Who  gets  us  the  Man  with  the  Lamp,  be- 


♦  Does  not  man's  soul  rest  by  Faith,  and  look  in  the 
mirror  of  Faith  1  Does  not  Hope  "  decorate  rather  than 
conceal?"  Is  not  Charity  (Love)  the  bnginninsr  of 
vivnic  ?— Behold,  too,  how  the  Serpent,  in  this  jrreat  hour, 
has  made  herself  a  Serpent-of-Eternity  ;  and  (even  as 
genuine  Thought,  in  our  age.  has  to  do  for  so  much) 
preserves  the  seemine-dead  within  her  folds,  that  sus- 
pen<ied  animation  issue  not  in  noisome,  horrible,  irrevo- 
cable dissolution !— D.  T. 

50 


fore  the  sun  sell"  hissed  the  Snake,  faintly, 
but  audibly:  the  maids  looked  at  one  another, 
and  Lily's  tears  fell  faster.  At  this  moment 
came  the  Woman  with  the  Basket,  panting 
and  altogether  breathless.  "I  am  lost  and 
maimed  for  life !"  cried  she ;  "  see  how  my 
hand  is  almost  vanished;  neither  Ferryman 
nor  Giant  would  take  me  over,  because  I  am 
the  River's  debtor;  in  vain  did  I  promise 
hundreds  of  Cabbages  and  hundreds  of  Onions; 
they  will  take  no  more  than  three;  and  no 
Artichoke  is  now  to  be  found  in  all  this 
quarter." 

"Forget  your  own  care,"  said  the  Snake, 
"and  try  to  bring  help  here;  perhaps  it  may 
come  to  yourself  also.  Haste  with  your  ut- 
most speed  to  seek  the  Will-o'-wisps ;  it  is  loo 
light  for  you  to  see  them,  but  perhaps  you  will 
hear  them  laughing  and  hopping  to  and  fro. 
If  they  be  speedy,  they  may  cross  upon  the 
Giant's  shadow,  and  seek  the  Man  with  the 
Lamp  and  send  him  to  us." 

The  Woman  hurried  off"  at  her  quickest 
pace,  and  the  Snake  seemed  expecting  as  im- 
patiently as  Lily  the  return  of  the  Flames. 
Alas!  the  beam  of  the  sinking  Sun  was  already 
gilding  only  the  highest  summits  of  the  trees 
in  the  thicket,  and  long  shadows  were  stretch- 
ing over  lake  and  meadow;  the  Snake  hitched 
up  and  down  impatiently,  and  Lily  dissolved 
in  tears. 

In  this  extreme  need,  the  Snake  kept  look- 
ing round  on  all  sides ;  for  she  was  afraid 
€very  moment  that  the  Sun  would  set,  and 
corruption  penetrate  the  magic  circle,  and  the 
fair  youth  immediately  moulder  away.  At 
last  she  noticed  sailing  high  in  the  air,  with 
purple-red  feathers,  the  Prince's  Hawk,  whoSe 
breast  was  catching  the  last  beams  of  the  Sun. 
She  shook  herself  for  joy  at  this  good  omen  ; 
nor  was  she  deceived  ;  for  shortly  afterwards 
the  Man  with  the  Lamp  was  seen  gliding 
towards  them  across  the  Lake,  fast  and 
smoothly,  as  if  he  had  been  travelling  on  skates. 

The  Snake  did  not  change  her  posture ;  but 
Lily  rose  and  called  to  him :  "  What  good 
spirit  sends  thee,  at  the  moment  when  we 
were  desiring  thee,  and  needing  thee,  so 
muchl" 

"The  spirit  of  my  Lamp,"  replied  the  Man, 
"  has  impelled  me,  and  the  Hawk  has  con- 
ducted me.  My  Lamp  sparkles  when  I  am 
needed,  and  I  just  look  about  me  in  the  sky 
for  a  signal;  some  bird  or  meteor  points  to  the 
quarter  towards  which  I  am  to  turn.  Be  calm, 
fairest  Maiden  !  whether  I  can  help  I  know 
not;  an  individual  helps  not,  but  he  who  com- 
bines himself  with  many  at  the  proper  hour. 
We  will  postpone  the  evil,  and  keep  hoping. 
Hold  thy  circle  fast,"  continued  he,  turninsr  to 
the  Snake;  then  set  himself  upon  a  hillock 
beside  her,  and  illuminated  the  dead  body. 
"Bring  the  little  Bird*  hither  too,  and  lay  it  in 
the  circle  !"  The  maidens  took  the  little  corpse 
from  the  basket,  which  the  old  Woman  had 
left  standing,  and  did  as  he  directed. 


*  What  are  the  Hawk  and  this  Canary-bird,  which 
here  prove  so  destructive  to  one  another?  Ministering 
servants,  implements,  of  these  two  divided  Halves  of  tb« 
Human  Soul ;  name  them  I  will  not;  more  is  not  writ- 
ten.—D.  T. 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Meanwhile  the  Sun  had  set,  and  as  the  1 
darkness  increased,  not  only  the  Snake  and  the 
old  Man's  Lamp  began  shining  in  their  fashion, 
but  also  Lily's  veil  gave  out  a  soft  light,  which 
gracefully  tinged,  as  with  a  meek  dawning 
red,  her  pale  cheeks,  and  her  white  robe.  The 
party  looked  at  one  another,  silently  reflecting; 
care  and  sorrow  were  mitigated  by  a  sure 
hope. 

It  was  no  unpleasing  entrance,  therefore, 
that  the  woman  made,  attended  by  the  two  gay 
Flames,  which  in  truth  appeared  to  have  been 
very  lavish  in  the  interim,  for  they  had  again 
become  extremely  meager ;  yet  they  only  bore 
themselves  the  more  prettily  for  that,  towards 
Lily  and  the  other  ladies.  With  great  tact, 
and  expressiveness,  they  said  a  multitude  of 
rather  common  things  to  these  fair  persons; 
and  declared  themselves  particularly  ravished 
by  the  charm  which  the  gleaming  veil*  spread 
over  Lily  and  her  attendant.  The  ladies  mo- 
destly cast  down  their  eyes,  and  the  praise  of 
their  beauty  made  them  really  beautiful.  All 
were  peaceful  and  calm,  except  the  old  Wo- 
man. In  spite  of  the  assurance  of  her  husband, 
tliiU  her  hand  could  diminish  no  farther,  while 
the  Lamp  shone  on  it,  she  asserted  more  than 
once,  that  if  things  went  on  thus,  before  mid- 
night this  noble  member  would  have  utterly 
vanished. 

The  Man  with  the  Lamp  had  listened  atten- 
tively to  the  conversation  of  the  Lights  ;  and 
was  gratified  that  Lily  had  been  cheered,  in 
some  measure,  and  amused  by  it.  And,  in 
truth,  midnight  had  arrived  they  knew  not  how. 
The  old  Man  looked  to  the  stars,  and  then  be- 
gan speaking:  "  We  are  assembled  at  the  pro- 
pitious hour;  let  each  perform  his  task,  let 
each  do  his  duty;  and  a  universal  happiness 
will  swallow  up  our  individual  sorrows,  as  a 
universal  grief  consumes  individual  joys." 

At  these  words  arose  a  wondrous  hubbub  ;f 
for  all  the  persons  in  the  party  spoke  aloud, 
each  for  himself,  declaring  what  they  had  to 
do;  only  the  three  maids  were  silent;  one  of 
them  had  fallen  asleep  beside  the  harp,  an- 
other near  the  parasol,  the  third  by  the  stool ; 
and  you  could  not  blame  them  much,  for  it  was 
late.  The  Fiery  youths,  after  some  passing 
compliments  which  they  devoted  to  the  wait- 
ing-maids, had  turned  their  sole  attention  to 
the  Princess,  as  alone  worthy  of  exclusive 
homage. 

"Take  the  mirror,"  said  the  Man  to  the 
Hawk;  "and  with  the  first  sunbeam  illumi- 
nate the  three  sleepers,  and  awake  them,  with 
light  reflected  from  above." 

The  Snake  now  began  to  move  ;  she  loosen- 
ed her  circle,  and  rolled  slowly,  in  large  rings, 
forward  to  the  River.  The  two  Will-o'-wisps 
followed  with  a  solemn  air;  you  would  have 
taken  them  for  the  most  serious  Flames  in  na- 

*  Have  not  your  march-of-intellect  Literators  al- 
ways expressed  themselves  particularly  ravished  with 
any  i^litter  from  a  veil  of  Hope  ;  with  "progress  of  the 
species,"  and  the  like  1 — D.  T. 

t  Too  true:  dost  thou  not  hear  it,  Reader?  In  this 
our  Ilevolutionary  "twelfth  hour  of  the  night,"  all  per- 
sons speak  aloud  (some  of  them  by  cannon  and  drums  !) 
"declaring  what  they  have  to  do;"  and  Faith.  Hope, 
and  Charity  (after  a  few  passing  compliments  from  the 
Belles-Leitres  Department,)  thou  seest,  have  fallen 
asleep  /— D,  T. 


ture.  The  old  Woman  and  her  husband  seized 
the  Basket,  whose  mild  light  they  had  scarcely 
observed  till  now;  they  lifted  it  at  both  sides, 
and  it  grew  still  larger  and  more  luminous; 
they  lifted  the  body  of  the  Youth  into  it,  laying 
the  Canary-bird  upon  his  breast;  the  Basket 
rose  into  the  air  and  hovered  above  the  old 
Woman's  head,  and  she  followed  the  Will-o'- 
wisps  on  foot.  The  fair  Lily  took  Mops  on  her 
arm,  and  followed  the  Woman  ;  the  Man  with 
the  Lamp  concluded  the  procession,  and  the 
scene  was  curiously  illuminated  by  these  many 
lights. 

But  it  was  with  no  small  wonder  that  the 
party  saw,  when  they  approached  the  River,  a 
glorious  arch  mount  over  it,  by  which  the  help- 
ful Snake  was  affc)rding  them  a  glittering  path. 
If.  by  day  they  had  admired  the  beautiful  trans- 
parent precious  stones,  of  which  the  Bridge 
seemed  formed ;  by  night  they  were  astonished 
at  its  gleaming  brilliancy.  On  the  upper  side 
the  clear  circle  marked  itself  sharp  against 
the  dark  sky,  but  below,  vivid  beams  were 
darting  to  the  centre,  and  exhibiting  the  airy 
firmness  of  the  edifice.  The  procession  slow- 
ly moved  across  it;  and  the  Ferryman  who 
saw  it  from  his  hut  afar  ofi',  considered  with 
astonishment  the  gleaming  circle,  and  the 
strange  lights  which  were  passing  over  it.* 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  other  shore, 
than  the  arch  began,  in  its  usual  way,  to  swag 
up  and  down,  and  with  a  wavy  motion  to  ap- 
proach the  water.  The  Snake  then  came  on 
land,  the  Basket  placed  itself  upon  the  ground, 
and  the  Snake  again  drew  her  circle  around  it. 
The  old  Man  stooped  towards  her,  and  said: 
"  What  hast  thou  resolved  on?" 

"To  sacrifice  myself  rather  than  be  sacri- 
ficed," replied  the  Snake;  "promise  me  that 
thou  wilt  leave  no  stone  on  shore." 

The  old  Man  promised;  then  addressing 
Lily:  "Touch  the  Snake,"  said  he,  "with  thy 
left  hand,  and  thy  lover  with  thy  right."  Lily 
knelt,  and  touched  the  Snake,  and  the  Prince's 
body.  The  latter  in  the  instant  seemed  to  come 
to  life ;  he  moved  in  the  basket,  nay  he  raised 
himself  into  a  sitting  posture;  Lily  w^as  about 
to  clasp  him  ;  but  the  old  Man  held  her  back, 
and  himself  assisted  the  youth  to  rise,  and  led 
him  forth  from  the  Basket  and  the  circle. 

The  Prince  was  standing;  the  Canary-bird 
was  fluttering  on  his  shoulder;  there  was  life 
again  in  both  of  them,  but  the  spirit  had  not 
yet  returned  ;  the  fair  youth's  eyes  were  open, 
yet  he  did  not  see,  at  least  he  seemed  to  look 
on  all  without  participation.  Scarcely  had 
their  admiration  of  this  incident  a  little  calm- 
ed, when  they  observed  how  strangely  it  had 
fared  in  the  meanwhile  with  the  Snake.  Her 
fair  taper  body  had  crumbled  into  thousands 
and  thousands  of  shining  jewels  :  the  old  Wo- 
man reaching  at  her  Basket  had  chanced  to 
come  against  the  circle;  and  of  the  shape  or 
structure  of  the  Snake  there  was  now  nothing 
to  be  seen,  only  a  bright  ring  of  luminous 
jewels  was  lying  in  the  grass.f 

*  Well  he  might,  worthy  old  man  ;  as  Pope  Pius,  for 

example,  did,  when  he  lived  in  Fontainbleau  !— D.  T. — 

As  our  Bishops,  when  voting  for  the  Reform  Bill  7— O.  Y. 

t  So  ;  Your  Logics,  n)echanical  Philosophies,  Politics, 

I  Sciences,  your  whole  modern  System  of  Thought,  is 


THE  TALE. 


399 


The  old  Man  forthwith  set  himself  to  gather 
the  stones  into  the  basket ;  a  task  in  which  his 
wife  assisted  him.  They  next  carried  the  Bas- 
ket to  an  elevated  point  on  the  bank  ;  and  here 
the  man  threw  its  whole  lading,  not  without 
contradiction  from  the  fair  one  and  his  wife, 
who  would  gladly  have  retained  some  part  of 
it,  down  into  the  River.  Like  gleaming  twink- 
ling stars  the  stones  floated  down  with  the 
waves;  and  you  could  not  say  whether  they 
lost  themselves  in  the  distance,  or  sank  to  the 
bottom. 

♦'  Gentlemen,"  said  he  with  the  Lamp,  in  a 
respectful  tone  to  the  Lights,  "I  will  now  show 
you  the  way,  and  open  you  the  passage ;  but 
you  will  do  us  an  essential  service,  if  you 
please  to  unbolt  the  door,  by  which  the  Sanc- 
tuary must  be  entered  at  present,  and  which 
none  but  you  can  unfasten." 

The  Lights  made  a  stately  bow  of  assent, 
and  kept  their  place.. The  old  Man  of  the  Lamp 
went  foremost  into  the  rock,  which  opened  at 
his  presence  ;  the  Youth  followed  him,  as  if 
mechanically ;  silent  and  uncertain,  Lily  kept 
at  some  distance  from  him;  the  old  Woman 
would  not  be  left,  and  stretched  out  her  hand 
that  the  Light  of  her  husband's  Lamp  might 
still  fall  upon  it.  The  rear  was  closed  by  the 
two  Will-o'-wisps,  who  bent  the  peaks  of  their 
flames  towards  one  another,  and  appeared  to 
be  engaged  in  conversation. 

They  had  not  gone  far  till  the  procession 
halted  in  front  of  a  large  brazen  door,  the 
leaves  of  which  were  bolted  with  a  golden 
lock.  The  Man  now  called  upon  the  Lights 
to  advance  ;  who  required  small  entreaty,  and 
with  their  pointed  flames  soon  ate  both  bar 
and  lock. 

The  brass  gave  a  loud  clang,  as  the  doors 
sprang  suddenly  asunder ;  and  the  stately 
figures  of  the  Kings  appeared  within  the  Sanc- 
tuary, illuminated  by  the  entering  Lights.  All 
bowed  before  these  dread  sovereigns,  especially 
the  Flames  made  a  profusion  of  the  daintiest 
reverences. 

After  a  pause,  the  gold  King  asked :  "  Whence 
come  yeV — "From  the  world,"  said  the  old 
Man. — "Whither  go  yel"  said  the  silver  King. 
— "  Into  the  world,"  replied  the  Man. — "  What 
would  ye  with  us  1"  cried  the  brazen  King. — 
"  Accompany  you,"  replied  the  Man. 

The  composite  King  was  about  to  speak, 
when  the  gold  one  addressed  the  Lights,  who 
had  got  too  near  him  :  "  Take  yourselves  away 
from  me,  my  metal  was  not  made  for  yon." 
Thereupon  they  turned  to  the  silver  King,  and 
clasped  themselves  about  him ;  and  his  robe 
glittered  beautifully  in  their  yellow  brightness. 
"You  are  welcome,"  said  he,  "but  I  cannot 
feed  you ;  satisfy  yourselves  elsewhere,  and 
bring  me  your  light."  They  removed ;  and 
gliding  past  the  brazen  King  who  did  not  seem 
to  notice  them,  they  fixed  on  the  compounded 
King.  "Who  will  govern  the  world?"  cried 
he  with  a  broken  voice. — "  He  who  stands  up- 
on his  feet,"  replied  the  old  Man. — "  I  am  he," 

to  decease  ;  and  old  Endeavour,  "  grasping  at  her 
basket,"  shall  "come  against"  the  inanimate  remains, 
and  "only  a  brifjht  ring  of  luminous  jewels"  shall  be 
left  there':  Mark  well,  however,  what  next  becomes  of 
it.-D.  T. 


said  the  mixed  King.—"  We  shall  see,"  replied 
the  Man ;  "  for  the  time  is  at  hand." 

The  fair  Lily  fell  upon  the  old  Man's  neck, 
and  kissed  him  cordially.  "  Holy  Sage !" 
cried  she,  "a  thousand  times  I  thank  thee; 
for  I  hear  that  fateful  word  the  third  time." 
She  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  she  clasped 
the  old  Man  still  faster;  for  the  ground  began 
to  move  beneath  them;  the  Youth  and  the 
old  Woman  also  held  by  one  another;  the 
Lights  alone  did  not  regard  it. 

You  could  feel  plainly  that  the  whole  Temple 
was  in  motion ;  as  a  ship  that  softly  glides 
away  from  the  harbour,  when  her  anchors  are 
lifted ;  the  depths  of  the  Earth  seemed  to  open 
for  the  Building  as  it  went  along.  It  struck 
on  nothing;  no  rock  came  in  its  way. 

For  a  few  instants,  a  small  rain  seemed  to 
drizzle  from  the  opening  of  the  dome;  the  old 
Man  held  the  fair  Lily  fast,  and  said  to  her: 
"We  are  now  beneath  the  River:  we  shall 
soon  be  at  the  mark."  Ere  long  they  thought 
the  Temple  made  a  halt;  but  they  were  in  an 
error;  it  was  mounting  upwards. 

And  now  a  strange  uproar  rose  above  their 
heads.  Planks  and  beams  in  disordered  com- 
bination now  came  pressing  and  crashing 
in,  at  the  opening  of  the  dome.  Lily  and  the 
Woman  started  to  a  side;  the  Man  with  the 
Lamp  laid  hold  of  the  Youth,  and  kept  stand- 
ing still.  The  little  cottage  of  the  Ferryman, 
for  it  was  this  which  the  Temple  in  ascending 
had  severed  from  the  ground  and  carried  up 
with  it,  sank  gradually  down,  and  covered  the 
old  Man  and  the  Youth. 

The  women  screamed  aloud,  and  the  Tem- 
ple shook,  like  a  ship  running  unexpectedly 
aground.  In  sorrowful  perplexity,  the  Prin- 
cess and  her  old  attendant  wandered  round  the 
cottage  in  the  dawn  ;  the  door  was  bolted,  and 
to  their  knocking,  no  one  answered.  They 
knocked  more  loudly,  and  were  not  a  little 
struck,  when  at  length  the  wood  began  to  ring. 
By  virtue  of  the  Lamp  locked  up  in  it,  the 
hut  had  been  converted  from  the  inside  to  the 
outside  into  solid  silver.  Ere  long  too  its 
form  changed  ;  for  the  noble  metal  shook  aside 
the  accidental  shapes  of  planks,  posts,  and 
beams,  and  stretched  itself  out  into  a  noble 
case  of  beaten  ornamented  workmanship.  Thus 
a  fair  little  temple  stood  erected  in  the  middle 
of  the  large  one  ;  or  if  you  will,  an  Altar  worthy 
of  the  Temple.* 

By  a  stair  which  ascended  from  within,  the 
noble  Youth  now  mounted  aloft,  lighted  by  the 
old  man  with  the  Lamp ;  and,  as  it  seemed, 
supported  by  another,  who  advanced  in  a 
white  short  robe,  with  a  silver  rudder  in  his 
hand  ;  and  was  soon  recognised  as  the  Ferry- 
man, the  former  possessor  of  the  cottage. 

The  fair  Lily  mounted  the  outer  steps,  which 
led  from  the  floor  of  the  Temple  to  the  Altar; 
but  she  was  still  obliged  to  keep  herself  apart 
from  her  Lover.  The  old  Woman,  whose 
hand  in  the  absence  of  the  Lamp  had  grown 


•  flood  !  The  old  Church,  shaken  down  "  in  disordered 
combination,"  is  admitted,  in  this  way,  into  the  new 
perennial  Temple  of  the  Future ;  and,  clarified  into 
endurine  silver,  by  the  Lamp,  becomes  an  Altar  worthy 
to  stand  there.  The  Ferryman  loo  is  not  forgotten.— 
D.  T. 


396 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


still  smaller,  cried :  "  Am  I  then  to  be  unhappy- 
after  all  ?  Among  so  many  miracles,  can  there 
be  nothing  done  to  save  my  hand]"  Her 
husband  pointed  to  the  open  door,  and  said  to 
her :  "  See,  the  day  is  breaking ;  haste,  bathe 
thyself  in  the  River." — "  What  an  advice  !" 
cried  she ;  "  it  will  make  me  all  black ;  it  will 
make  me  vanish  altogether;  for  my  debt  is 
not  yet  paid."  "Go,"  said  the  man,  "  and  do 
as  I  advise  thee :  all  debts  are  now  paid." 

The  old  Woman  hastened  away  ;  and  at  that 
moment  appeared  the  rising  sun,  upon  the 
rim  of  the  dome.  The  old  Man  stept  between 
the  Virgin  and  the  Youth,  and  cried  with  a 
loud  voice ;  "  There  are  three  which  have 
rule  on  Earth;  Wisdom,  Appearance,  and 
Strength."  At  the  first  word,  the  gold  King 
rose,  at  the  second  the  silver  one;  and  at  the 
third  the  brass  king  slowly  rose,  while  the 
mijxed  King  on  a  sudden  very  awkwardly 
plumped  down.* 

Whoever  noticed  him  could  scarcely  keep 
from  laughing,  solemn  as  the  moment  was ; 
for  he  was  not  sitting,  he  was  not  lying,  he 
was  not  leaning,  but  shapelessly  sunk  to- 
gether.-f- 

The  Lights,-}:  who  till  now  had  been  employed 
upon  him,  drew  to  a  side;  they  appeared, 
although  pale  in  the  morning  radiance,  yet 
once  more  well-fed,  and  in  good  burning  con- 
dition ;  with  their  peaked  tongues,  they  had 
dexterously  licked  out  the  gold  veins  of  the 
colossal  figure  to  its  very  heart.  The  irregular 
vacuities  which  this  occasioned  had  continued 
empty  for  a  time,  and  the  figure  had  main- 
tained its  standing  posture.  But  when  at  last 
the  very  tenderest  filaments  were  eaten  out, 
the  image  crashed  suddenly  together;  and  that, 
alas,  in  the  very  parts  which  continue  un- 
altered when  one  sits  down ;  whereas  the 
limbs,  which  should  have  bent,  sprawled  them- 
selves out  unbowed  and  stiff".  Whoever  covld 
not  laugh  was  obliged  to  turn  away  his  eyes; 
this  miserable  shape  and  no-shape  was  offen- 
sive to  behold. 

The  Man  with  the  Lamp  now  led  the  hand- 
some Youth,  who  still  kept  gazing  vacantly 
before  him,  down  from  the  altar,  and  straight 
to  the  brazen  King.  At  the  feet  of  this  mighty 
Potentate,  lay  a  sword  in  a  brazen  sheath.  The 
young  man  girt  it  around  him.  "The  sword 
on  the  left,  the  right  free !"  cried  the  brazen 
voice.  They  next  proceeded  to  the  silver 
King;  he  bent  his  sceptre  to  the  youth;  the 
latter  seized  it  with  his  left  hand,  and  the  King 
in  a  pleasing  voice  said:  "Feed  the  sheep!' 
On  turning  to  the  golden  King,  he  stooped 
with  gestures  of  paternal  blessing,  and  press- 
ing his  oaken  garland  on  the  young  man's 
head,  said;  "Understand  what  is  highest!" 


*  Dost  thou  note  this,  O  Reader  ;  and  look  back  with 
new  clearness  on  former  things  7  A  gold  King,  a  silver, 
and  a  brazen  King:  Wisdom,  dignified  Appearance, 
Strength  ;  these  three  harmoniously  united  bear  rule  : 
disharmoniously  cobbled  together  in  sham-union  (as  in 
the  foolish  composite  King  of  our  foolish  "Transition- 
em,")  they,  once  the  Gold  (or  wisdom)  is  all  out  of  them, 
"  very  awkwardly  plump  down. — D.  T. 

■f-As,  for  example,  does  not  Charles  X.  (one  of  the 
poor  fractional  composite  Realities  emblemed  herein) 
rest,  even  now,  "shapelessly  enough  sunk  together," 
at  liolyrood,  in  the  city  of  Edinburgh  1—D.  T. 

t  Maxch-of-intfiilect  Lights  were  well  capable  of  such 
a  thing.— D.  T. 


During  this  progress,  the  old  Man  had  care- 
fully observed  the  Prince.  After  girding  oa 
the  sword,  his  breast  swelled,  his  arms  waved, 
and  his  feet  trod  firmer;  when  he  took  the 
sceptre  in  his  hand,  his  strength  appeared  to 
soften,  and  by  an  unspeakable  charm  to  be- 
come still  more  subduing;  but  as  the  oaken 
garland  came  to  deck  his  hair,  his  features 
kindled,  his  eyes  gleamed  with  inexpressible 
spirit,  and  the  first  word  of  his  mouth  was 
"Lily!" 

"Dearest  Lily!"  cried  he,  hastening  up  the 
silver  stairs  to  her,  for  she  had  viewed  his 
progress  from  the  pinnacle  of  the  altar: 
"Dearest  Lily!  what  more  precious  can  a 
man,  equipt  with  all,  desire  for  himself  than 
innocence  and  the  still  affection  which  thy 
bosom  brings  mel  O  my  friend!"  continued 
he,  turning  to  the  old  Man,  and  looking  at  the 
three  statues ;  glorious  and  secure  is  the 
kingdom  of  our  fathers;  but  thou  hast  forgot- 
ten the  fourth  power,  which  rules  the  world, 
earlier,  more  universally,  more  certainly — the 
power  of  Love."  With  these  words,  he  fell 
upon  the  lovely  maiden's  neck;  she  had  cast 
away  her  veil,  and  her  cheeks  were  tinged 
with  the  fairest,  most  imperishable  red. 

Here  the  old  Man  said  with  a  smile  :  "  Love 
dees  not  rule  ;  but  it  trains,*  and  that  is  more." 

Amid  this  solemnity,  this  happiness  and 
rapture,  no  one  had  observed  that  it  was  now 
broad  day ;  and  all  at  once,  on  looking  through 
the  open  portal,  a  crowd  of  altogether  unex- 
pected objects  met  the  eye.  A  large  space 
surrounded  with  pillars  formed  the  fore-court, 
at  the  end  of  which  was  seen  a  broad  and 
stately  Bridere  stretching  with  many  arches 
across  the  River.  It  was  furnished,  on  both 
sides,  with  commodious  and  magnificent 
colonnades  for  foot-travellers,  many  thousands 
of  whom  were  already  there,  busily  passing 
this  way  or  that.  The  broad  pavement  in  the 
centre  was  thronged  with  herds  and  mules, 
with  horsemen  and  carriages,  flowing  like  two 
streams,  on  their  several  sides,  and  neither 
interrupting  the  other.  All  admired  the  splen- 
dour and  convenience  of  the  structure ;  and  the 
new  King  and  his  Spouse  were  delighted  with 
the  motion  and  activity  of  this  great  people,  as 
they  were  already  happy  in  their  own  mutual 
love. 

"Remember  the  Snake  in  honour,"  said  the 
man  with  the  Lamp  ;  "thou  owest  her  thy  life, 
thy  people  owe  her  the  Bridge,  by  which  these 
neighbouring  banks  are  now  animated  and 
combined  into  one  land.  Those  swimming 
and  shining  jewels,  the  remains  of  her  sacri- 
ficed body,  are  the  piers  of  this  royal  bridge ; 
upon  these  she  has  built  and  will  maintain 
herself."! 

The  party  were  about  to  ask  some  explana- 
tion of  this  strange  mystery,  when  there  entered 
four  lovely  maidens  at  the  portal  of  the  Tem- 
ple. By  the  Harp,  the  Parasol,  and  the  folding 
Stool,  it   was   not  difficult  to   recognise   the 

*  It  fashions  (bildet,)  or  educates. — O.  Y. 

■f-  Honour  to  her  indeed  !  The  Mechanical  Philosophy, 
though  dead,  has  not  died  and  lived  in  vain  ;  but  her 
works  are  there:  "upon  these  ske"  (Thought,  new- 
horn,  in  glorified  shape)  "has  built  herself  and  will 
maintain  herself;"  and  the  Natural  and  Supernatural 
shall  henceforth,  thereby,  be  one.— D.  T. 


THE  TALE. 


397 


waiting-maids  of  Lily ;  but  the  fourth,  more 
beautiful  than  any  of  the  rest,  was  an  unknown 
fair  one,  and  in  sisterly  sportfulness  she  hast- 
ened with  them  through  the  Temple,  and 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  Altar.* 

"  Wilt  thou  have  better  trust  in  me  another 
time,  good  wife!"  said  the  man  with  the  Lamp 
to  the  fair  one :  "  Well  for  thee,  and  every 
living  thing  that  bathes  this  morning  in  the 
River !" 

The  renewed  and  beautified  old  Woman,  of 
whose  former  shape  no  trace  remained,  em- 
braced with  young  eager  arms  the  man  with 
the  Lamp,  who  kindly  received  her  caresses. 
"  If  I  am  too  old  for  thee,"  said  he,  smiling, 
"thou  mayest  choose  another  husband  to-day; 
from  this  hour  no  marriage  is  of  force,  which 
is  not  contracted  anew." 

"  Dost  thou  not  know,  then,"  answered  she, 
"that  thou  too  art  grown  younger  1" — "It  de- 
lights me  if  to  thy  young  eyes  I  seem  a  hand- 
some youth :  I  take  thy  hand  anew,  and  am 
well  content  to  live  with  thee  another  thousand 
years."! 

The  Queen  welcomed  her  new  friend,  and 
went  down  with  her  into  the  interior  of  the 
altar,  while  the  King  stood  between  his  two 
men,  looking  towards  the  bridge,  and  attentively 
contemplating  the  busy  tumult  of  the  people. 

But  his  satisfaction  did  not  last;  for  ere 
long  he  saw  an  object  which  excited  his  dis- 
pleasure. The  great  Giant,  who  appeared  not 
yet  to  have  awoke  completely  from  his  morn- 
ing sleep,  came  stumbling  along  the  Bridge, 
producing  great  confusion  all  around  him.  As 
usual,  he  had  risen  stupified  with  sleep,  and 
had  meant  to  bathe  in  the  well-known  bay  of 
the  River;  instead  of  which  he  found  firm 
land,  and  plunged  upon  the  broad  pavement 
of  the  Bridge.  Yet  although  he  reeled  into  the 
midst  of  men  and  cattle  in  the  clumsiest  way, 
his  presence,  wondered  at  by  all,  was  felt  by 
none;  but  as  the  sunshine  came  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  raised  his  hands  to  rub  them,  the  sha- 
dows of  his  monstrous  fists  moved  to  and  fro 
behind  him  with  such  force  and  awkwardness, 
that  men  and  beasts  were  heaped  together  in 
great  masses,  were  hurt  by  such  rude  contact, 
and  in  danger  of  being  pitched  into  the  River.t 

The  King,  as  he  saw  this  mischief,  grasped 
with  an  involuntary  movement  at  his  sword ; 
but  he  bethought  himself,  and  looked  calmly 
at  his  sceptre,  then  at  the  Lamp  and  the  Rud- 
der of  his  attendants.  "  I  guess  thy  thoughts," 
said  the  man  with  the  Lamp :  "  but  we  and  our 
gifts  are  powerless  against  this  powerless 
monster.  Becalm!  He  is  doing  hurt  for  the  last 
time,  and  happilyhis  shadow  is  not  turned  to  us." 

Meanwhile  the  Giant  was  approaching 
nearer;  in  astonishment  at  what  he  saw  with 
open  eyes,  he  had  dropt  his  hands;  he  was 
now  doing  no  injury,  and  came  staring  and 
agape  into  the  fore-court. 

*  Mark  what  comes  of  bathing  in  the  TiME-River,  at 
the  entrance  of  a  New  Era  !— D.  T. 

+  And  8o  Reason  and  Endeavour  being  once  more 
married,  and  in  the  honey-moon,  need  we  wish  them 
joy  1-1).  T. 

X  Thou  rememberest  the  Catholic  Relief  Bill ;  wit- 
nessest  the  Irish  Education  Bill  ?  Hast  heard,  five  hun- 
dred times,  ihat  the  "Church"  was  "in  Danger,"  and 
now  at  lensjth  believest  it  1— D.  T.— Is  D.  T.  of  the 
Fourth  Estate,  and  Popish-Infidel,  theni— O.  Y. 


He  was  walking  straight  to  the  door  of  the 
Temple,  when  all  at  once  in  the  middle  of  the 
court,  he  halted,  and  was  fixed  to  the  ground. 
He  stood  there  like  a  strong  colossal  statue,  of 
reddish  glittering  stone,  and  his  shadow  point 
ed  out  the  hours,*  which  were  marked  in  a 
circle  on  the  floor  around  him,  not  in  numbers, 
but  in  noble  and  expressive  emblems. 

Much  delighted  was  the  King  to  see  the 
monster's  shadow  turned  to  some  useful  pur- 
pose; much  astonished  was  the  Queen;  who, 
on  mounting  from  within  the  Altar,  decked  in 
royal  pomp  with  her  virgins,  first  noticed  the 
huge  figure,  which  almost  closed  the  prospect 
from  the  Temple  to  the  Bridge. 

Meanwhile  the  people  had  crowded  after  the 
Giant,  as  he  ceased  to  move;  they  were  walk- 
ing round  him,  wondering  at  his  metamor- 
phosis. From  him  they  turned  to  the  Temple, 
which  they  now  first  appeared  tO'notice,f  and 
pressed  towards  the  door. 

At  this  instant  the  Hawk  with  the  mirror 
soared  aloft  above  the  dome  ;  caught  the  light 
of  the  sun,  and  reflected  it  upon  the  group, 
which  was  standing  on  the  altar.  The  King, 
the  Queen,  and  their  attendants,  in  the  dusky 
concave  of  the  Temple,  seemed  illuminated  by 
a  heavenly  splendour,  and  the  people  fell  upoa 
their  faces.  When  the  crowd  had  recovered 
and  risen,  the  King  with  his  followers  had 
descended  into  the  Altar,  to  proceed  by  secret 
passages  into  his  palace;  and  the  multitude 
dispersed  about  the  Temple  to  content  their 
curiosity.  The  three  Kings  that  were  standing 
erect  they  viewed  with  astonishment  and  re- 
verence ;  but  the  more  eager  were  they  to  dis- 
cover what  mass  it  could  be  that  was  hid 
behind  the  hangings,  in  the  fourth  niche ;  for 
by  some  hand  or  another,  charitable  decency 
had  spread  over  the  resting-place  of  the  Fallen 
King  a  gorgeous  curtain,  which  no  eye  can  pene- 
trate, and  no  hand  may  dare  to  draw  aside. 

The  people  would  have  found  no  end  to  their 
gazing  and  their  admiration,  and  the  crowding 
multitude  would  have  even  suflTocated  one 
another  in  the  Temple,  had  not  their  attention 
been  again  attracted  to  the  open  space. 

Unexpectedly  some  gold-pieces,  as  if  falling 
from  the  air,  came  tinkling  down  upon  the 
marble  flags;  the  nearest  passers-by  rushed 
thither  to  pick  them  up;  the  wonder  was  re- 
peated several  times,  now  here,  now  there.  It 
is  easy  to  conceive  that  the  shower  proceeded 
from  our  two  retiring  Flames,  who  wished  to 
have  a  little  sport  here  once  more,  and  were 
thus  gaily  spending,  ere  they  went  away,  the 
gold  which  they  had  licked  from  the  mem- 
bers of  the  sunken  King.  The  people  still  ran 
eagerly  about,  pressing  and  pulling  one  ano- 
ther, even  when  the  gold  had  ceased  to  fall. 
At  length  they  gradually  dispersed,  and  went 
their  way;  and  to  the  present  hour  the  Bridge 
is  swarming  with  travellers,  and  the  Temple 
is  the  most  frequented  on  the  whole  Earth.t 


♦  Bravo !— D.  T. 

+  Now  first ;  when  the  beast  of  a  SuPBRSTiTiON-Giant 
has  got  his  quietus.     Right !— D.  T. 

t  It  is  the  Temple  of  the  whole  civilized  earth.  Finally, 
may  I  take  leave  to  consider  this  Mdhrchen  as  the 
deepest  Poem  of  its  sort  in  existence  ;  as  the  only  true 
Prophecy  emitted  for  who  knows  how  many  centuries  1 
— D.  T.— Certainly :  England  is  a  free  country.— O.  Y. 
2  L 


398 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


DIDEROT. 


[Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  1833.] 


The  Jlcts  of  the  Christian  Jpostles,  on  which, 
as  we  may  say,  the  world  has  now  for  eighteen 
centuries  had  its  foundation,  are  written  in  so 
small  a  compass,  that  they  can  be  read  in  one 
little  hour.  The  ^ds  of  the  French  Philosophes, 
the  importance  of  which  is  already  fast  ex- 
hausting itself,  lie  recorded  in  whole  acres  of 
typography,  and  would  furnish  reading  for  a 
lifetime.  Nor  is  the  stock,  as  we  see,  yet  any- 
wise complete,  or  within  computable  distance 
of  completion.  Here  are  Four  quite  new  Oc- 
tavos, recording  the  labours,  voyages,  victo- 
ries, amours,  and  indigestions  of  the  Apostle 
Denis :  it  is  but  a  year  or  two  since  a  new 
contribution  on  Voltaire  came  before  us; 
since  Jean  Jacques  had  a  new  Life  written  for 
him ;  and  then  of  those  Feuilks  de  Grimm, 
what  incalculable  masses  may  yet  lie  dormant 
in  the  Petersburgh  Library,  waiting  only  to  be 
awakened  and  let  slip ! — Reading  for  a  life- 
time 1  Thomas  Parr  might  begin  reading  in 
long-clothes,  and  stop  in  his  last  hundred  and 
fiftieth  year  without  having  ended.  And  then, 
as  to  when  the  process  of  addition  will  cease, 
and  the  Acts  and  Epistles  of  the  Parisian 
Church  of  Antichrist  will  have  completed 
themselves ;  except  in  so  far  as  the  quantity 
of  paper  written  on,  or  even  manufactured,  in 
those  days  being  finite  and  not  infinite,  the 
business  one  day  or  other  must  cease,  and  the 
Antichristian  Canon  close  for  the  last  time, — 
we  yet  know  nothing. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  nowise  be  understood  as 
lamenting  this  stupendous  copiousness,  but  ra- 
ther as  viewing  it  historically  with  patience, 
and  indeed  with  satisfaction.  Memoirs,  so  long 
as  they  are  true,  how  stupid  soever,  can  hardly 
be  accumulated  in  excess.  The  stupider  they 
are,  let  them  simply  be  the  sooner  cast  into 
the  oven;  if  true,  they  will  always  instruct 
more  or  less,  were  it  only  in  the  way  of  con- 
firmation and  repetition  ;  and,  what  is  of  vast 
moment,  they  do  not  ms-instruct.  Day  after 
day  looking  at  the  high  destinies  which  yet 
await  Literature,  which  Literature  will  ere 
long  address  herself  with  more  decisiveness 
than  ever  to  fulfil,  it  grows  clearer  to  us  that 
the  proper  task  of  Literature  lies  in  the  do- 
main of  Belief;  within  which  "Poetic  Fic- 
tion," as  it  is  charitably  named,  will  have  to 
take  a  quite  new  figure,  if  allowed  a  settle- 
ment there.  Whereby  were  it  not  reasonable 
to  prophesy  that  this  exceeding  great  multi- 
tude of  Novel-writers,  and  such  like,  must  (in 
a  new  generation)  gradually  do  one  of  two 
things  :  either  retire  into  nurseries,  and  work 
for  children,  minors,  and  semi-fatuous  persons 

*1.  Memoires,  Correspondance,  et  Ouvrages  inedits 
de  Diderot ;  publiis  d'apris  les  manuscrits  covfiet,  en 
mourante,  par  Vauteur  it,  Grimm.  4  torn.  8vo.  Paris, 
1831. 

2.  CEuvres  de  Denis  Diderot;  procSdees  de  Memoires 
historiques  et  philosophiqucs  sur  sa  Vie  et  ses  Ouvrages, 
par  J.  A.  J^aigeon.    22  torn.  8vo.     Paris,  1821. 


of  both  sexes ;  or  else,  what  were  far  better, 
sweep  their  Novel-fabric  into  the  dust-cart, 
and  betake  them  with  such  faculty  as  they 
have  to  understand  and  record  what  is  true, — 
of  which,  surely,  there  is,  and  will  for  ever  be, 
a  whole  Infinitude  unknown  to  us,  of  infinite 
importance  to  us !  Poetry,  it  will  more  and 
more  come  to  be  understood,  is  nothing  but 
higher  Knowledge  ;  and  the  only  genuine  Ro- 
mance (for  grown  persons)  Reality.  The 
Thinker  is  the  Poet,  the  Seer:  let  him  who 
sees  write  down  according  to  his  gift  of  sight; 
if  deep  and  with  inspired  vision,  then  cre- 
atively, poetically  ;  if  common,  and  with  only 
uninspired,  every-day  vision,  let  him  at  least 
be  faithful  in  this  and  write  Memoirs. 

On  us  still  so  near  at  hand,  that  Eighteenth 
century  in  Paris  presenting  itself  nowise  as 
portion  of  the  magic  web  of  Universal  His- 
tory, but  only  as  the  confused  and  ravelled 
mass  of  threads  and  thrums,  ycleped  Memoirs, 
in  process  of  being  woven  into  such, — im- 
poses a  rather  complex  relation.  Of  which, 
however,  as  of  all  such,  the  leading  rules  may 
be  happily  comprised  in  this  very  plain  one, 
prescribed  by  Nature  herself:  to  search  in  them, 
so  far  as  they  seem  worthy,  for  whatsoever 
can  help  us  forward  on  our  own  path,  were  it  in 
the  shape  of  intellectual  instruction,  of  moral 
edification,  nay  of  mere  solacement  and  amuse- 
ment. The  Bourbons,  indeed,  took  a  shorter 
method,  (the  like  of  which  has  been  often 
recommended  elsewhere  ;)  they  shut  up  and 
hid  the  graves  of  the  Philosophes,  hoping  that 
their  lives  and  writings  might  likewise  thereby 
go  out  of  sight,  and  out  of  mind  ;  and  thus  the 
whole  business  would  be,  so  to  speak,  sup- 
pressed. Foolish  Bourbons!  These  things 
were  not  done  in  a  corner,  but  on  high  places, 
before  the  anxious  eyes  of  all  mankind :  hid- 
den they  can  in  nowise  be :  to  conquer  them, 
to  resist  them,  our  first  indispensable  prelimi- 
nary is  to  see  and  comprehend  them.  To  us, 
indeed,  as  their  immediate  successors,  the 
right  comprehension  of  them  is  of  prime  ne- 
cessity ;  for,  sent  of  God  or  of  the  Devil,  they 
have  plainly  enough  gone  before  us,  and  left 
us  such  and  such  a  world  :  it  is  on  ground  of 
their  tillage,  with  the  stnb])le  of  their  harvest 
standing  on  it,  that  we  now  have  to  plough. 
Before  all  things  then,  let  us  understand  what 
ground  it  is ;  what  manner  of  men  and  hus- 
bandmen these  were.  For  which  reason,  be 
all  authentic  Philosophe-Memoirs  welcome, 
each  in  its  kind!  For  which  reason,  let  us 
now,  without  the  smallest  reluctance,  pene- 
trate into  this  wondrous  Gospel  according  to 
Denis  Diderot,  and  expatiate  there  to  see  whe- 
ther it  will  yield  us  aught. 

In  any  phenomenon,  one  of  the  most  import- 
ant moments  is  the  end.  Now  this  epoch  of 
the  Eighteenth  or  Philosophe-century  was  pro- 


DIDEROT. 


399 


perly  the  End ;  the  End  of  a  Social  System 
which  for  above  a  thousand  years  had  been 
building  itself  together,  and,  after  that,  had 
begun,  for  some  centuries,  (as  human  things 
all  do,)  to  moulder  down.  The  mouldering 
down  of  a  Social  System  is  no  cheerful  busi- 
ness either  to  form  part  of,  or  to  look  at :  how- 
ever, at  length,  in  the  course  of  it,  there  comes 
a  time  when  the  mouldering  changes  into  a 
rushing ;  active  hands  drive  in  their  wedges, 
set  to  their  crowbars ;  there  is  a  comfortable 
appearance  of  work  going  on.  Instead  of 
here  and  there  a  stone  falling  out,  here  and 
there  a  handful  of  dust,  whole  masses  tumble 
down,  whole  clouds  and  whirlwinds  of  dust : 
torches  too  are  applied,  and  the  rotten  easily 
takes  fire  :  so  what  with  flame-whirlwind,  what 
with  dust-whirlwind,  and  the  crush  of  falling 
towers,  the  concern  grows  eminently  interest- 
ing; and  our  assiduous  craftsmen  can  encou- 
rage one  another  with  Vivats,  and  cries  of 
Speed  the  ivork.  Add  to  this,  that  of  all  labour- 
ers, no  one  can  see  such  rapid  extensive  fruit 
of  his  labour  as  the  Destroyer  can  and  does: 
it  will  not  seem  unreasonable  that  measuring 
from  effect  to  cause,  he  should  esteem  his 
labour  as  the  best  and  greatest :  and  a  Vol- 
taire, for  example,  be  by  his  guild-brethren 
and  apprentices  confidently  accounted  "not 
only  the  greatest  man  of  this  age,  but  of  all 
past  ages,  and  perhaps  the  greatest  that  Na- 
ture could  produce."  Worthy  old  Nature ! 
She  goes  on  producing  whatsoever  is  needful 
in  each  season  of  her  course;  and  produces, 
with  perfect  composure,  that  Encyclopedist 
opinion,  that  she  can  produce  no  more. 

Such  a  torch-and-crowbar  period  of  quick 
rushing  down  and  conflagration,  was  this  of 
the  Siecle  de  Louis  Quinze ;  when  the  Social 
System  having  all  fallen  to  rottenness,  rain- 
holes,  and  noisome  decay,  the  shivering  na- 
tives resolved  to  cheer  their  dull  abode  by  the 
questionable  step  of  setting  it  on  fire.  Ques- 
tionable we  call  their  Manner  of  procedure ; 
the  thing  itself,  as  all  men  may  now  see,  was 
inevitable ;  one  way  or  other,  whether  by 
prior  burning  or  milder  methods,  the  old 
house  must  needs  be  new-built.  We  behold 
the  business  of  pulling  down,  or  at  least  of  as- 
sorting the  rubbish,  still  go  resolutely  on,  all 
over  Europe:  here  and  there  some  traces  of 
new  foundation,  of  new  building  up,  may  now 
also,  to  the  eye  of  Hope,  disclose  themselves. 

To  get  acquainted  with  Denis  Diderot  and 
his  life  were  to  see  the  significant  epitome  of 
all  this,  as  it  works  on  the  thinking  and  acting 
soul  of  a  man,  fashions  for  him  a  singular 
element  of  existence,  gives  himself  therein  a 
peculiar  hue  and  figure.  Unhappily,  after  all 
that  has  been  written,  the  matter  still  is  not 
luminous  :  to  us  strangers,  much  in  that  foreign 
economy,  and  method  of  working  and  living, 
remains  obscure;  much  in  the  man  himself, 
and  his  inward  nature  and  structure.  But, 
indeed,  it  is  several  years  since  the  present 
Reviewer  gave  up  the  idea  of  what  could  be 
called  understanding  any  Man  whatever,  even 
himself.  Every  Man,  within  that  inconsider- 
able figure  of  his,  contains  a  whole  spirit- 
kingdom  and  Reflex  of  the  All;  and  though 
to  the  eye  but  some  six  standard  feet  in  size, 


reaches  downwards  and  upwards,  unsurvey- 
able,  fading  into  the  regions  of  Immensity  and 
of  Eternity.  Life  everywhere,  as  woven  on 
that  stupendous  ever-marvellous  "Loom  of 
Time,"  may  be  said  to  fashion  itself  of  a  woof 
of  light  indeed,  yet  on  a  warp  of  mystic  dark- 
ness :  only  he  that  created  it  can  understand  it. 
As  to  this  Diderot,  had  we  once  got  so  far  that 
we  could,  in  the  faintest  degree,  personate  him  ; 
take  upon  ourselves  his  character  and  his  en- 
vironment of  circumstances,  and  act  his  Life 
over  again  in  that  small  Private-Theatre  of 
ours,  (under  our  own  Hat,)  with  moderate  II- 
lusiveness  and  histrionic  efl^ect, — that  were 
what,  in  conformity  with  common  speech,  we 
should  name  understanding  him,  and  could  be 
abundantly  content  with. 

In  his  manner  of  appearance  before  the 
world,  Diderot  has  been,  perhaps  to  an  extreme 
degree,  unfortunate.  His  literary  productions 
were  invariably  dashed  off  in  hottest  haste, 
and  left  generally,  (on  the  waste  of  Accident,) 
with  an  ostrich-like  indifference.  He  had  to 
live,  in  France,  in  the  sour  days  of  a  Journal 
des  Trevoux ;  of  a  suspicious,  decaying  Sor- 
bonne.  He  was  too  poor  to  set  foreign  presses, 
at  Kehl,  or  elsewhere,  in  motion  ;  too  headlong 
and  quick  of  temper  to  seek  help  from  those 
that  could :  thus  must  he,  if  his  pen  was  not 
to  lie  idle,  write  much  of  which  there  was  no 
publishing.  His  Papers  accordingly  are  found 
flying  about,  like  Sybil's  leaves,  in  all  corners 
of  the  world:  for  many  years  no  tolerable  col- 
lection of  his  Writings  was  attempted ;  to  this 
day  there  is  none  that  in  any  sense  can  be 
called  perfect.  Two  spurious,  surreptitious 
Amsterdam  Editions, "  or  rather  formless,  blun- 
dering Agglomerations,"  were  all  that  the 
world  saw  during  his  life.  Diderot  did  not 
hear  of  these  for  several  years,  and  then  only, 
it  is  said,  "  with  peaJs  of  laughter,"  and  no 
other  practical  step  whatever.  Of  the  four 
that  have  since  been  printed,  (or  reprinted,  for 
Naigeon's  of  1798,  is  the  great  original,)  no 
one  so  much  as  pretends  either  to  be  complete 
or  selected  on  any  system.  Priere's,  the  latest, 
of  which  alone  we  have  much  personal  know- 
ledge, is  a  well-printed  book,  perhaps  better 
worth  buying  than  any  of  the  others ;  yet 
without  arrangement,  without  coherence,  pur- 
port ;  often  lamentably  in  need  of  commentary : 
on  the  whole,  in  reference  to  the  wants  and 
specialities  of  this  time,  as  good  as  M«edited. 
Briere  seems,  indeed,  to  have  hired  some 
person,  or  thing,  to  play  the  part  of  Editor;  or 
rather  more  things  than  one,  for  they  sign 
themselves  Editors  in  the  plural  number;  and 
from  time  to  time,  throughout  the  work,  some 
asterisk  attracts  us  to  the  bottom  of  the  leaf, 
and  to  some  printed  matter  subscribed 
"Edits.":  but  unhappily  the  journey  is  fcr 
most  part  in  vain  ;  in  the  course  of  a  volume 
or  two,  we  learn  two  well  that  nothing  is  to  be 
gained  there ;  that  the  Note,  whatever  it  pro- 
fessedly treat  of,  will,  in  strict  logical  speech, 
mean  only  as  much  as  to  say:  "Reader  !  thou 
perceivest  that  we  Editors,  to  the  number  of 
at  least  two,  are  alive,  and  if  we  had  any  in- 
formation would  impart  it  to  thee. — Edits." 
For  the  rest,  these"  Edits."  are  polite  people  ; 
and  with  this   uncertainty  (as  to  their  being 


400 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


personsorthings)  clearly  before  them,  continue, 
to  all  appearance,  in  moderately  good  spirits. 

One  service  they,  or  Briere  for  them,  (if, 
indeed,  Briere  is  not  himself  they,  as  we  some- 
times surmise,)  have  accomplished  for  us  : 
sought  out  and  printed  the  long-looked-for, 
long-lost  Life  of  Diderot  by  Naigeon.  The 
lovers  of  biography  had  for  years  sorrowed 
over  this  concealed  Manuscript,  with  a  wistful- 
ness  from  which  hope  had  nigh  fled.  A  certain 
Naigeon,  the  beloved  disciple  of  Diderot,  had 
(if  his  own  word,  in  his  own  editorial  Preface, 
was  to  be  credited)  written  a  Life  of  him ; 
and,  alas !  w^hither  was  it  now  vanished ! 
Surely  all  that  was  dark  in  Denis  the  Fatalist 
had  there  been  illuminated ;  nay,  was  there 
not,  probably,  a  glorious  "  Light-street"  carried 
through  that  whole  Literary  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury 1  And  was  not  Diderot,  long  belauded  as 
"  the  most  encyclopedical  head  that  perhaps 
ever  existed,"  now  to  show  himself  as  such 
in, — the  new  Practical  Encyclopedia,  philoso- 
phic, economic,  speculative,  digestive,  of  Life, 
— in  three  score  and  ten  Years,  or  Volumes  1 
Diderot  too  was  known  as  the  vividest,  noblest 
talker  of  his  time :  considering  all  that  Bos- 
well,  with  his  slender  opportunities,  had  made 
of  Johnson,  what  was  there  we  had  not  a  right 
to  expect ! 

By  Briere's  endeavour,  as  we  said,  the  con- 
cealed Manuscript  of  Naigeon  now  lies,  as 
published  Volume,  on  this  desk.  Alas!  a 
written  life,  too  like  many  an  acted  life,  where 
hope  is  one  thing,  fulfilment  quite  another ! 
Perhaps,  indeed,  of  all  biographies  ever  put 
together  by  the  hand  of  man,  this  of  J»f aigeon's 
is  the  most  uninteresting.  Foolish  Naigeon  ! 
We  wanted  to  see  and  know  how  it  stood  with 
the  bodily  man,  the  clothed,  boarded,  bedded, 
■working,  and  warfaring  Denis  Diderot,  in  that 
Paris  of  his ;  how  he  looked  and  lived,  what 
he  did,  what  he  said :  had  the  foolish  Biographer 
so  much  as  told  us  what  colour  his  stockings 
were !  Of  all  this,  beyond  a  date  or  two,  not  a 
syllable,  not  a  hint !  nothing  but  a  dull,  sulky, 
snuflling,  droning,  interminable  lecture  on 
Atheistic  Philosophy  ;  how  Diderot  came  upon 
Atheism,  how  he  taught  it,  how  true  it  is,  how 
inexpressibly  important.  Singular  enough,  the 
zeal  of  the  devil's  house  hath  eaten  Naigeon  up. 
A  man  of  coarse,  mechanical,  perhaps  intrin- 
sically rather  feeble  intellect;  and  then,  with 
the  vehemence  of  some  pulpit-drumming 
" Gowkthrapple,"  or  "precious  Mr.  Jabesh 
Rentowel," — only  that  his  kirk  is  of  the  other 
complexion  !  Yet  must  he  too  see  himself  in 
a  wholly  backsliding  world,  where  much  the- 
ism and  other  scandal  still  rules;  and  many 
times  Gowkthrapple  Naigeon  be  tempted  to 
weep  by  the  streams  of  Babel.  Withal,  how- 
ever, he  is  tvooden;  thoroughly  mechanical,  as 
if  A^aucanson  himself  had  made  him;  and  that 
singularly  tempers  his  fury. — Let  the  reader, 
finally,  admire  the  bounteous  produce  of  this 
Earth,  and  how  one  element  bears  nothing  but 
the  other  matches  it :  here  have  we  not  the 
4ruest  odium  theologiciim,  working  quite  demono- 
logically,  in  a  worshipper  of  the  Everlasting 
Nothing!  So  much  for  Naigeon;  what  we 
looked  for  from  him,  and  what  we  have  got. 
Must  Diderot  then  be  given  up  to  oblivion, 


or  remembered  not  as  Man,  but  merely  as  Phi- 
losophic-Atheistic Logic-Mill  1  Did  not  Dide- 
rot live,  as  well  as  think]  An  amateur  re- 
porter in  some  of  the  Biographical  Dictiona- 
ries declares  that  he  heard  him  talk  one  day, 
in  nightgown  and  slippers,  for  the  space  of 
two  hours,  concerning  earth,  sea,  and  air,  with 
a  fulgorous  impetuosity  almost  beyond  human, 
rising  from  height  to  height,  and  at  length 
finish  the  climax  by  "  dashing  his  nightcap 
against  the  wall."  Most  readers  will  admit 
this  to  be  biography;  we,  alas,  must  say,  it 
comprises  nearly  all  about  the  Man  Diderot 
that  hitherto  would  abide  with  us. 

Here,  however,  comes  "  Paulin,  Publishing- 
Bookseller,"  with  a  quite  new  contribution  :  a 
long  series  of  Letters,  extending  over  fifteen 
years ;  unhappily  only  love-letters,  and  from  a 
married  sexagenarian  ;  yet  still  letters  from  his 
own  hand.  Amid  these  insipid  floods  of 
tendresse,  sensibilite,  and  so  forth,  vapid,  like  long- 
decanted  small-beer,  many  a  curious  biographic 
trait  comes  to  light;  indeed,  we  can  hereby 
see  more  of  the  individual  Diderot,  and  his 
environment,  and  method  of  procedure  there, 
than  by  all  the  other  books  that  have  yet  been 
published  of  him.  Forgetting  or  conquering 
the  species  of  nausea  that  such  a  business,  on 
the  first  announcement  of  it,  may  occasion,  and 
in  many  of  the  details  of  it  cannot  but  confirm, 
the  biographic  reader  will  find  this  well  worth 
looking  into.  Nay,  is  it  not  something  of 
itself,  to  see  that  Spectacle  of  the  Philosophe 
in  Love,  or,  at  least,  zealously  endeavouring 
to  fancy  himself  so  1  For  scientific  purposes 
a  considerable  tedium,  of  "noble  sentiment" 
(and  even  worse  things)  can  be  undergone. 
How  the  most  encyclopedical  head  that  per- 
haps ever  existed,  now  on  the  borders  of  his 
grand  climacteric,  and  already,  provided  with 
wife  and  child,  comports  himself  in  that  trying 
circumstance  of  preternuptial  (and,  indeed,  at 
such  age,  and  with  so  many  "indigestions," 
almost  preternatural)  devotion  to  the  queens 
of  this  earth,  may,  by  the  curious  in  science, 
(who  have  nerves  for  it,)  be  here  seen.  There 
is  besides  a  lively  Memoir  of  him  by  Made- 
moiselle Diderot,  though  too  brief,  and  not  very 
true-looking.  Finally,  in  one  large  Volume, 
his  Dream  of  d'Alembert,  greatly  regretted  and 
commented  upon  by  Naigeon ;  which  we  could 
have  done  without.  For  its  bulk,  that  little 
Memoir  is  the  best  of  the  whole.  Unfortunately, 
as  hinted,  Mademoiselle,  resolute  of  all  things 
to  be  piquante,  writes,  or  rather  thinks,  in  a 
smart,  antithetic  manner,  nowise  the  fittest  for 
clearness  or  credibility :  without  suspicion  of 
voluntary  falsehood,  there  is  no  appearance 
that  this  is  a  camera-lucida  picture,  or  a  por- 
trait drawn  by  legitimate  rules  of  art.  Such 
resolution  to  be  piquant  is  the  besetting  sin  of 
innumerable  persons  of  both  sexes,  and  wofuUy 
mars  any  use  there  might  otherwise  be  in  their 
writing  or  their  speaking.  It  is,  or  was,  the 
fault  specially  imputed  to  the  French :  in  a 
woman  and  Frenchwoman,  who  besides  has 
much  to  tell  us,  it  must  even  be  borne  with. 
And  now,  from  these  diverse  scattered  mate- 
rials, let  us  try  how  coherent  a  figure  of  Denis 
Diderot,  and  his  earthly  Pilgrimage  and  Per- 
formance, we  can  piece  together. 


DIDEROT. 


401 


In  the  ancient  Town  of  Langres,  in  the 
month  of  October,  1713,  it  begins.  Fancy 
Langres,  aloft  on  its  hill  top,  amid  Roman 
ruins,  nigh  the  sources  of  the  Saone  and  of  the 
Marne,  with  its  coarse  substantial  houses,  and 
fifteen  thousand  inhabitants,  mostly  engaged 
in  knife-grinding;  and  one  of  the  quickest, 
clearest,  most  volatile,  and  susceptive  little 
figures  of  that  century,  just  landed  in  the 
World  there.  In  this  French  Sheffield,  Dide- 
rot's Father  was  a  Cutler,  master  of  his  craft; 
a  much-respected  and  respect-worthy  man; 
one  of  those  ancient  craftsmen  (now,  alas ! 
nearly  departed  from  the  earth,  and  sought, 
with  little  effect,  by  idyllists,  among  the  "  Scot- 
tish peasantry,"  and  elsewhere)  who,  in  the 
school  of  practice,  have  learned  not  only  skill 
of  hand,  but  the  far  harder  skill  of  head  and 
of  heart ;  whose  whole  knowledge  and  virtue, 
being  by  necessity  a  knowledge  and  virtue  to 
do  somewhat,  is  true,  and  has  stood  trial : 
humble  modern  patriarchs,  brave,  wise,  sim- 
ple ;  of  worth  rude,  but  un perverted,  like 
genuine  unwrought  silver,  native  from  the 
mine!  Diderot  loved  his  father,  as  he  well 
might,  and  regrets  ^n  several  occasions  that  he 
was  painted  in  holiday  clothes,  and  not  in  the 
workday  costume  of  his  trade,  "with  apron 
and  grinder's-wheel,  and  spectacles  pushed 
up,"— even  as  he  lived  and  laboured,  and 
honestly  made  good  for  himself  the  small  sec- 
tion of  the  Universe  he  pretended  to  occupy. 
A  man  of  strictest  veracity  and  integrity  was 
this  ancient  master;  of  great  insight  and 
patient  discretion,  so  that  he  was  often  chosen 
as  umpire  and  adviser ;  of  great  humanity,  so 
that  one  day  crowds  of  poor  were  to  "  follow 
him  with  tears  to  his  long  home."  An  out- 
spoken Langres  neighbour  gratified  the  now 
fatherless  Philosopher  with  this  saying — "Ah, 
Monsieur  Diderot,  you  are  a  famous  man,  but 
you  will  never  be  your  father's  equal."  Truly, 
of  all  the  wonderful  illustrious  persons  that 
come  to  view  in  the  biographic  part  of  these 
six-and-twenty  Volumes,  it  is  a  question  whe- 
ther this  old  Langres  Cutler  is  not  the  wor- 
thiest; to  us  no  other  suggests  himself  whose 
worth  can  be  admitted,  without  lamentable 
pollutions  and  defacements  to  be  deducted 
from  it.  The  Mother  also  was  a  loving-hearted, 
just  woman:  so  Diderot  might  account  him- 
self well-born :  and  it  is  a  credit  to  the  man 
that  he  always  (and  sometimes  in  the  circle 
of  kings  and  empresses)  gratefully  did  so. 

The  Jesuits  were  his  schoolmasters  :  at  the 
age  of  twelve,  the  encyclopedical  head  was 
*'  tonsured."  He  was  quick  in  seizing,  strong 
in  remembering  and  arranging ;  otherwise 
flighty  enough;  fond  of  sport,  and  from  time 
to  time  getting  into  trouble.  One  grand  event, 
significant  of  all  this,  he  has  himself  com- 
memorated: his  Daughter  records  it  in  these 
terms. 

"  He  had  chanced  to  have  a  quarrel  with  his 
comrades  :  it  had  been  serious  enough  to  bring 
on  him  a  sentence  of  exclusion  from  college 
on  some  day  of  public  examination  and  distri- 
bution of  prizes.  The  idea  of  passing  this  im- 
portant time  at  home,  and  grieving  his  parents, 
was  intolerable:  he  proceeded  to  the  coUege- 
g;ate ;  the  porter  refused  him  admittance ;  he 
61 


presses  in  while  some  crowd  is  entering,  and 
sets  off  running  at  full  speed ;  the  porter  gets 
at  him  with  a  sort  of  pike  he  carried,  and 
wounds  him  in  the  side :  the  boy  will  not  be 
driven  back ;  arrives,  takes  the  place  that  be- 
longed to  him :  prizes  of  all  sorts,  for  composi- 
tion, for  memory,  for  poetry,  he  obtains  them 
all.  No  doubt  he  had  deserved  them;  since 
even  the  resolution  to  punish  him  could  not 
withstand  the  sense  of  justice  in  his  superiors. 
Several  volumes,  a  number  of  garlands  had 
fallen  to  his  lot;  being  too  weak  to  carry  them 
all,  he  put  the  garlands  round  his 'neck,  and, 
with  his  arms  full  of  books,  returned  home. 
His  mother  was  at  the  door;  and  saw  him 
coming  through  the  public  square  in  this 
equipment,  and  surrounded  by  his  school-fel- 
lows: one  should  be  a  mother  to  conceive 
what  she  must  have  felt.  He  was  feasted,  he 
was  caressed :  but  next  Sunday,  in  dressing 
him  for  church,  a  considerable  wound  was 
found  on  him,  of  which  he  had  not  so  much  as 
thought  of  complaining." 

"  One  of  the  sweetest  moments  of  my  life," 
writes  Diderot  himself,  of  this  same  business, 
with  a  slight  variation,  "was  more  than  thirty 
years  ago,  and  I  remember  it  like  yesterday, 
when  my  Father  saw  me  coming  home  from 
the  college,  with  my  arms  full  of  prizes  that  I 
had  carried  off,  and  my  shoulders  with  the  gar- 
lands they  had  given  me,  which,  being  too  big 
for  my  brow,  had  let  my  head  slip  through 
them.  Noticing  me  at  a  distance,  he  threw 
down  his  work,  hastened  to  the  door  to  meet 
me,  and  could  not  help  weeping.  It  is  a  fine 
sight,  a  true  man  and  rigorous  falling  to 
weep !" 

Mademoiselle,  in  her  quick-sparkling  way, 
informs  us,  nevertheless,  that  the  school-victor, 
getting  tired  of  pedagogic  admonitions  and  in- 
flictions, whereof  there  were  many,  said  "  one 
morning"  to  his  father,  "  that  he  meant  to  give 
up  school !" — "  Thou  hadst  rather  be  a  cutler, 
then  1"—"  With  all  my  heart."— They  handed 
him  an  apron,  and  he  placed  himself  beside 
his  father.  He  spoiled  whatever  he  laid  hands 
on,  penknives,  whittles,  blades  of  all  kinds.  It 
went  on  for  four  or  five  days;  at  the  end  of 
which  he  rose,  proceeded  to  his  room,  got  his 
books  there,  and  returned  to  college, — and 
having,  it  would  appear,  in  this  simple  man- 
ner sown  his  college  wild-oats,  never  stirred 
from  it  again. 

To  the  Reverend  Fathers,  it  seemed  that 
Denis  would  make  an  excellent  Jesuit ;  where- 
fore they  set  about  coaxing  and  courting,  with 
intent  to  crimp  him.  Here,  in  some  minds,  a 
certain  comfortable  reflection  on  the  diabolic 
cunning  and  assiduity  of  these  Holy  Fathers, 
now  happily  all  dissolved  and  expelled,  will 
suggest  itself.  Along  with  which  may  another 
melancholy  reflection  no  less  be  in  place : 
namely,  that  these  Devil-serving  Jesuits  should 
have  shown  a  skill  and  zeal  in  their  teaching 
vocation,  such  as  no  Heaven-serving  body,  of 
what  complexion  soever,  anywhere  on  our 
earth  now  exhibits.  To  decipher  the  talent  of 
a  young  vague  Capability,  who  must  one  day 
;  be  a  man  and  a  Reality ;  to  take  him  by  the 
hand,  and  train  him  to  a  spiritual  trade,  and 
,  set  him  up  in  it,  with  tools,  shop,  and  good- 
2  I.  2 


402 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


will,  were  doing  him  in  most  cases  an  un- 
speakable service, — on  this  one  proviso,  it  is 
true,  that  the  trade  be  a  just  and  honest  one  ; 
in  which  proviso  surely  there  should  lie  no 
hinderance  to  such  servive,  but  rather  a  help. 
Nay,  could  many  a  poor  Dermody,  Hazlitt,  He- 
ron, Derrick,  and  such  like,  have  been  trained 
to  be  a  good  Jesuit,  were  it  greatly  worse  than 
to  have  lived  painfully  as  abadNothing-at-all? 
But  indeed,  as  was  said,  the  Jesuits  are  dis- 
solved; and  Corporations  of  all  sorts  have 
perished,  (from  corpulence;)  and  now,  instead  of 
the  seven  corporate  selfish  spirits,  we  have  the 
one-and-thirty  millions  of  discorporate  selfish  ; 
and  the  rule,  Man,  mind  thyself,  makes  a  jum- 
ble and  a  scramble,  and  crushing  press  (with 
dead-pressed  figures,  and  dismembered  limbs 
enough;)  into  whose  dark  chaotic  depths  (for 
human  Life  is  ever  unfathomable)  one  shud- 
ders to  look.  Loneliest  of  all,  weakest  and 
worst-bested,  in  that  world-scramble,  is  the 
extraordinary  figure  known  in  these  times  as 
Man  of  Letters  !  It  appears  to  be  indubitable 
that  this  state  of  matters  will  alter  and  im- 
prove itself, — in  a  century  or  two.  But  to  re- 
turn: 

"The  Jesuits,"  thus  sparkles  Mademoiselle, 
"  employed  the  temptation,  which  is  always  so 
seductive,  of  travelling  and  of  liberty;  they 
persuaded  the  youth  to  quit  his  home,  and  set 
forth  with  a  Jesuit,  to  whom  he  was  attached. 
Denis  had  a  friend,  a  cousin  of  his  own  age; 
he  intrusted  his  secret  to  him,  wishing  that  he 
should  accompany  them.  But  the  cousin,  a 
tamer  and  discreeter  personage,  discovered  the 
whole  project  to  the  father  ;  the  day  of  depar- 
ture, the  hour,  all  was  betrayed.  My  grandfa- 
ther kept  the  strictest  silence;  but  before  going 
to  sleep  he  carried  off  the  keys  of  the  street 
door;  and  at  midnight,  hearing  his  son  de- 
scend, he  presented  himself  before  him,  with 
!the  question,*  Whither  bound,  at  such  an  hour!' 
'  To  Paris,'  replied  the  young  man,  '  where  I 
a'm  to  join  the  Jesuits.' — 'That  will  not  be  to- 
irigki ;  but  your  desires  shall  be  fulfilled :  let 
us  in  the  first  place  go  to  sleep.' 

"Next  morning  his  father  engaged  two 
places  in  the  public  conveyance,  and  carried 
.bim  t©  Paris,  to  the  College  d'Harcourt.  He 
settled  the  terms  of  his  little  establishment, 
;and  bade  his  son  good-b'ye.  But  the  worthy 
man  levied  his  child  too  well  to  leave  him 
without  being  quite  satisfied  about  his  situa- 
tion :  he  had  the  constancy  to  stay  a  fortnight 
longer,  Milling  the  time,  and  dying  of  tedium, 
in  an  init,  without  seeing  the  sole  object  he 
was  delaying  for.  At  the  end,  he  proceeded  to 
the  College;  and  my  father  has  often  told  me 
tkat  this  proof  of  tenderness  would  have  made 
him  go  to  the  end  of  the  world,  if  the  old  man 
bad  required  it.  *  Friend,'  said  he, '  I  am  come 
to  know  if  your  health  keeps  good  ;  if  you  are 
content  with  your  superiors,  with  your  diet, 
with  others,  and  with  yourself.  If  you  are  not 
well,  if  you  are  not  happy,  we  will  go  back 
again  to  your  mother.  If  you  like  better  to 
remain  here,  I  have  but  to  speak  a  word  with 
you,  to  embrace  you,  and  give  you  my  bless- 
ing.' The  youth  assured  him  that  he  was  per- 
fectly contented,  that  he  liked  his  new  abode 
very  much.    My  grandfather  then  took  leave 


of  him,  and  went  to  the  Principal,  to  know  if 
he  was  satisfied  with  his  pupil." 

On  which  side  also  the  answer  proving  fa- 
vourable, the  worthy  father  returned  home. 
Denis  saw  little  more  of  him ;  never  again  re- 
sided under  his  roof,  though  for  many  years, 
and  to  the  last,  a  proper  intercourse  was  kept 
up ;  not,  as  appears,  without  a  visit  or  two  on 
the  son's  part,  and  certainly  with  the  most  un- 
wearied, prudent  superintendence  and  assist- 
ance on  the  father's.  Indeed,  it  was  a  worthy 
family,  that  of  the  Diderots  ;  and  a  fair  degree 
of  natural  afi^ection  must  be  numbered  among 
the  virtues  of  our  Philosophe.  Those  scenes 
about  rural  Langres,  and  the  old  homely  way 
of  life  there,  as  delineated  fictitiously  in  the 
Entretien  (Tim  Pere  avec  ses  Enfans,  and  now 
more  fully,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  this  just- 
published  Correspondance,  are  of  a  most  innocent, 
cheerful,  peacefully-secluded  character ;  more 
pleasing,  we  might  almost  say  more  poetical, 
than  could  elsewhere  be  gathered  out  of  Dide- 
rot's whole  Writings.  Denis  was  the  eldest 
of  the  family,  and  much  looked  up  to,  with  all 
his  short-comings  :  there  was  a  Brother,  who 
became  a  clergyman  ;  and  a  truehearted,  sharp- 
witted  Sister,  who  remained  unmarried,  and 
at  times  tried  to  live  in  partnership  with  this 
latter, — rather  unsuccessfully.  The  Clergyman 
being  a  conscientious,  even  straight-laced  man, 
and  Denis  such  as  we  know,  they  had,  natural- 
ly enough,  their  own  difficulties  to  keep  on 
brotherly  terms;  and  indeed,  at  length,  aban- 
doned the  task  as  hopeless.  The  Abb6  stood 
rigorous  by  his  Breviary,  from  time  to  time 
addressing  solemn  monitions  to  the  lost  Phi- 
losophe, who  also  went  on  his  way.  He  is 
somewhat  snarled  at  by  the  Denisian  side  of 
the  house  for  this  ;  but  surely  without  ground  : 
it  was  his  virtue  rather ;  at  lowest  his  destiny. 
The  true  Priest,  who  could,  or  should,  look 
peaceably  on  an  Encydopedie,  is  yet  perhaps 
waited  for  in  the  world;  and  of  all  false 
things,  is  not  a  false  Priest  the  falsest  1 

Meanwhile  Denis,  at  the  College  d'Harcourt, 
learns  additional  Greek  and  Mathematics,  and 
quite  loses  taste  for  the  Jesuit  career.  Mad 
pranks  enough  he  played,  we  doubt  not ;  fol- 
lowed by  reprimands.  He  made  several  friends, 
however;  got  intimate  with  the  Abbe  Bernis, 
poet  at  that  time  ;  afterwards  Cardinal.  "  They 
used  to  dine  together,  for  six  sous  a-piece,  at 
the  neighbouring  Traiteur^s  :  and  I  have  often 
heard  him  vaunt  the  gayety  of  these  repasts." 

"  His  studies  being  finished,"  continues  Ma- 
demoiselle, "  his  father  wrote  to  M.  Clement  de 
Ris,  a  Procureur  at  Paris,  and  his  countryman, 
to  take  him  as  boarder,  that  he  might  study 
Jurisprudence  and  the  Laws.  He  continued 
here  two  years  ;  but  the  business  of  actes  and 
invcntaircs  had  few  charms  for  him.  All  the 
time  he  could  steal  from  the  office-desk  was 
employed  in  prosecuting  Latin  and  Greek,  in 
which  he  thought  himself  still  imperfect;  Ma- 
thematics, which  he  to  the  last  continued  pas- 
sionately fond  of;  Italian,  English,  &c.  In  the 
end  he  gave  himself  up  so  completely  to  his 
taste  for  letters,  that  M.  Clement  thought  it 
right  to  inform  his  father  how  ill  the  youth 
was  employing  his  time.  My  grandfather  then 
expressly  commissioned  M.  Clement  to  urge 


DIDEROT. 


403 


and  constrain  him  to  make  choice  of  some 
profession,  and  once  for  all  to  become  Doctor, 
Procureur,  or  Advocate.  My  father  begged 
time  to  think  of  it;  time  was  given.  At  the 
end  of  several  months  these  proposals  were 
again  laid  before  him :  he  answered  that  the 
profession  of  Doctor  did  not  please  him,  for  he 
could  not  think  of  killing  any  body ;  that  the 
Procureur  business  was  too  difficult  to  execute 
with  delicacy  ;  that  he  would  willingly  choose 
the  profession  of  Advocate,  were  it  not  that  he 
felt  an  invincible  repugnance  to  occupy  him- 
self all  his  life  with  other  people's  business. 
*But,'  said  M.  Clement,  *  what  will  you  be 
then  1 ' — *  On  my  word,  nothing,  nothing  what- 
ever, (Ma  foi,  rien,  mais  ricn  du  tout.)  I  love 
study;  I  am  very  happy,  very  content,  and 
want  nothing  else.' " 

Here  clearly  is  a  youth  of  spirit,  determined 
to  take  the  world  on  the  broadside,  and  eat 
thereof,  and  be  filled.  His  decided  turn,  like 
that  of  so  many  others,  is  for  the  trade  of  sove- 
reign prince,  in  one  shape  or  other;  unhap- 
pily, however,  the  capital  and  outfit  to  set  it 
up  is  wanting.  Under  which  circumstances, 
nothing  remains  but  to  instruct  M.  Clement  de 
Ris  that  no  more  board-wages  will  henceforth 
be  paid,  and  the  young  sovereign  may,  at  his 
earliest  convenience,  be  turned  out  of  doors. 

What  Denis,  perched  aloft  in  his  own-hired 
attic,  may  have  thought  of  it  now,  does  not  ap- 
pear. The  good  old  Father,  in  stopping  his 
allowance,  had  reasonably  enough  insisted  on 
one  of  two  things  :  either  that  he  should  be- 
take him  to  some  intelligible  method  of  exist- 
ence, wherein  all  help  should  be  furnished 
him;  or  else  return  home  within  the  week. 
Neither  of  which  could  Denis  think  of  doing. 
A  similar  demand  continued  to  be  reiterated 
for  the  next  ten  years,  but  always  with  the 
like  none-efiect.  King  Denis,  in  his  furnished 
attic,  with  or  without  money  to  pay  for  it,  was 
now  living  and  reigning,  like  other  kings,  "  by 
the  grace  of  God ;"  and  could  nowise  resolve 
to  abdicate.  A  sanguineous,  vehement,  volatile 
mortal;  young,  and  in  so  wide  an  earth,  it 
seemed  to  him  next  to  impossible  but  he  must 
find  gold-mines  there.  He  lived,  while  victual 
was  to  be  got,  taking  no  thought  for  the  mor- 
row. He  had  books,  he  had  merry  company,  a 
whole  piping  and  dancing  Paris  round  him; 
he  could  teach  Mathematics,  he  could  turn 
himself  so  many  ways ;  nay,  might  not  he  be- 
come a  Mathematician  one  day;  a  glorified 
Savant,  and  strike  the  stars  with  his  sublime 
head!  Meanwhile  he  is  like  to  be  overtaken 
by  one  of  the  sharpest  of  human  calamities, 
"  cleanness  of  teeth." 

"One  Shrove  Tuesday  morning,  he  rises, 
gropes  in  his  pocket;  he  has  not  wherewith  to 
dine ;  will  not  trouble  his  friends  who  have 
not  invited  him.  This  day,  which  in  child- 
hood he  had  so  often  passed  in  the  middle  of 
relations  who  adored  him,  becomes  sadder  by 
remembrance :  he  cannot  work ;  he  hopes  to 
dissipate  his  melancholy  by  a  walk;  goes  to 
the  Invalides,  to  the  Courts,  to  the  Bibliotheque 
du  Roi,  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  You  may 
drive  away  tedium ;  but  you  cannot  give  hunger 
the  slip.  He  returns  to  his  quarters ;  on  enter- 
ing he  feels  unwell ;  the  landlady  gives  him  a 


little  toast  and  wine ;  he  goes  to  bed.  *  That 
day,'  he  has  often  said  to  me, '  I  swore  that,  if 
ever  I  came  to  have  any  thing,  I  would  never 
in  my  life  refuse  a  poor  man  help,  never  con- 
demn my  fellow-creatures  to  a  day  as  pain- 
ful.'" 

That  Diderot,  during  all  this  period,  escaped 
starvation,  is  plain  enough  by  the  result :  but 
how  he  specially  accomplished  that,  and  the 
other  business  of  living,  remains  mostly  left 
to  conjecture.  Mademoiselle,  confined  at  any 
rate  within  narrow  limits,  continues  as  usual 
too  intent  on  sparkling:  is  brillante  and  petillantet 
rather  than  lucent  and  illuminating.  How  in- 
ferior, for  seeing  with,  is  your  brightest  train 
of  fireworks  to  the  humblest  farthing  candle! 
Who  Diderot's  companions,  friends,  enemies, 
patrons  were,  what  his  way  of  life  was,  what 
the  Paris  he  lived  in  and  from  his  garret  looked 
down  on  was,  we  learn  only  in  hints,  dislocated, 
enigmatic.  It  is  in  general  to  be  impressed 
on  us,  that  young  Denis,  as  a  sort  of  spiritual 
swashbuckler,  who  went  about  conquering 
Destiny,  in  light  rapier-fence,  by  way  of  amuse- 
ment; or  at  lowest,  in  reverses,  gracefully 
insulting  her  with  mock  reverences, — lived 
and  acted  like  no  other  man  ;  all  which  being 
freely  admitted,  we  ask,  with  small  increase 
of  knowledge.  How  he  did  act  then  1 

He  gave  lessons  in  Mathematics,  we  find ; 
but  with  the  princeliest  indifference  as  to  pay- 
ment :  "  was  his  scholar  lively,  and  prompt  of 
conception,  he  sat  by  him  teaching  all  day; 
did  he  chance  on  a  blockhead,  he  returned  not 
back.  They  paid  him  in  books,  in  movables, 
in  linen,  in  money,  or  not  at  all ;  it  was  quite 
the  same."  Farther,  he  made  Sermons,  (to 
order;)  as  the  Devil  is  said  to  quote  Scripture  : 
a  Missionary  bespoke  half-a-dozen  of  him  (of 
Denis,  that  is)  for  the  Portuguese  Colonies, 
and  paid  for  them  very  handsomely  at  fifty 
crowns  each.  Once,  a  family  Tutorship  came 
in  his  way,  with  tolerable  appointments,  but 
likewise  with  incessant  duties  :  at  the  end  of 
three  months,  he  waits  upon  the  house-father 
with  this  abrupt  communication  :  "  I  am  come. 
Monsieur,  to  request  you  to  seek  a  new  tutor; 
I  cannot  remain  with  you  any  tonger." — "But, 
Monsieur  Diderot,  what  is  your  grievance! 
Have  you  too  little  salary  1  I  will  double  it. 
Are  you  ill-lodged  1  Choose  your  apartment. 
Is  your  table  ill-served  ?  Order  your  own 
dinner.  All  will  be  cheap  to  parting  with  you." 
— "  Monsieur,  look  at  me  :  a  citron  is  not  so 
yellow  as  my  face.  I  am  making  men  of  your 
children  ;  but  every  day  I  am  becoming  a  child 
with  them.  I  feel  a  hundred  times  too  rich 
and  two  well  off"  in  your  house ;  yet  I  must 
leave  it:  the  object  of  my  wishes  is  not  to  live 
better,  but  to  keep  from  dying." 

Mademoiselle  grants  that,  if  sometimes 
"drunk  with  gayety,"  he  was  often  enough 
plunged  in  bitterness ;  but  then  a  Newtonian 
problem,  a  fine  thought,  or  any  small  godsend 
of  that  sort,  would  instantly  cheer  him  again. 
The  "  gold  mines"  had  not  yet  come  to  light. 
Meanwhile,  between  him  and  starvation  we 
can  still  discern  Langres  covertly  stretching 
out  its  hand.  Of  any  Langres  man,  coming 
in  his  way,  Denis  frankly  borrows;  and  the 
good  old    Father    refuses  not  to  pay.    The 


404 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Mother  is  still  kinder,  at  least  softer :  she  sends 
him  direct  help,  as  she  can ;  not  by  the  post, 
but  by  a  serving-maid,  who  travelled  these 
sixty  leagues  on  foot ;  delivered  him  a  small 
sum  from  his  mother ;  and,  without  mention- 
ing it,  added  all  her  own  savings  thereto.  This 
Samaritan  journey  she  performed  three  times. 
"  I  saw  her  some  years  ago,"  adds  Mademoi- 
selle ;  "  she  spoke  of  my  father  with  tears  ;  her 
whole  desire  was  to  see  him  again:  sixty 
years'  service  had  impaired  neither  her  sense 
nor  her  sensibility." 

It  is  granted  also  that  his  company  was 
"sometimes  good,  sometimes  indifferent,  not 
to  say  bad."  Indeed  putting  all  things  to- 
gether, we  can  easily  fancy  that  the  last  sort 
was  the  preponderating.  It  seems  probable 
that  Denis,  during  these  ten  years  of  probation, 
walked  chiefly  in  the  subterranean  shades  of 
Rascaldom;  now  swilling  from  full  Circe- 
goblets,  now  snuffing  with  haggard  expectancy 
the  hungry  wind ;  always  "  sorely  flamed  on 
from  the  neighbouring  hell."  In  some  of  his 
fictitious  writings,  a  most  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  the  nether-world  of  Polissons,  Es- 
crocs,  Filles  de  Joye,  Maroufles,  Maquerelles, 
and  their  ways  of  doing,  comes  to  light :  among 
other  things,  (as  may  be  seen  in  Jacques  le 
Fataliste,  and  elsewhere,)  a  singular  theoretic 
expertness  in  what  is  technically  named  "  rais- 
ing the  wind ;"  which  miracle,  indeed,  Denis 
himself  is  expressly  (in  this  Memoire)  found 
once  performing,  and  in  a  style  to  require 
legal  cognisance,  had  not  the  worthy  Father 
"sneered  at  the  dupe,  and  paid."  The  dupe 
here  was  a  proselytizing  Abbe,  whom  the  dog 
glozed  with  professions  of  life-weariness  and 
turning  monk  ;  which  all  evaporated,  once  the 
money  was  in  his  hands.  On  other  occasions, 
it  might  turn  out  otherwise,  and  the  gudgeon- 
fisher  hook  some  shark  of  prey. 

Literature,  except  in  the  way  of  Sermons  for 
the  Portuguese  Colonies,  or  other  the  like 
small  private  dealings,  had  not  yet  opened  her 
hospitable  bosom  to  him.  Epistles,  precatory 
and  amatory,  for  such  as  had  more  cash  than 
grammar,  he  may  have  written ;  Catalogues 
also,  Indexes,  Advertisements,  and,  in  these 
latter  cases,  even  seen  himself  in  print.  But 
now  he  ventures  forward,  with  bolder  step,  to- 
wards the  interior  mysteries,  and  begins  pro- 
ducing Translations  from  the  English.  Litera- 
ture, it  is  true,  was  then,  as  now,  the  universal 
free-hospital  and  Refuge  for  the  Destitute, 
where  ail  mortals,  of  what  colour  and  kind  so- 
ever, had  liberty  to  live,  or  at  least  to  die :  never- 
theless, foran  enterprising  man,  its  resources  at 
that  time  were  comparatively  limited.  News- 
papers were  few ;  Reporting  existed  not,  still 
less  the  inferior  branches,  with  their  fixed  rate 
per  line  :  Paekwood  and  Warren,  much  more 
Panckoucke,  and  Ladvocat,  and  Colburn,  as 
yet  slumbered  (the  last  century  of  their  slum- 
ber) in  the  womb  of  Chaos;  Fragmentary 
Panegyric-literature  had  not  yet  come  into 
being,  therefore  could  not  be  paid  for.  Talent 
wanted  a  free  staple  and  workshop,  where  wages 
might  be  certain;  and  too  often,  like  virtue, 
was  praised  and  left  starving.  Lest  the  reader 
overrate  the  munificence  of  the  literary  cornu- 
copia in  France  at  this  epoch,  let  us  lead  him 


into  a  small  historical  scene,  that  he  may  see 
with  his  own  eyes.  Diderot  is  the  historian  ; 
the  date  too  is  many  years  later,  when  times, 
if  any  thing,  were  mended : 

"  I  had  given  a  poor  devil  a  manuscript  to 
copy.  The  time  he  had  promised  it  at  having 
expired,  and  my  man  not  appearing,  I  grow 
uneasy;  set  off  to  hunt  him  out.  I  find 
him  in  a  hole  the  size  of  my  hand,  almost 
without  daylight,  not  the  wretchedest  tatter  of 
serge  to  cover  his  walls ;  two  straw-bottom 
chairs,  a  flock-bed,  the  coverlet  chiselled  with 
worms,  without  curtains;  a  trunk  in  a  corner 
of  the  chimney,  rags  of  all  sorts  hooked  above 
it;  a  little  white-iron  lamp,  with  a  bottle  for 
pediment  to  it;  on  a  deal  shelf  a  dozen  of  ex- 
cellent books.  I  chatted  with  him  three  quar- 
ters of  an  hour.  My  gentleman  was  naked  as 
a  worm,"  (nu  comme  un  ver:  it  was  August;) 
"  lean,  dingy,  dry,  yet  serene,  complaining  of 
nothing,  eating  his  junk  of  bread  with  appe- 
tite, and  from  time  to  time  caressing  his  be- 
loved, who  reclined  on  that  miserable  truckle, 
taking  up  two-thirds  of  the  room.  If  I  had 
not  known  that  happiness  resides  in  the  soul, 
my  Epictetus  of  the  Rue  Hyacinthe  might 
have  taught  it  me." 

Notwithstanding  all  which,  Denis,  now  in 
his  twenty-ninth  year,  sees  himself  necessitated 
to  fall  desperately,  and  over  head  and  ears,  in 
love.  It  was  a  virtuous,  pure  attachment: 
his  first  of  that  sort,  probably  also  his  last. 
Readers  who  would  see  the  business  poetically 
delineated,  and  what  talent  Diderot  had  for 
such  delineations,  may  read  this  Scene  in  the 
once-noted  Drama  of  the  Pere  de  Famille.  It 
is  known  that  he  drew  from  the  life ;  and  with 
few  embellishments,  which  too,  except  in  the 
French  Theatre,  do  not  beautify. 

«  Act  I.— Sckke  VIL 

Saint-Alhin,  Father,  you  shall  know  all. 
Alas !  how  else  can  I  move  you  1 — The  first 
time  I  ever  saw  her  was  at  church.  She  was 
on  her  knees  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  beside  an 
aged  woman,  whom  I  took  for  her  mother. 
Ah  father  !  what  modesty,  what  charms  ! . . . . 
Her  image  followed  me  by  day,  haunted  me  by 
night,  left  me  rest  nowhere.  I  lost  my  cheer- 
fulness, my  health,  my  peace.     I  could  not 

live  without  seeking  to  find  her She  has 

changed  me ;  I  am  no  longer  what  I  was. 
From  the  first  moment  all  shameful  desires 
fade  away  from  my  soul ;  respect  and  admira- 
tion succeed  them.  Without  rebuke  or  restraint 
on  her  part,  perhaps  before  she  had  raised  her 
eyes  on  me,  I  became  timid;  more  so  from 
day  to  day ;  and  soon  I  felt  as  little  free  to 
attempt  her  virtue  as  her  life. 

The  Father.  And  who  are  these  women! 
How  do  they  live  1 

Saint-Albin.  Ah  !  if  you  knew  it,  unhappy 
as  they  are  !  Imagine  that  their  toil  begins 
before  day,  and  often  they  have  to  continue  it 
through  the  night.  The  mother  spins  on  the 
wheel;  hard  coarse  cloth  is  between  the  soft 
small  fingers  of  Sophie,  and  wounds  them.* 


»  The  real  trade  appears  to  have  been  a  "  sempstresa 
one  in  lacea  and  linens  ;"  the  poverty  is  somewhat  ex- 
aggerated :  otherwise  the  shadow  may  be  faithful 
enough. 


DIDEROT. 


iM 


Her  eyes,  the  brightest  eyes  in  this  world,  are 
worn  at  the  light  of  a  lamp.  She  lives  in  a 
garret,  within  four  bare  walls  ;  a  wooden  table, 
a  couple  of  chairs,  a  truckle-bed,  that  is  their 
furniture.  O  Heavens,  when  ye  fashioned 
such  a  creature,  was  this  the  lot  ye  destined 
her! 

The  Father.  And  how  got  you  access  1  Speak 
me  truth. 

Saint-Alhin.  It  is  incredible  what  obstacles 
I  had,  what  I  surmounted.  Though  now  lodged 
there,  under  the  same  roof,  I  at  first  did  not 
seek  to  see  them :  if  we  met  on  the  stairs, 
coming  up,  going  down,  I  saluted  them  re- 
spectfully. At  night,  when  I  came  home,  (for 
all  day  I  was  supposed  to  be  at  my  work,)  I 
would  go  knock  gently  at  their  door;  ask  them 
for  the  little  services  usual  among  neighbours 
— as  water,  fire,  light.  By  degrees  they  grew 
accustomed  to  me ;  rather  took  to  me.  I 
offered  to  serve  them  in  little  things :  for 
instance,  they  disliked  going  out  at  night;  I 
fetched  and  carried  for  them." 

The  real  truth  here  is,  "  I  ordered  a  set  of 
shirts  from  them  ;  said  I  was  a  Church-licen- 
tiate just  bound  for  the  Seminary  of  St.  Nich- 
olas,— and,  above  all,  had  the  tongue  of  the 
old  serpent."     But  to  skip  much,  and  finish : 

"Yesterday  I  came  as  usual:  Sophie  was 
alone ;  she  was  sitting  with  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  her  head  leant  on  her  hand;  her  work 
had  fallen  at  her  feet.  I  entered  without  her 
hearing  me  :  she  sighed.  Tears  escaped  from 
between  her  fingers,  and  ran  along  her  arms. 
For  some  time,  of  late,  I  had  seen  her  sad. 
Why  was  she  weeping?  What  was  it  that 
grieved  her?  Want  it  could  no  longer  be; 
her  labour  and  my  attentions  provided  against 
that.  Threatened  by  the  only  misfortune  ter- 
rible to  me,  I  did  not  hesitate  :  I  threw  myself 
at  her  knees.  What  was  her  surprise  :  Sophie, 
said  I,  you  weep;  what  ails  you?  Do  not 
hide  your  trouble  from  me  :  speak  to  me  ;  oh 
speak  to  me  !  She  spoke  not.  Her  tears  con- 
tinued flowing.  Her  eyes,  where  calmness  no 
longer  dwelt,  but  tears  and  anxiety,  bent  to- 
wards me,  then  turned  away,  then  turned  to 
me  again.  She  said  only.  Poor  Sergi!  un- 
happy Sophie ! — I  had  laid  my  face  on  her 
knees  ;  I  was  wetting  her  apron  with  my  tears." 

In  a  word,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  mar- 
riage. Old  Diderot,  joyous  as  he  was  to  see 
his  Son  once  more,  started  back  in  indignation 
and  derision  from  such  a  proposal;  and  young 
Diderot  had  to  return  to  Paris,  and  be  forbid 
the  beloved  house,  and  fall  sick,  and  come  to 
the  point  of  death,  before  the  fair  one's  scruples 
could  be  subdued.  However,  she  sent  to  get 
news  of  him;  "learnt  that  his  room  was  a 
perfect  dog-kennel,  that  he  lay  without  nou- 
rishment, without  attendance,  wasted,  sad: 
thereupon  she  took  her  resolution:  mounted 
to  him,  promised  to  be  his  wife;  and  mother 
and  daughter  now  became  his  nurses.  So 
soon  as  he  recovered,  they  went  to  Saint- 
Pierre,  and  were  married  at  midnight,  (1744)." 
It  only  remains  to  add,  that  if  the  Sophie  whom 
he  had  wedded  fell  much  short  of  this  Sophie 
whom  he  delineates,  the  fault  was  less  in  her  i 
qualities,  than  in  his  own  unstable  fancy  :  as 
in  youth  she  was  "  tall,  beautiful,  pious,  and 


wise,"  so  through  a  long  life  she  seems  to 
have  approved  herself  a  woman  of  courage, 
discretion,  faithful  aft'ection;  far  too  good  a 
wife  for  such  a  husband. 

"  My  father  was  of  too  jealous  a  character  to 
let  my  mother  continue  a  trafiic,  which  obliged 
her  to  receive  strangers  and  treat  with  them : 
he  begged  her  therefore  to  Qi\e  up  that  busi- 
ness ;  she  was  very  loath  to  consent ;  poverty 
did  not  alarm  her  on  her  own  account,  but  her 
mother  was  old,  unlikely  to  remain  with  her 
long,  and  the  fear  of  not  being  able  to  provide 
for  all  her  wants  was  afliicting:  nevertheless, 
persuading  herself  that  this  sacrifice  was  ne- 
cessary for  her  husband's  happiness,  she  made 
it.  A  charwoman  looked  in  daily,  to  sweep 
their  little  lodging,  and  fetch  provisions  for  the 
day ;  my  mother  managed  all  the  rest.  Often 
when  my  father  dined  or  supped  out,  she  would 
dine  or  sup  on  bread ;  and  took  a  great  plea- 
sure in  the  thought  that,  next  day,  she  could 
double  her  little  ordinary  for  him.  Coffee  was 
too  considerable  a  luxury  for  a  household 
of  this  sort :  but  she  could  not  think  of  his 
wanting  it,  and  every  day  gave  him  six  sous  to 
go  and  have  his  cup,  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Regence, 
and  see  the  chess-playing  there. 

"  It  was  now  that  he  translated  the  History  of 
Greece  in  three  volumes,"  (by  the  English 
Stanyan  ;)  "  he  sold  it  for  a  hundred  crowns. 
This  sum  brought  a  sort  of  supply  into  the 
house.     »     *     * 

"  My  mother  had  been  brought  to  bed  of  a 
daughter  :  she  was  now  big  a  second  time.  In 
spite  of  her  precautions,  solitary  life,  and  the 
pains  she  had  taken  to  pass  off  her  husband 
as  her  brother,  his  family,  in  the  seclusion  of 
their  province,  learnt  that  he  was  living  with 
two  women.  Directly  the  birth,  the  morals, 
the  character  of  my  mother  became  objects 
of  the  blackest  calumny.  He  foresaw  that 
discussions  by  letter  would  be  endless ;  he 
found  it  simpler  to  put  his  wife  into  the  stage- 
coach, and  send  her  to  his  parents.  She  had 
just  been  delivered  of  a  son ;  he  announced 
this  event  to  his  father,  and  the  departure  of 
my  mother.  *  She  set  out  yesterday,'  said  he, 
"  she  will  be  with  you  in  three  days.  You 
will  say  to  her  what  shall  please  you,  and  send 
her  back  when  you  are  tired  of  her.'  Singular 
as  this  sort  of  explanation  was,  they  determined, 
in  any  case,  on  sending  my  father's  sister  to 
receive  her.  Their  first  welcome  was  more 
than  cold:  the  evening  grew  less  painful  to 
her ;  but  next  morning  betimes  she  went  in  to 
her  father-in-law;  treated  him  as  if  he  had 
been  her  own  father ;  her  respect  and  her  ca- 
resses charmed  the  good,  sensible  old  man. 
Coming  down  stairs,  she  began  working:  re- 
fused nothing  that  could  please  a  family  whom 
she  was  not  afraid  of,  and  wished  to  be  loved 
by.  Her  conduct  was  the  only  excuse  she 
gave  for  her  husband's  choice :  her  appear- 
ance had  prepossessed  them  in  her  favour; 
her  simplicity,  her  piety,  her  talents  for  house- 
hold economy  secured  her  their  tenderness; 
they  promised  her  that  my  father's  disinherit- 
ment  should  be  revoked.  They  kept  her  three 
months  ;  and  sent  her  back  loaded  with  what- 
ever they  could  think  would  be  useful  or  agree- 
able to  her." 


406 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


All  this  is  beautiful,  told  with  a  graceful 
simplicity  ;  the  beautiful,  real-ideal  prose-idyl 
of  a  Literary  Life  :  but,  alas,  in  the  music  of 
your  prose-idyl  there  lurks  ever  an  accursed 
dissonance  (or  the  players  make  one  ;)  where 
men  are,  there  will  be  mischief.  "This  jour- 
ney," writes  Mademoiselle,  "  cost  my  mother 
many  tears."  What  will  the  reader  say,  when 
he  finds  that  Monsieur  Diderot  has,  in  the  in- 
terim, taken  up  with  a  certain  Madame  de  Pui- 
sieux ;  and  welcomes  his  brave  Wife  (worthy 
to  have  been  a  true  man's)  with  a  heart  and 
bosom  henceforth  estranged  from  her !  Ma- 
dame Diderot  "made  two  journeys  to  Langres, 
and  both  were  fatal  to  her  peace."  This  af- 
fair of  the  Puisieux,  for  whom  he  despicably 
enough  not  only  burned,  but  toiled  and  made 
money,  kept  him  busy  for  some  ten  years ;  till 
at  length,  finding  that  she  played  false,  he 
gave  her  up ;  and  minor  miscellaneous  flirta- 
tions seem  to  have  succeeded.  But,  returning 
from  her  second  journey,  the  much-enduring 
House-mother  finds  him  in  a  meridian  glory 
with  one  Voland,  the  ww-maiden  Daughter  of  a 
"  Financier's  Widow  ;"  to  whom  we  owe  this 
present  preternuptial  Correspondence  ;  to  whom 
indeed  he  mainly  devoted  himself  for  the  rest 
of  his  life,  "parting  his  time  between  his 
study  and  her ;"  to  his  own  Wife  and  house- 
hold giving  little  save  the  trouble  of  cooking 
for  him,  and  of  painfully,  with  repressed  or 
irrepressible  discontent,  keeping  up  some  ap- 
pearance of  terms  with  him.  Alas  !  alas  ! 
and  his  Puisieux  seems  to  have  been  a  hollow 
Mercenary  (to  whose  scandalous  soul  he 
reckons  obscenest  of  Books  fit  nutriment;) 
and  the  Voland  an  elderly  Spinster,  with  cceur 
sensible,  cosur  honnete,  ame  tendre  et  bonne  !  And 
then  those  old  dinings  on  bread  ;  the  six  sous 
spared  for  his  cup  of  coffee  !  Foolish  Diderot, 
scarcely  pardonable  Diderot!  A  hard  saying 
it  is,  yet  a  true  one:  scoundrelism  signifies 
injustice,  and  should  be  left  to  scoundrels 
alone.  For  thy  wronged  Wife,  whom  thou 
hast  sworn  far  other  things  to,  ever  in  her  af- 
flictions (here  so  hostilely  scanned  and  writ- 
ten of,)  a  true  sympathy  will  awaken  ;  and 
sorrow  that  the  patient,  or  even  impatient,  en- 
durances of  such  a  woman  should  be  matter  of 
speculation  andself-gratulation  to  such  another. 

But  looking  out  of  doors  now,  from  an  in- 
differently-guided Household,  which  must  have 
fallen  shamefully  in  pieces,  had  not  a  wife 
been  wiser  and  stronger  than  her  husband, — 
we  find  the  Philosophe  making  distinct  way 
with  the  Bibliopolic  world  ;  and,  likely,  in  the 
end,  to  pick  up  a  kind  of  living  there.  The 
Stanyan's  Histoi-y  of  Greece  ;  the  other  English- 
translated,  nameless  Medical  Dictionary,  are 
dropped  by  all  editors  as  worthless :  a  like 
fate  might,  with  little  damage,  have  overtaken 
the  Essai  sur  le  Merite  et  la  Vertu,  rendered  or 
redacted  out  of  Shaftesbury's  Characteristics. 
In  which  redaction,  with  its  Notes,  of  anxious 
Orthodoxy,  (and  bottomless  Falsehood  looking 
through  it,)  we  individually  have  found  no- 
thing, save  a  confirmation  of  the  old  twice- 
repeated  experience.  That  in  Shaftesbury's 
famed  Book  there  lay,  if  any  meaning,  a 
meaning  of  such  Icng-windedness,  circumvo- 
lution, and  lubricity,  that,  like  an  eel,  it  must 


for  ever  slip  through  our  fingers,  and  leave  us 
alone  among  the  gravel.  One  reason  may 
partly  be,  that  Shaftesbury  was  not  only  a 
Skeptic  but  an  Amateur  Skeptic;  which  sort 
a  darker,  more  earnest,  have  long  since  swal- 
lowed and  abolished.  The  meaning  of  a  deli- 
cate, perfumed,  gentlemanly  individual  stand- 
ing there,  in  that  war  of  Titans,  (hill  meeting 
hill  with  all  its  woods,)  and  putting  out  hand 
to  it — with  a  pair  of  tweezers  1 

However,  our  Denis  has  now  emerged  from 
the  intermediate  Hades  of  Translatorship  into 
the  Heaven  of  perfected  Authorship;  empties 
bis  common-place  book  of  Fensees  Philoso- 
phiques,  (it  is  said  in  the  space  of  four  days ;) 
writes  his  metaphysico-Baconian  phantasma- 
gories  on  the  Interpretation  de  la  Nature,  (an 
endless  business  to  "interpret;")  and  casts 
the  money-produce  of  both  into  the  lap  of  his 
Scarlet-woman  Puisieux.  Then  forthwith,  for 
the  same  object,  in  a  shameful  fortnight,  puts 
together  the  beastliest  of  all  past,  present,  or 
future  dull  Novels;  a  difficult  feat,  unhappily 
not  an  impossible  one.  If  any  mortal  crea- 
ture, even  a  Reviewer,  be  again  compelled  to 
glance  into  that  Book,  let  him  bathe  himself 
in  running  water,  put  on  change  of  raiment, 
and  be  unclean  until  the  even.  As  yet  the 
metaphysico-Atheistic  Lettre  sur  les  Sourds  et 
Muets,  and  Lettre  sur  les  Aveuglcs,  which  brings 
glory  and  a  three  months'  lodging  in  the  Cas- 
tle of  Vincennes,  are  at  years'  distance  in  the 
background.  But  already  by  his  gilded  tongue, 
growing  repute,  and  sanguineous,  projecting 
temper,  he  has  persuaded  Booksellers  to  pay 
off  the  Abbe  Gua,  with  his  lean  Version  of 
Chambers^ s  Dictionary  of  Arts,  and  convert  it  in- 
to an  Encyclopedie,  with  himself  and  D'Alem- 
bert  for  Editors  ;  and  is  henceforth  (from  the 
year  of  grace  1751)  a  duly  dis-indenlured 
Man  of  Letters,  an  indisputable  and  more  and 
more  conspicuous  member  of  that  surprising 
guild. 

Literature,  ever  since  its  appearance  in  our 
European  world,  especially  since  it  emerged 
out  of  Cloisters  into  the  open  Market-place, 
and  endeavoured  to  make  itself  room,  and 
gain  a  subsistence  there,  has  offered  the  strang- 
est phases,  and  consciously  or  unconsciously 
done  the  strangest  work.  Wonderful  Ark  of  the 
Deluge,  where  so  much  that  is  precious,  nay 
priceless  to  mankind,  floats  carelessly  onwards 
through  the  Chaos  of  distracted  Times, — if  so 
be  it  may  one  day  find  an  Ararat  to  rest  on, 
and  see  the  waters  abate !  The  History  of 
Literature,  especially  for  the  last  two  centu- 
ries, is  our  proper  Church  History;  the  other 
Church,  during  that  time,  having  more  and 
more  decayed  from  its  old  functions  and  influ- 
ence, and  ceased  to  have  a  history.  And  now, 
to  look  only  at  the  outside  of  the  matter,  think 
of  the  Tassos  and  older  or  later  Racines, 
struggling  to  raise  their  office  from  its  pristine 
abasement  of  Court-jester:  and  teach  and  ele- 
vate the  World,  in  conjunction  with  that  other 
quite  heteroclite  task  of  solacing  and  glorify- 
ing some  Pullus  Jovis,  in  plush  cloak  and  other 
gilt  or  golden  king-tackle,  that  they  in  the  in- 
terim might  live  thereby  !  Consider  the  Shak- 
speares  and  Molieres,  plying  a  like  trade,  bui 
on  a  double  material :  glad  of  any  royal  or 


DIDEROT. 


407 


noble  patronage,  but  eliciting,  as  their  surer 
stay,  some  fractional  contribution  from  the 
thick-skinned,  many-pocketed  million.  Sau- 
maises,  now  bully-fighting  "for  a  hundred 
gold  Jacobuses,"  now  closeted  with  Queen 
Christinas,  who  blow  the  fire  with  their  own 
queenly  mouth,  to  make  a  pedant's  breakfast; 
anon  cast  forth  (being  scouted  and  confuted,) 
and  dying  of  heartbreak,  coupled  with  hen- 
peck.  Then  the  Laws  of  Copyright,  the 
Quarrels  of  Authors,  the  Calamities  of  Au- 
thors ;  the  Heynes  dining  on  boiled  peasecods, 
the  Jean  Pauls  on  water ;  the  Johnsons  bed- 
ded and  boarded  on  fourpence-halfpenny  a-day. 
Lastly,  the  unutterable  confusion  worse  con- 
founded of  our  present  Periodical  existence; 
when,  among  other  phenomena,  a  young 
Fourth  Estate  (whom  all  the  three  elder  may 
try  if  they  can  hold)  is  seen  sprawling  and 
staggering  tumultuously  through  the  world; 
as  yet  but  a  huge,  raw-boned,  lean  calf;  fast 
growing,  however,  to  be  a  Pharaoh's  lean  cow, 
— of  whom  let  the  fat-kine  beware !  All  this  of 
the  mere  exterior,  or  dwelling-place  of  Litera- 
ture, not  yet  glancing  at  the  internal,  at  the 
Doctrines  emitted  or  striven  after,  will  the  fu- 
ture Eusebius  and  Mosheim  have  to  record ; 
and  (in  some  small  degree)  explain  to  us 
what  it  means.  Unfathomable  is  its  meaning: 
Life,  mankind's  Life,  ever  from  its  unfathom- 
able fountains,  rolls  wondrous  on,  another 
though  the  same  ;  in  Literature  too,  the  seeing 
eye  will  distinguish  Apostles  of  the  Gentiles, 
Proto  and  Deutero- martyrs  ;  still  less  will  the 
Simon  Magus,  or  Apollonius  with  the  golden 
thigh  be  wanting.  But  all  now  is  on  an  infi- 
nitely wider  scale ;  the  elements  of  it  all  swim 
far  scattered,  and  still  only  striving  towards 
union: — whereby,  indeed,  it  happens  that  to 
the  most,  under  this  new  figure,  they  are  unre- 
cognisable. 

French  Literature,  in  Diderot's  time,  presents 
itself  in  a  certain  state  of  culmination,  where 
causes  long  prepared  are  rapidly  becoming 
effects;  and  was  doubtless  in  one  of  its  more 
notable  epochs.  Under  the  Economic  aspect, 
in  France,  as  in  England,  this  was  the  Age  of 
Booksellers ;  when,  as  a  Dodsley  and  Miller 
could  risk  capital  in  an  English  Dictionary,  a 
Lebreton  and  Briasson  could  become  purvey- 
ors and  commissariat  officers  for  a  French  En- 
cyclopedic.  The  world  for  ever  loves  Knowledge, 
and  would  part  its  last  sixpence  in  payment 
thereof:  this  your  Dodsleys  and  Lebretons 
well  saw ;  moreover  they  could  act  on  it,  for  as 
yet  Puffery  was  not.  Alas,  offences  must  come; 
Puffery  from  the  first  was  inevitable:  wo 
to  them,  nevertheless,  by  whom  it  did  come ! 
Meanwhile,  as  we  said,  it  slept  in  Chaos :  the 
Word  of  man  and  tradesman  was  still  partially 
credible  to  man.  Booksellers  were  therefore  a 
possible,  were  even  a  necessary  class  of  mor- 
tals, though  a  strangely  anomalous  one ;  had 
they  kept  from  lying,  or  lied  with  any  sort  of 
moderation,  the  anomaly  might  have  lasted 
still  longer.  For  the  present,  they  managed  in 
Paris  as  elsewhere  :  the  Timber-headed  could 
perceive  that  for  Thought  the  world  would  give 
money;  farther,  by  mere  shopkeeper  cunning, 
that  true  Thought,  as  in  the  end  sure  to  be  re- 
cognised, and  by  nature  infinitely  more  dura- 


ble, was  better  to  deal  in  than  false ;  farther,  by 
credible  tradition  of  public  consent,  that  such 
and  such  had  the  talent  of  furnishing  true 
Thought,  (say  rather  Writer,  as  the  more  correct 
word :)  on  this  hint  the  Timber-headed  spake 
and  bargained.  Nay,  let  us  say  he  bargained, 
and  worked,  for  most  part  with  industrious  as- 
siduity, with  patience,  suitable  prudence  ;  nay, 
sometimes  with  touches  of  generosity  and 
magnanimity,  beautifully  irradiating  the  cir- 
cumambient mass  of  greed  and  dulness.  For 
the  rest,  the  two  high  contracting  parties 
roughed  it  out  as  they  could ;  so  that  if  Book- 
sellers, in  their  back  parlour  Valhalla,  drank 
wine  out  of  the  sculls  of  Authors,  (as  they  were 
fabled  to  do,)  Authors,  in  the  front-apartments, 
from  time  to  time,  gave  them  a  Rowland  for 
their  Oliver :  a  Johnson  can  knock  his  Os- 
borne on  the  head,  like  any  other  Bull  of 
Bashan ;  a  Diderot  commands  his  corpulent 
Panckouke  to  "  leave  the  room  and  go  to  the 
devil ;"  allcz  au  diable,  sortez  de  chez  moi! 

Under  the  internal  or  Doctrinal  aspect,  again, 
French  Literature,  we  can  see,  knew  far  better 
what  it  was  about  than  English.  That  fable, 
indeed,  first  set  afloat  by  some  Trevoux  Jour- 
nalist of  that  period,  and  which  has  floated 
foolishly  enough  into  every  European  ear  since 
then,  of  there  being  an  Association  specially 
organized  for  the  destruction  of  government, 
religion,  society,  civility,  (not  to  speak  of  tithes, 
rents,  life,  and  property,)  all  over  the  world ; 
which  hell-serving  Association  met  at  the 
Baron  d'Holbach's,  there  had  its  blue-light 
sederunts,  and  published  Transactions  legible 
to  all, — was  and  remains  nothing  but  a  fable. 
Minute-books,  president's  hammer,  ballot-box, 
punch-bowl  of  such  Pandemonium  have  not 
been  produced  to  the  world.  The  sect  of  Phi- 
losophes  existed  at  Paris,  but  as  other  sects 
do;  held  together  by  loosest,  informal,  unre- 
cognised ties ;  within  which  every  one,  no 
doubt,  followed  his  own  natural  objects,  of 
proselytism,  of  glory,  of  getting  a  livelihood. 
Meanwhile,  whether  in  constituted  association 
or  not,  French  Philosophy  resided  in  the  per- 
sons of  the  French  Philosophes;  and,  as  a 
mighty  deep-struggling  force,  was  at  work 
there.  Deep  struggling,  irrepressible ;  the  sub- 
terranean fire,  which  long  heaved  unquietly, 
and  shook  all  things  with  an  ominous  motion, 
was  here,  we  can  say,  forming  itself  a  decided 
spiracle; — which,  by  and  by,  as  French  Revo- 
lution, became  that  volcano-crater,  world- 
famous,  world-appalling,  world-maddening,  as 
yet  very  far  from  closed!  Fontenelle  said, 
he  wished  he  could  live  sixty  years  longer,  and 
see  what  that  universal  infidelity,depravity,and 
dissolution  of  all  ties  would  turn  to.  In  three- 
score years  Fontenelle  might  have  seen  strange 
things;  but  not  the  end  of  the  phenomenon, 
perhaps  in  three  hundred. 

Why  France  became  such  a  volcano-crater, 
what  specialities  there  were  in  the  French 
national  character,  and  political,  moral,  intel- 
lectual condition,  by  virtue  whereof  French  Phi- 
losophy there  and  not  elsewhere,  then  and  not 
sooner  or  later,  evolved  itself, — is  an  inquiry 
that  has  been  often  put,  and  cheerfully  an- 
swered; the  true  answer  of  which  might  lead 
us  far.    Still  deeper  than  this  Whence  were  the 


4(tS 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


question  of  WTiither; — with  which,  also,  we  in- 
termeddle not  here.  Enough  for  us  to  under- 
stand that  there  verily  a  Scene  of  Universal 
History  is  being  enacted  (a  little  living  time- 
picture  in  the  bosom  of  eternitt) — and  with 
the  feeling  due  in  that  case,  to  ask  not  so  much 
Why  it  is,  as  What  it  is.  Leaving  priorities 
and  posteriorities  aside,  and  cause-and-efFect  to 
adjust  itself  elsewhere,  conceive  so  many  vivid 
spirits  thrown  together  into  Europe,  into  the 
Paris  of  that  day,  and  see  how  they  demean 
themselves,  what  they  work  out  and  attain 
there. 

As  the  mystical  enjoyment  of  an  object  goes 
infinitely  farther  than  the  intellectual,  and  we 
can  look  at  a  picture  with  delight  and  profit, 
after  all  that  we  can  be  taught  about  it  is  grown 
poor  and  wearisome ;  so  here,  and  by  far 
stronger  reason,  these  light  Letters  of  Diderot 
to  the  Voland,  again  unveiling  and  shounng 
Parisian  Life,  are  worth  more  to  us  than  many 
a  heavy  tome  laboriously  struggling  to  explain 
it.  True,  we  have  seen  the  picture  (that  same 
Parisian  life-picture)  ten  times  already;  but 
can  look  at  it  an  eleventh  time;  nay  this,  as  we 
said,  is  not  a  canvas-picture,  but  a  life-picture, 
of  whose  significance  there  is  no  end  for  us. 
Grudge  not  the  elderly  Spinster  her  existence, 
then;  say  not  she  has  lived  in  vain.  For  what 
of  History  there  is,  in  this  Preternuptial  Cor- 
respondence, should  we  not  endeavour  to  for- 
give and  forget  all  else,  the  scnsibilite  itself? 
The  curtain  which  had  fallen  for  almost  a  cen- 
tury is  again  drawn  up  ;  the  scene  is  alive  and 
busy.  Figures  grown  historical  are  here  seen 
face  to  face,  and  again  live  before  us. 

A  strange  theatre  that  of  French  Philoso- 
phism ;  a  strange  dramatic  corps  !  Such  ano- 
ther corps  for  brilliancy  and  levity,  for  gifts 
and  vices,  and  all  manner  of  sparkling  incon- 
sistencies, the  world  is  not  like  to  see  again. 
There  is  Patriarch  Voltaire,  of  all  Frenchmen 
the  most  French  ;  he  whom  the  French  had,  as 
it  were,  long  waited  for,  "to  produce  at  once, 
in  a  single  life,  all  that  French  genius  most 
prized  and  most  excelled  in  ;"  of  him  and  his 
wondrous  ways,  as  of  one  known,  we  need  say 
little.  Instant  enough  to  "  crush  the  Abomina- 
tion" (ecraser  Vinfame,)  he  has  prosecuted  his 
Jesuit-hunt  over  many  lands  and  many  centu- 
ries, in  many  ways,  with  an  alacrity  that  has 
made  him  dangerous,  and  endangered  him  : 
he  now  sits  atFerney,  withdrawn  from  the  ac- 
tive toils  of  the  chase ;  cheers  on  his  hunting- 
dogs  mostly  from  afar:  Diderot,  a  beagle  of  the 
first  vehemence,  he  has  rather  to  restrain.  That 
all  extant  and  possible  Theology  be  abolished, 
will  not  content  the  fell  Denis,  as  surely  it 
might  have  done ;  the  Patriarch  must  address 
him  a  friendly  admonition  on  his  Atheism,  and 
make  him  eat  it  again. 

D'Alembert,  too,  we  may  consider  as  one 
known;  of  all  the  Philosophe  fraternity,  he 
who  in  speech  and  conduct  agrees  best  with 
our  English  notions  ;  an  independent,  patient, 
prudent  man ;  of  great  faculty,  especially  of 
great  clearness  and  method  ;  famous  in  Mathe- 
matics ;  no  less  so,  to  the  wonder  of  some,  in 
the  intellectual  provinces  of  Literature.  A 
foolish  wonder;  as  if  the  Thinker  could  think 
only  on  one  thing,  and  not  on  any  thing  he  had 


a  call  towards.  D'Alembert's  Melanges,  as  the 
impress  of  a  genuine  spirit,  in  peculiar  posi- 
tion and  probation,  have  still  instruction  for 
us,  both  of  head  and  heart.  The  man  lives 
retired  here,  in  questionable  seclusion  with  his 
Espinasse;  incurs  the  suspicion  of  apostasy, 
because  in  the  Encyclopcdie  he  saw  no  Evangile 
and  celestial  Revelation,  but  only  a  huge  Folio 
Dictionary;  and  would  not  venture  life  and 
limb  on  it,  without  a  "consideration."  Sad 
was  it  to  Diderot  to  see  his  fellow-voyager 
make  for  port,  and  disregard  signals,  when  the 
sea-krakens  rose  round  him !  They  did  not 
quarrel ;  were  always  friendly  when  they  met, 
but  latterly  met  only  at  the  rate  of  "once  in 
the  two  years."  D'Alembert  died  when  Diderot 
was  on  his  death-bed:  " My  friend,"  said  the 
latter  to  the  news-bringer,  "a  great  light  is 
gone  out." 

Hovering  in  the  distance,  with  wo-struck, 
minatory  air,  stern-beckoning,  comes  Rous- 
seau. Poor  Jean  Jacques  !  Alternately  deified, 
and  cast  to  the  dogs;  a  deep-minded,  high- 
minded,  even  noble,  yet  wofully  misarranged 
mortal,  with  all  misformations  of  Nature  in- 
tensated  to  the  verge  of  madness  by  unfavour- 
able Fortune.  A  lonely  man  ;  his  life  a  long 
soliloquy !  The  wandering  Tiresias  of  the 
time ; — in  whom,  however,  did  lie  prophetic 
meaning,  such  as  none  of  the  others  offer. 
Whereby  indeed  it  might  partly  be  that  the 
world  went  to  such  extremes  about  him;  that, 
long  after  his  departure,  we  have  seen  one 
whole  nation  worship  him,  and  a  Burke,  in 
the  name  of  another,  class  him  with  the  ofi^- 
scourings  of  the  earth.  His  true  character, 
with  its  lofty  aspirings  and  poor  performings; 
and  how  the  spirit  of  the  man  worked  so 
wildly,  like  celestial  fire  in  a  thick  dark  ele- 
ment of  chaos,  and  shot  forth  ethereal  radi- 
ance, all-piercing  lightning,  yet  could  not 
illuminate,  was  quenched  and  did  not  conquer: 
this,  with  what  lies  in  it,  may  now  be  pretty 
accurately  appreciated.  Let  his  history  teach 
all  whom  it  concerns,  to  ^^  harden  themselves 
against  the  ills  which  Mother  Nature  will  try 
them  with ;"  to  seek  within  their  own  soul 
what  the  world  must  for  ever  deny  them;  and 
say  composedly  to  the  Prince  of  the  Power  of 
this  lower  Earth  and  Air:  Go  thou  thy  way; 
I  go  mine! 

Rousseau  and  Diderot  were  early  friends: 
who  has  forgotten  how  Jean  Jacques  walked 
to  the  Castle  of  Vincennes,  where  Denis  (for 
heretical  Metaphysics,  and  irreverence  to  the 
Strumpetocracy)  languishes  in  durance;  and 
devised  his  first  Literary  Paradox  on  the  road 
thither?  Their  Quarrel,  which,  as  a  fashion- 
able hero  of  the  time  complains,  occupied  all 
Paris,  is  likewise  famous  enough.  The  reader 
recollects  that  heroical  epistle  of  Diderot  to 
Grimm  on  that  occasion,  and  the  sentence : 
"  Oh,  my  friend,  let  us  continue  virtuous,  for 
the  state  of  those  who  have  ceased  to  be  so 
makes  me  shudder."  But  is  the  reader  aware 
what  the  fault  of  him  "  who  had  ceased  to  be 
so"  was?  A  series  of  ravelments  and  squab- 
bling grudges,  "which,"  says  Mademoiselle 
with  much  simplicity,  "the  Devil  himself  could 
not  understand."  Alas,  the  Devil  well  under- 
stood it,  and  Tyrant  Grimm  too  did,  who  had 


DIDEROT. 


4et 


the  ear  of  Diderot,  and  poured  into  it  his  own 
unjust,  almost  abominable  spleen.  Clean 
paper  need  not  be  soiled  with  a  foul  story, 
where  the  main  actor  is  only  "Tyran  le 
Blanc;''  enough  to  know  that  the  "  continually 
virtuous"  Tyrant  found  Diderot  "extremely 
impressionable ;"  so  poor  Jean  Jacques  must  go 
his  ways,  (with  both  the  scath  and  the  scorn,) 
and  among  his  many  woes  bear  this  also. 
Diderot  is  notblamable;  pitiable  rather;  for 
who  would  be  a  pipe,  which  not  Fortune  only, 
but  any  Sycophant  may  play  tunes  on  ] 

Of  this  same  Tyrant  Grimm,  desiring  to 
speak  peaceably,  we  shall  say  little.  The 
man  himself  is  less  remarkable  than  his  for- 
tune. Changed  times  indeed,  since  the  thread- 
bare German  Bursch  quitted  Ratisbon,  with 
the  sound  of  cat-calls  in  his  ears,  the  con- 
demned "  Tragedy,  Banise,"  in  his  pocket ;  and 
fled,  south  ward,  on  a  thin  travelling-tutorship; 
— since  Rousseau  met  you,  Herr  Grimm,  "  a 
young  man  described  as  seeking  a  situation, 
and  whose  appearance  indicated  the  pressing 
necessity  he  was  in  of  soon  finding  one !" 
Of  a  truth,  you  have  flourished  since  then, 
Herr  Grimm :  his  introductions  of  you  to 
Diderot,  to  Holbach,  to  the  black-locked 
D'Epinay,  where  not  only  you  are  wormed  in, 
but  he  is  wormed  out,  have  turned  to  some- 
what; the  Thread-bare  has  become  well- 
napped,  and  got  ruffles  and  jewel-rings,  and 
walks  abroad  in  sword  and  bag-wig,  and 
lackers  his  brass  countenance  with  rouge,  and 
so  (as  Tyran  le  Blanc)  recommends  himself  to 
the  fair ;  and  writes  Parisian  Philosophe- 
gossip  to  the  Hyperborean  Kings,  and  his 
Grimm's  Leaves,  copied  "to  the  number  of 
twenty,"  are  bread  of  life  to  many  ;  and  cringes 
here,  and  domineers  there:  and  lives  at  his 
ease  in  the  Creation,  in  an  eflfective  tendresse 
with  the  D'Epinay,  husband  or  custom  of  the 
country  not  objecting  ! — Poor  Borne,  the  new 
German  flying  Sansculotte,  feels  his  mouth 
water,  at  Paris,  over  these  fleshpots  of  Grimm  ; 
reflecting  with  what  heart  he  too  could  write 
"Leaves,"  and  be  fed  thereby.  Borne,  my 
friend,  those  days  are  done  !  While  Northern 
Courts  were  a  "Lunar  Versailles,"  it  was  well 
to  have  an  Uriel  stationed  in  their  Sun  there  ; 
but  of  all  spots  in  this  Universe  (hardly  ex- 
cepting Tophet)  Paris  now  is  the  one  we  at 
court  could  best  dispense  with  news  from  ;  never 
more,  in  these  centuries,  will  a  Grimm  be  mis- 
sioned thither;  never  a  "Leaf  of  Borne"  be 
blown  court-wards  by  any  wind.  As  for  the 
Grimm,  we  can  see  that  he  was  a  man  made 
to  rise  in  the  world:  a  fair,  even  handsome 
outfit  of  talent,  wholly  marketable;  skill  in 
music,  and  the  like,  encyclopedical  readiness 
in  all  ephemera;  saloon-wit,  a  trenchant,  un- 
hesitating head  ;  above  all,  a  heart  ever  in  the 
right  place, — in  the  market-place,  namely,  and 
marked  "ibr  sale  to  the  highest  bidder." 
Really  a  methodical,  adroit,  managing  man. 
By  "  hero-worship,"  and  the  cunning  appliance 
of  alternate  sweet  and  sullen,  he  has  brought 
Diderot  to  be  his  patient  milch-cow,  whom  he 
can  milk  an  Essay  from,  a  Volume  from,  when 
he  lists.  Victorious  Grimm!  He  even  es- 
caped those  same  "horrors  of  the  French 
52 


Revolution,"  (with  loss  of  his  ruffles ;)  and  was 
seen  at  the  Court  of  Gotha,  sleek  and  well  to 
live,  wiihin  the  memory  of  man. 

The  world  has  heard  of  M.  le  Chevalier  de 
Saint-Lambert;  considerable  in  Literature,  in 
Love,  and  War.  He  is  here  again,  singing  the 
frostiest  Pastorals;  happily,  however,  only  in 
the  distance,  and  the  jingle  of  his  wires  soon 
dies  away.  Of  another  Chevalier,  worthy 
Jancourt,  be  the  name  mentioned,  and  little 
more  :  he  digs  unweariedly,  mole-wise,  in  the 
Encyclopedic  field,  catching  what  he  can,  and 
shuns  the  light.  Then  there  is  Helvetius,  the 
well-fed  Farmer-general,  enlivening  his  sybari- 
tic life  with  metaphysic  paradoxes.  His  reve- 
lations, Dc  V Homme  and  Be  VEspnt,  breathe  the 
freest  Philosophe-spirit,  with  Philanthropy  and 
Sensibility  enough  :  the  greater  is  our  astonish- 
ment to  find  him  here  so  ardent  a  Preserver 
of  the  Game: 

"This  Madame  de  Noc^,'*  writes  Diderot, 
treating  of  the  Bourbonne  Hot-springs,  "  is  a 
neighbour  of  Helvetius.  She  told  us,  the 
Philosopher  was  the  unhappiest  man  in  the 
world  on  his  estates.  He  is  surrounded  there 
by  neighbours  and  peasants  who  detest  him. 
They  break  the  windows  of  his  mansion, 
plunder  his  grounds  by  night,  cut  his  trees, 
throw  down  his  walls,  tear  up  his  spiked 
paling.  He  dare  not  go  to  shoot  a  hare, 
without  a  train  of  people  to  guard  him.  You 
will  ask  me,  how  it  has  come  to  pass  ?  By  a 
boundless  zeal' for  his  game.  M.  Fagon,  his 
predecessor,  used  to  guard  the  grounds  witli 
two  keepers  and  two  guns.  Helvetius  has 
twenty-four,  and  cannot  do  it.  These  men 
have  a  small  premium  for  every  poacher  they 
can  catch ;  and  there  is  no  sort  of  mischief 
they  will  not  cause  to  get  more  and  more  of 
these.  Besides,  they  are  themselves  so  many 
hired  poachers.  Again,  the  border  of  his 
woods  was  inhabited  by  a  set  of  poor  people, 
who  had  got  huts  there ;  he  has  caused  all 
the  huts  to  be  swept  away.  It  is  these,  and 
such  acts  of  repeated  tyranny,  that  have  raised 
him  enemies  of  all  kinds ;  and  the  more  inso- 
lent, says  Madame  de  Noce,  as  they  have  dis- 
covered that  the  worthy  Philosopher  is  a 
coward.  I  would  not  have  his  fine  estate  of 
Vore  as  a  present,  had  I  to  live  there  in  these 
perpetual  alarms.  What  profits  he  draws  from 
that  mode  of  management  I  know  not:  but 
he  is  alone  there ;  he  is  hated, — he  is  in  fear. 
Ah !  how  much  wiser  was  our  lady  Geofirin, 
when  speaking  of  a  lawsuit  that  tormented  her, 
she  said  to  me, '  Get  done  with  my  lawsuit ; 
they  want  money?  I  have  it.  Give  thera 
money.  What  better  use  can  I  make  of  my 
money  than  to  buy  peace  with  it?'  In  Helve- 
tius's  place,  I  would  have  said,  'They  kill  me 
a  few  hares  and  rabbits,  let  them  be  doing. 
These  poor  creatures  have  no  shelter  but  my 
forest,  let  them  stay  there.'  I  should  have 
reasoned  like  M.  Fagon,  and  been  adored  like 
him." 

Alas !  are  not  Helvetius's  preserves,  at  this 
hour,  all  broken  up,  and  lying  desecrated? 
Neither  can  the  others,  in  what  latitude  and 
longitude  soever,  remain  eternally  impregna- 
ble. But  if  a  Rome  was  once  saved  by  geese, 
2M 


410 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


need  we  wonder  that  an  England  is  lost  by 
partridges  ?  We  are  sons  of  Eve,  who  bartered 
Paradise  for  an  apple. 

But  to  return  to  Paris  and  its  Philosophe 
Church  militant.  Here  is  a  Marmontel,  an 
active  subaltern  thereof,  who  fights  in  a  small 
way,  through  the  Mercure ;  and,  in  rose-pink 
romance-pictures,  strives  to  celebrate  the 
"  moral  sublime."  An  Abbe  Morellet,  busy 
with  the  Corn  Laws,  walks  in  at  intervals, 
stooping,  shrunk  together,  "  as  if  to  get  nearer 
himself"  {pour  etre  plus  pres  de  lui'meme.)  The 
rogue  Galiani  alternates  between  Naples  and 
Paris;  Galiani,  by  good  luck,  has,  "for  ever 
settled  the  question  of  the  Corn  Laws;"  an 
idle  fellow  otherwise ;  a  spiritual  Lazzarone ; 
full  of  frolics,  wanton  quips,  anti-jesuit  gesta, 
and  wild  Italian  humour;  the  sight  of  his 
swart,  sharp  face  is  the  signal  for  Laughter, — 
in  which  indeed,  the  Man  himself  has  unhap- 
pily evaporated,  leaving  no  result  behind 
him. 

Of  the  Baron  d'Holbach  thus  much  may  be 
said,  that  both  at  Paris  and  at  Grandval  he  gives 
good  dinners.  His  two  or  three  score  volumes 
of  Atheistic  Philosophism,  which  he  published, 
(at  his  own  expense,)  may  now  be  forgotten 
and  even  forgiven.  A  purse  open  and  deep, 
a  heart  kindly-disposed,  quiet,  sociable,  or  even 
friendly ;  these,  with  excellent  wines,  gain 
him  a  literary  elevation,  which  no  thinlcing 
faculty  he  had  could  have  pretended  to.  An 
easy,  laconic  gentleman;  of  grave  politeness; 
apt  to  lose  temper  at  play;  yet,  on  the  whole, 
good-humoured,  eupeptic,  and  eupractic :  there 
may  he  live  and  let  live. 

Nor  is  heaven's  last  gift  to  man  wanting 
here ;  the  natural  sovereignty  of  women.  Your 
Chatelets,  Epinays,  Espinasses,  Geoffrins,  Def- 
fands,  will  play  their  part  too;  there  shall,  in 
all  senses,  be  not  only  Philosophers,  but  Phi- 
losophesses.  Strange  enough  is  the  figure 
these  women  make:  good  souls,  it  was  a 
strange  world  for  them.  What  with  meta- 
physics and  flirtation,  system  of  nature,  fashion 
of  dress-caps,  vanity,  curiosity,  jealousy, 
atheism,  rheumatism,  traites,  bouts-rimes,  noble- 
sentiments,  and  rouge-pots, — the  vehement  fe- 
male intellect  sees  itself  sailing  on  a  chaos, 
where  a  wiser  might  have  wavered,  if  not 
foundered.  For  the  rest,  (as  an  accurate  ob- 
server has  remarked,)  they  become  a  sort  of 
Lady-Presidents  in  that  society ;  attain  great 
influence;  and,  imparting  as  well  as  receiving, 
communicate  to  all  that  is  done  or  said  some- 
what of  their  own  peculiar  tone. 

In  a  world  so  wide  and  multifarious,  this 
little  band  of  Philosophes,  acting  and  speaking 
as  they  did,  had  a  most  various  reception  to 
expect;  votes  divided  to  the  uttermost.  The 
mass  of  mankind,  busy  enough  with  their  own 
work,  of  course  heeded  them  only  when  forced 
to  do  it;  these,  meanwhile,  form  the  great 
neutral  element,  in  which  the  battle  has  to 
fight  itself;  the  two  hosts,  according  to  their 
several  success,  to  recruit  themselves.  Of  the 
Higher  Classes,  it  appears,  the  small  propor- 
tion not  wholly  occupied  in  eating  and  dressing, 
and  therefore  open  to  such  a  question,  are  in 
their  favour, — strange  as  to  us  it  may  seem ; 


the  spectacle  of  a  Church  pulled  down  is,  in 
stagnant  times,  amusing,  nor  do  the  generality, 
on  either  side,  yet  see  whither  ulteriorly  it  is 
tending.  The  Reading  World,  which  was 
then  more  than  now  the  intelligent,  inquiring 
world,  reads  eagerly  (as  it  will  ever  do)  what- 
soever skilful,  sprightly,  reasonable-looking 
word  is  written  for  it;  enjoying,  appropriating 
the  same;  perhaps  without  fixed  judgment,  or 
deep  care  of  any  kind.  Careful  enough,  fixed 
enough,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  Jesuit 
Brotherhood;  in  these  days  sick  unto  death; 
but  only  the  bitterer  and  angrier  for  that. 
Dangerous  are  the  death-convulsions  of  an. 
expiring  Sorbonne,  ever  and  anon  filling  Paris 
with  agitation  :  it  behooves  your  Philosophe 
to  walk  warily,  and,  in  many  a  critical  circum- 
stance, to  weep  with  the  one  cheek,  and 
smile  with  the  other.  Nor  is  Literature  itself 
wholly  Philosophe :  apart  from  the  Jesuit 
regulars,  in  their  Trevoux  Journals,  Sermons, 
Episcopal  Charges,  and  other  camps  or  case- 
mates, a  considerable  Guerrilla,  or  Reviewer 
force  (consisting,  as  usual,  of  smugglers,  un- 
employed destitute  persons,  deserters  who  have 
been  refused  promotion,  and  other  the  like 
broken  characters)  has  organized  itself,  and 
maintains  a  harassing  bush-warfare:  of  these 
the  chieftain  is  Freron,  once  in  tolerable  repute 
with  the  world,  had  he  not,  carrying  too  high 
a  head,  struck  his  foot  on  stones,  and  stumbled. 
By  the  continual  depreciating  of  talent,  grown 
at  length  undeniable,  he  has  sunk  low  enough ; 
Voltaire,  in  the  Ecossaise,  can  bring  him  on  the 
stage,  and  have  him  killed  by  laughter,  under 
the  name,  sufliciently  recognisable,  of  IVasp^ 
(in  French,  Frelott.)  Another  Empecenador, 
still  more  hateful,  is  Palissot,  who  has  written 
and  got  acted  a  Comedy  of  Les  Philosophes,  at 
which  the  Parisians,  spite  of  its  dulness,  have 
also  laughed.  To  laugh  at  us !  The  so  merito- 
rious us!  Heard  mankind  ever  the  like 7  For 
poor  Palissot,  had  he  fallen  into  Philosophe 
hands,  serious  bodily  tar-and-feathering  might 
have  been  apprehended :  as  it  was,  they  do 
what  the  pen,  with  its  gall  and  copperas,  can ; 
invoke  Heaven  and  Earth  to  witness  the  treat- 
ment of  divine  Philosophy; — with  which  view, 
in  particular,  friend  Diderot  seems  to  have 
composed  his  Rameau's  Nephcto,  wherein  Palis- 
sot and  others  of  his  kidney  are  (figuratively 
speaking)  mauled  and  mangled,  and  left  not 
in  dog's  likeness.  So  divided  was  the  world, 
Literary,  Courtly,  Miscellaneous,  on  this  mat- 
ter: it  was  a  confused  anomalous  time. 

Among  its  more  notable  anomalies  may  be 
reckoned  the  relations  of  French  Philosophism 
to  foreign  Crowned  Heads.  In  Prussia  there 
is  a  Philosophe  King ;  in  Russia  a  Philosophe 
Empress  :  the  whole  North  swarms  with  king- 
lets and  queenlets  of  the  like  temper.  Nay,  as 
we  have  seen,  they  entertain  their  special  am- 
bassador in  Philosophedom, their  lion's-provider 
to  furnish  spiritual  Philosophe-provender;  and 
pay  him  well.  The  great  Frederic,  the  great 
Catherine,  are  as  nursing-father  and  nursing- 
mother  to  this  new  Church  of  Antichrist;  in 
all  straits,  ready  with  money,  honourable  royal 
asylum,  help  of  every  sort, — which,  however, 
except  in  the  money-shape,  the  wiser  of  our 
Philosophes  are  shy  of  receiving.  Voltaire  has 


DIDEROT. 


411 


tried  it  in  the  asylum  shape,  and  found  it  un- 
suitable; D'Alembert  and  Diderot  decline  re- 
peating the  experiment.  What  miracles  are 
wrought  by  the  arch-magician  Time  !  Could 
these  Frederics,  Catherines,  Josephs,  have 
looked  forward  some  three-score  years;  and 
beheld  the  Holy  Alliance  in  conference  at 
Laybach  !  But  so  goes  the  world  :  kings  are 
not  seraphic  doctors,  with  gift  of  prescience, 
but  only  men,  with  common  eyesight,  partici- 
pating in  the  influences  of  their  generation: 
kings  too,  like  all  mortals,  have  a  certain  love 
of  knowledge;  still  more  infallibly,  a  certain 
desire  of  applause ;  a  certain  delight  in  morti- 
fying one  another.  Thus  what  is  persecuted 
here  finds  refuge  there ;  and  ever,  one  way  or 
other,  the  New  works  itself  out  full-formed 
from  under  the  Old ;  nay  the  Old,  as  in  this 
instance,  sits  sedulously  hatching  a  cockatrice 
that  will  one  day  devour  it. 

No  less  anomalous,  confused,  and  contradic- 
tory is  the  relation  of  the  Philosophes  to  their 
own  Government.  How,  indeed,  could  it  be 
otherwise,  their  relation  to  Society  being  still 
so  undecided;  and  the  Government,  which 
might  have  endeavoured  to  adjust  and  preside 
over  this,  being  itself  in  a  state  of  anomaly, 
death-lethargy,  and  doting  decrepitude  1  The 
true  conduct  and  position  for  a  French  Sove- 
reign towards  French  Literature,  in  that  coun- 
try, might  have  been,  though  perhaps  of  all 
things  the  most  important,  one  of  the  most  dif- 
ficult to  discover  and  accomplish.  What  chance 
was  there  that  a  thick-blooded  Louis  Quinze, 
from  his  Pare  aux  Cerfs,  should  discover  it, 
should  have  the  faintest  inkling  of  it?  His 
"  peaceable  soul"  was  quite  otherwise  employ- 
ed: Minister  after  Minister  must  consult  his 
own  several  insight,  his  own  whim,  above  all 
his  own  ease :  and  so  the  whole  business,  now 
when  we  look  on  it,  comes  out  one  of  the  most 
botched,  piebald,  inconsistent,  lamentable,  and 
even  ludicrous  objects  in  the  history  of  State- 
craft. Alas,  necessity  has  no  law :  the  states- 
man, without  light,  perhaps  even  without  eyes, 
whom  Destiny  nevertheless  constrains  to  go- 
vern (what  is  still  called  governing)  his  nation 
in  a  time  of  World-Downfal,  what  shall  he  do, 
but  if  so  may  be,  collect  the  taxes,  prevent 
(in  some  degree)  murder  and  arson ;  and  for 
the  rest,  wriggle  hither  and  thither,  return  upon 
his  steps,  clout  up  old  rents  and  open  new, — 
and,  on  the  whole,  eat  his  victuals,  and  let  the 
devil  take  iti  Of  the  pass  to  which  States- 
manship had  come  in  respect  of  Philosophism, 
let  this  one  fact  be  evidence  instead  of  a  thou- 
sand. M.  de  Malesherbes  writes  to  warn  Di- 
derot that  next  day  he  will  give  orders  to  have 
all  his  papers  seized. — Impossible !  answers 
Diderot:yws;e  del!  how  shall  I  sort  them,  where 
shall  I  hide  them,  within  four-and-twenty 
hours  1  Send  them  to  me,  answers  M.  de  Males- 
herbes !  Thither  accordingly  they  go,  under 
lock  and  seal;  and  the  hungry  calchpoles  find 
nothing  but  empty  drawers. 

The  Encyclopedie  was  set  forth  first  "with 
approbation"  and  Privilege  du  Roi;  next,  it  was 
stopped  by  Authority ;  next,  the  public  mur- 
muring suffered  to  proceed;  then  again,  posi- 
tively for  the  last  time,  stopped, — and,  no  whit 
the  less,  printed,  and  written,  and  circulated, 


under  thin  disguises,  some  hundred  and  fifty 
printers  working  at  it  with  open  doors,  all 
Paris  knowing  of  it,  only  Authority  winking 
hard.  Choiseul,  in  his  resolute  way,  had  now 
shut  the  eyes  of  Authority,  and  kept  them  shut. 
Finally,  to  crown  the  whole  matter,  a  copy  of 
the  prohibited  Book  lies  in  the  King's  private 
library :  and  owes  favour,  and  a  withdrawal 
of  the  prohibition,  to  the  foolishest  accident: 

"  One  of  Louis  Fifteenth's  domestics  told 
me,"  says  Voltaire,  "  that  once,  the  king  his 
master  supping,  in  private  circle  (en  petite  com- 
pagnie,)  at  Trianon,  the  conversation  turned 
first  on  the  chase,  and  from  this  on  gunpowder. 
Some  one  said  that  the  best  powder  was  made 
of  sulphur,  saltpetre,  and  charcoal,  in  equal 
parts.  The  Due  de  la  Valliere,  with  better 
knowledge,  maintained  that  for  good  powder 
there  must  be  but  one  part  of  sulphur,  one  of 
charcoal,  with  five  of  saltpetre,  well  filtered, 
well  evaporated,  well  crystallized. 

"  *It  is  pleasant,'  said  the  Due  de  Nivernois, 
*  that  we  who  daily  amuse  ourselves  with  kill- 
ing partridges  in  Ihe  Park  of  Versailles,  and 
sometimes  with  killing  men,  or  getting  our- 
selves killed,  on  the  frontiers,  should  not  know 
what  that  same  work  of  killing  is  done  with.* 

"  *  Alas  !  we  are  in  the  like  case  with  all 
things  in  this  world,'  answered  Madame  de 
Pompadour;  'I  know  not  what  the  rouge  I  put 
upon  my  cheeks  is  made  of;  you  would  bring 
me  to  a  nonplus,  if  you  asked  how  the  silk 
hose  I  wear  are  manufactured.'  '  'Tis  a  pity,' 
said  the  Due  de  Valliere,  *  that  his  majesty 
confiscated  our  Didionnaires  Encyclopediques, 
which  cost  us  our  hundred  pistoles ;  we  should 
soon  find  the  decision  of  all  our  questions 
there.'  The  King  justified  the  act  of  confis- 
cation ;  he  had  been  informed  that  these  twen- 
ty-one folio  volumes,  to  be  found  lying  on  all 
ladies'  toilettes,  were  the  most  pernicious 
things  in  the  world  for  the  kingdom  of  France ; 
he  had  resolved  to  look  for  himself  if  this 
were  true,  before  suffering  the  book  to  circu- 
late. Towards  the  end  of  the  repast,  he  sends 
three  of  his  valets  to  bring  him  a  copy  ;  they 
enter,  struggling  under  seven  volumes  each. 
The  article  powder  is  turned  up  ;  the  Due  de  la 
Valliere  is  found  to  be  right:  and  soon  Ma- 
dame Pompadour  learns  the  difference  between 
the  old  rouge  d'Espagne  with  which  the  ladies 
of  Madrid  coloured  their  cheeks,  and  the  rouge 
des  dames  of  Paris.  She  finds  that  the  Greek 
and  Roman  ladies  painted  with  a  purple  ex- 
tracted from  the  murex,  and  that  consequently 
our  scarlet  is  the  purple  of  the  ancients  ;  that 
there  is  more  purple  in  the  rouge  d'Espagne, 
and  more  cochineal  in  that  of  France.  She 
learns  how  stockings  are  woven;  the  stock- 
ing-frame described  there  fills  her  with  amaze- 
ment. *  Ah,  what  a  glorious  book  !'  cried  she. 
'  Sire,  did  you  confiscate  this  magazine  of  all 
useful  things,  that  you  might  have  it  wholly  to 
yourself,  then,  and  be  the  one  learned  man  in 
your  kingdom  V  Each  threw  himself  on  the 
volumes,  like  the  daughters  of  Lycomedes  on 
the  jewels  of  Ulysses ;  each  found  forthwith 
whatever  he  was  seeking.  Some  who  had 
lawsuits  were  surprised  to  find  the  decision  of 
them  there.  The  King  reads  there  all  the 
rights  of  his  crown.    '  Well,  in   truth,'  (wmw 


418 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


vrairmnt,)  said  he,  *  I  know  not  why  they  said 
so  much  ill  of  the  book.'  *  Ah,  Sire,'  said  the 
Due  de  Nivernois,  'does  not  your  majesty 
see,'  &c.  &c." 

In  such  a  confused  world,  under  such  un- 
heard of  circumstances,  must  friend  Diderot 
ply  his  editorial  labours.  No  sinecure  is  it ! 
Penetrating  into  all  subjects  and  sciences ; 
waiting  and  rummaging  in  all  libraries,  labo- 
ratories ;  nay,  for  many  years,  fearlessly  div- 
ing into  all  manner  of  workshops,  unscrewing 
stocking  looms,  and  even  working  thereon, 
(that  the  department  of  jlrts  and  Trades  might 
be  perfect;)  then  seeking  out  contributors,  and 
flattering  them ;  quickening  their  laziness,  get- 
ting payment  for  them  ;  quarrelling  with  Book- 
seller and  Printer;  bearing  all  miscalculations, 
misfortunes,  misdoings  of  so  many  fallible  men 
(for  there  all  at  last  lands)  on  his  single  back: 
surely  this  was  enough,  without  having  farther 
to  do  battle  with  the  beagles  of  Office,  peri- 
lously withstand  them,  expensively  sop  them, 
toilsomely  elude  them  !  Nevertheless,  he  per- 
severes, and  will  not  but  persevere ; — less,  per- 
haps, with  the  deliberate  courage  of  a  Man, 
who  has  compared  result  and  outlay,  than  with 
the  passionate  obstinacy  of  a  Woman  who, 
having  made  up  her  mind,  will  shrink  at  no 
ladder  of  ropes,  but  ride  with  her  lover,  though 
all  the  four  Elements  gainsay  it.  At  every 
new  concussion  from  the  Powers,  he  roars ;  say 
rather,  shrieks,  for  there  is  a  female  shrillness 
in  it;  proclaiming,  Murder!  Robbery!  Rape! 
invoking  men  and  angels ;  meanwhile  proceeds 
unweariedly  with  the  printing.  It  is  a  hostile 
building  up  (not  of  the  Holy  Temple  at  Jeru- 
salem, but  of  the  Unholy  one  at  Paris  :)  thus 
must  Diderot,  like  Ezra,  come  to  strange  ex- 
tremities ;  and  every  workman  works  with  his 
trowel  in  one  hand,  in  the  otherhis  weapon  of 
war ;  that  so,  in  spite  of  allTiglaths,  the  work 
go  on,  and  the  top-stone  of  it  be  brought  out 
with  shouting. 

Shouting!  Ah  !  what  faint  broken  quaver  is 
that  in  the  shout ;  as  of  a  man  that  shouted  with 
the  throat  only,  and  inwardly  was  bowed  down 
with  dispiritment  1  It  is  Diderot's  faint  broken 
quaver:  he  is  sick  and  heavy  of  soul.  Scan- 
dalous enough :  the  Goth,  Lebreton,  loving, 
as  he  says,  his  head  better  even  than  his  profit, 
has  for  years  gone  privily  at  dead  of  night,  to 
the  finished  Encyclopedic  proof-sheets,  and 
there  with  nefarious  pen,  scratched  out  what- 
ever to  him  seemed  dangerous ;  filling  up  the 
gap  as  he  could,  or  merely  letting  it  fill  itself 
up.  Heaven  and  Earth  !  Not  only  are  the 
finer  Philosophe  sallies  mostly  cut  out, — but 
hereby  has  the  work  become  a  sunken,  hitch- 
ing, ungainly  mass,  little  better  than  a  mon- 
strosity. Goth  !  Hun  !  sacrilegious  Attila  of 
the  book-trade  !  Oh,  surely  for  this  treason 
the  hottest  of  Dante's  Purgatory  were  too  tem- 
perate. Infamous  art  thou,  Lebreton,  to  all 
ages, — that  read  the  Encyclopedie ;  and  Phi- 
losophes  not  yet  in  swaddling-clothes  shall 
gnash  their  teeth  over  thee,  and  spit  upon  thy 
memory. — Lebreton  pockets  both  the  abuse 
and  the  cash,  and  sleeps  sound  in  a  whole 
skin.  The  able  Editor  could  never  be  said  to 
get  the  better  of  it 

Now,  however,  it  is  time  that,  quitting  gen- 


eralities, we  go,  in  this  fine  autumn  weather, 
to  Holbach's  at  Grandval,  where  the  hard- 
worked,  but  unwearied  Encyclopedist,  with 
plenty  of  ink  and  writing  paper,  is  sure  to  be. 
Ever  in  the  Holbach  household,  his  arrival  is 
a  holiday ;  if  a  quarrel  spring  up,  it  is  only 
because  he  will  not  come,  or  too  soon  goes 
away.  A  man  of  social  talent,  with  such  a 
tongue  as  Diderot's,  in  a  mansion  where  the 
only  want  to  be  guarded  against  was  that  of 
wit,  could  not  be  other  than  welcome.  He 
composes  Articles  there,  and  walks,  and  dines, 
and  plays  cards,  and  talks ;  languishingly 
waits  letters  from  his  Voland,  copiously  writes 
to  her.  It  is  in  these  copious  love-despatches 
that  the  whole  matter  is  graphically  painted : 
we  have  an  Asmodeus'  view  of  the  interior 
life  there,  and  live  it  over  again  with  him. 
The  Baroness  in  red  silk,  tempered  with 
snow-white  gauze,  is  beauty  and  grace  itself; 
her  old  Mother  is  a  perfect  romp  of  fifteen, 
or  younger;  the  house  is  lively  with  com- 
pany :  the  Baron,  as  we  said,  speaks  little, 
but  to  the  purpose ;  is  seen  sometimes  with 
his  pipe,  in  dressing  gown  and  red  slippers; 
otherwise  the  best  of  landlords.  Remarkable 
figures  drop  in:  generals  disabled  at  Quebec; 
fashionable  gentlemen  rusticating  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood; Abbes,  such  as  Galiani,  Raynal, 
Morellet;  perhaps  Grimm  and  his  Epinay; 
other  Philosophes  and  Philosophesses.  Guests 
too  of  less  dignity,  acting  rather  as  butts  than 
as  bowmen:  for  it  is  the  part  of  every  one 
either  to  have  wit,  or  to  be  the  cause  of  hav- 
ing it. 

Among  these  latter,  omitting  many,  there  is 
one  whom,  for  country's  sake,  we  must  parti- 
cularize ;  an  ancient  personage,  named  Hoop 
(Hope,)  whom  they  call  Pere  Hoop ;  by  birth 
a  Scotchman.  Hoop  seems  to  be  a  sort  of 
fixture  at  Grandval,  not  bowman,  therefore 
butt;  and  is  shot  at  for  his  lodging.  A  most 
shrivelled,  wind-dried,  dyspeptic,  chill-shiver- 
ing individual;  Professor  of  Life-weariness; 
sits  dozing  there, — dozes  there,  however,  with 
one  eye  open.  He  submits  to  be  called  Mummy 
without  a  shrug  ;  cowers  over  the  fire,  at  the 
warmest  corner.  Yet  is  there  a  certain  sar- 
donic subacidity  in  Pere  Hoop  ;  when  he  slow- 
ly unlocks  his  leathern  jaw,  we  hear  him  with 
a  sort  of  pleasure.  Hoop  has  been  in  various 
countries  and  situations ;  in  that  croaking 
metallic  voice  of  his,  can  tell  a  distinct  story. 
Diderot  apprehended  he  would  one  day  hang 
himself:  if  so,  what  Museum  now  holds  his 
remains  1  The  Parent  Hoops,  it  would  seem, 
still  dwelt  in  the  city  of  Edinburgh  ;  he,  the 
second  son,  as  Bourdeaux  Merchant,  having 
helped  them  thither,  out  of  some  proud  Manor- 
house  no  longer  weather-tight.  Can  any  an- 
cient person  of  that  city  give  us  trace  of  such 
a  man?  It  must  be  inquired  into.  One  only 
of  Father  Hoop's  reminiscences  we  shall  re- 
port, as  the  highest  instance  on  record  of  a 
national  virtue :  At  the  battle  of  Prestonpans, 
a  kinsman  of  Hoop,  a  gentleman  with  gold 
rings  on  his  fingers,  stands  fighting  and  fenc- 
ing for  life  with  a  rough  Highlander;  the 
Highlander,  by  some  clever  stroke,  whisks  the 
jewelled  hand  clear  oflf,  and  then — picks  it  up 
from  the  ground,  sticks  it  in  his  sporran  for 


DIDEROT. 


413 


future  leisure,  and  fights  on!    The  force  of 
Virtue*  could  no  further  go. 

It  cannot  be  uninteresting  to  the  general 
reader  to  learn,  that  in  the  last  days  of  October, 
in  the  year  of  grace  1770,  Denis  Diderot  over- 
ate himself  (as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing,) 
at  Grandval ;  and  had  an  obstinate  "  indiges- 
tion of  bread."  He  writes  to  Grimm  that  it  is 
the  worst  of  all  indigestions  :  to  his  fair  Voland 
that  it  lay  more  than  fifteen  hours  on  his  sto- 
mach, with  a  weight  like  to  crush  the  life  out 
of  him ;  would  neither  remonter  nor  descendre  ; 
nor  indeed  stir  a  hairsbreadth  for  warm  water, 
de  quelque  cdtd  que  je  la  (the  warm  water)  pri$$e. 

Clysterium  donare^ 
Ensuita  purgare  ! 

Such  things,  we  grieve  to  say,  are  of  frequent 
occurrence :  the  Holbachian  table  is  all  too 
plenteous  ;  there  are  cooks  too,  we  know,  who 
boast  of  their  diabolic  ability  to  cause  the 
patient,  by  successive  intensations  of  their  art, 
to  eat  with  new  and  ever  new  appetite,  till  he 
explode  on  the  spot.  Diderot  writes  to  his  fair 
one,  that  his  clothes  will  hardly  button,  that 
he  is  thus  "  stuffed,"  and  thus  ;  and  so  indiges- 
tion succeeds  indigestion.  Such  Narratives 
fill  the  heart  of  sensibility  with  amazement; 
nor  to  the  woes  that  chequer  this  imperfect, 
caco-gastric  state  of  existence,  is  the  tear 
wanting. 

The  society  at  Grandval  cannot  be  accounted 
very  dull :  nevertheless  let  no  man  regretfully 
compare  it  with  any  neighbourhood  he  may 
have  drawn  by  lot,  in  the  present  day ;  or  even 
with  any  no-neighbourhood,  if  that  be  his 
affliction.  The  gayety  at  Grandval  was  of  the 
kind  that  could  not  last.  Were  it  not  that  some 
Belief  is  left  in  Mankind,  how  could  the  sport 
of  emitting  Unbelief  continue!  On  which 
ground,  indeed,  Swift,  in  his  masterly  argument 
"Against  abolishing  the  Christian  Religion," 
urges,  not  without  pathos,  that  innumerable 
men  of  wit,  enjoying  a  comfortable  status  by 
virtue  of  jokes  on  the  Catechism,  would  here- 
by be  left  without  pabulum,  the  staff  of  life  cut 
away  from  their  hand.  The  Holbachs  were 
blind  to  this  consideration ;  and  joked  away, 
as  if  it  would  last  for  ever.  So  too  with  regard 
to  Obscene  Talk  :  where  were  the  merit  of  a 
riotous  Mother-in-law,  saying  and  doing,  in 
public,  these  never-imagined  scandals,  had  not 
a  cunningly-devised  fable  of  Modesty  been 
set  afloat;  were  there  not  some  remnants  of 
Modesty  still  extant  among  the  unphilosophic 
classes  !  The  Samoeids  (according  to  Travel- 
lers) have  few  double  meanings ;  among  stall 
cattle  the  witty  effect  of  such  is  lost  altogether. 
Be  advised,  then,  foolish  old  woman !  "  Burn 
not  thy  bed  ;"  the  light  of  it  will  soon  go  out, 
and  theni — Apart  from  the  common  house- 
hold topics,  which  the  "daily  household 
epochs"  bring  with  them  everywhere,  two 
main  elements,  we  regret  to  say,  come  to  light 
in  the  conversation  at  Grandval ;  these,  with  a 
spicing  of  Noble-sentiment,  are,  unfortunately. 
Blasphemy  and  Bawdry.  Whereby,  at  this 
distance,  the  whole  matter  grows  to  look  poor, 


♦  ViHua  (properly  wianlineaa,  the  chief  duty  of  man) 
meant,  in  old  Rome,  power  offehtincr ;  means,  in  modern 
Rome,  Connoisseurship ;  in  Scotland,  Thrift.— Ed. 


and  effete ;  and  we  can  honestly  rejoice  that  it 
all  has  been,  and  need  not  be  again. 

But  now,  hastening  back  to  Paris,  friend 
Diderot  finds  proof-sheets  enough  on  his  desk, 
and  notes,  and  invitations,  and  applications 
from  distressed  men  of  letters ;  nevertheless 
runs  over,  in  the  first  place,  to  seek  news  from 
the  Voland ;  will  then  see  what  is  to  be  done. 
He  writes  much ;  talks  and  visits  much :  be- 
sides the  Savans,  Artists,  spiritual  Notabilities, 
domestic  or  migratory,  of  the  period,  he  has  a 
liberal  allowance  of  unnotable  Associates  ;  es- 
pecially a  whole  bevy  of  young  or  oldish,  mostly 
rather  spiteful  Women  ;  in  whose  gossip  he  is 
perfect.  We  hear  the  rustling  of  their  silks,  the 
clack  of  their  pretty  tongues,  tittle-tattle  "  like 
their  pattens  when  they  walk  ;"and  the  sound  of 
it,  fresh  as  yesterday,  through  this  long  vista  of 
Time  has  become  significant,  almost  prophetic. 
Life  could  not  hang  heavy  on  Diderot's  hands : 
he  is  a  vivid,  open,  all-embracing  creature ; 
could  have  found  occupation  anywhere;  has 
occupation  here  forced  on  him,  enough  and  to 
spare.  "He  had  much  to  do,  and  did  much 
of  his  own,"  says  Mademoiselle;  "yet  three- 
fourths  of  his  life  was  employed  in  helping 
whomsoever  had  need  of  his  purse,  of  his 
talents,  of  his  management :  his  study,  for  the 
five  and  twenty  years  I  knew  it,  was  like  a 
well-frequented  shop,  where,  as  one  customer 
went,  another  came."  He  could  not  find  it  in 
his  heart  to  refuse  any  one.  He  has  recon- 
ciled Brothers,  sought  out  Tutorages,  settled 
Lawsuits ;  solicited  Pensions ;  advised,  and 
refreshed  hungry  Authors,  instructed  ignorant 
ones :  he  has  written  advertisements  for  in- 
cipient helpless  Grocers;  he  once  wrote  the 
dedication  (to  a  pious  Due  d'Orleans)  of  a 
lampoon  against  himself, — and  so  raised  some 
five  and  twenty  gold  louis,  for  the  famishing 
lampooner.  For  all  these  things,  let  not  the 
light  Diderot  want  his  reward  with  us !  Other 
reward,  except  from  himself,  he  got  none ;  but 
often  the  reverse ;  as  in  his  little  Drama,  La 
Piece  et  le  Prologue,  may  be  seen  humorously 
and  good-humouredly  set  forth  under  his  own 
hand.  Indeed,  his  clients,  by  a  vast  majority, 
were  of  the  scoundrel  species ;  in  any  case, 
Denis  knew  well,  that  to  expect  gratitude  is  to 
deserve  ingratitude. — "  Riviere,  well  contented," 
(hear  Mademoiselle,)  "  now  thanks  my  father, 
both  for  his  services  and  his  advices;  sits 
chatting  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then 
takes  leave ;  my  father  shows  him  down.  As 
they  are  on  the  stairs.  Riviere  stops,  turns 
round,  and  asks :  '  M.  Diderot,  are  you  ac- 
quainted with  Natural  History  1'—*  Why,  a 
little,  I  know  an  aloe  from  a  sago ;  a  pigeon 
from  a  colibri.* — *  Do  you  know  the  history  of 
the  Formica-leo?' — 'No.* — *It  is  a  little  insect 
of  great  industry  :  it  digs  a  hole  in  the  ground 
like  a  reversed  funnel ;  covers  the  top  with 
fine  light  sand;  entices  foolish  insects  into  it; 
takes  them,  sucks  them,  then  says  to  them :  M. 
Diderot,  I  have  the  honour  to  wish  you  good 
day.'  My  father  stood  laughing  like  to  split  at 
this  adventure." 

Thus,  amid  labour  and  recreation;  question- 
able Literature,  unquestionable  Loves  ;  eating 
and  digesting,  (better  or  worse;)  in  gladness 
and  vexation  of  spirit,  in  laughter  ending  in 
3m3 


414 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sighs,  does  Diderot  pass  his  days.  He  has 
been  hard  toiled,  but  then  well  flattered,  and  is 
nothing  of  a  hypochondriac.  What  little  ser- 
vice renown  can  do  him,  may  now  be  consi- 
dered as  done ;  he  is  in  the  centre  of  the  litera- 
ture, science,  art,  of  his  nation;  not  numbered 
among  the  Academical  Forty;  yet,  in  his 
heterodox  heart,  entitled  to  be  almost  proud  of 
the  exclusion ;  successful  in  Criticism,  suc- 
cessful in  Philosophism,  nay,  (highest  of  sub- 
lunary glories,)  successful  in  the  Theatre; 
vanity  may  whisper,  if  she  please,  that  ex- 
cepting the  unattainable  Voltaire  alone,  he  is 
the  first  of  Frenchmen.  High  heads  are  in 
correspondence  with  him,  the  low-born  ;  from 
Catharine  the  Empress  to  Philidor  the  Chess- 
player, he  is  in  honoured  relation  with  all 
manner  of  men  ;  with  scientific  Buffons,  Eulers, 
D'Alemberts ;  with  artistic  Falconnets,  Van- 
loos,  Riccobonis,Garricks.  He  was  ambitious 
of  being  a  Philosophe  ;  and  now  the  whole 
fast-growing  sect  of  Philosophes  look  up  to 
him  as  their  head  and  mystagogue.  To  Denis 
Diderot,  when  he  stept  out  of  the  Langres  Dili- 
gence at  the  College  d'Harcourt ;  or  after- 
wards, when  he  walked  in  the  subterranean 
shades  of  Rascaldom,  with  uneasy  steps  over  the 
burning  marie,  a  much  smaller  destiny  would 
have  seemed  desirable.  Within  doors,  again, 
matters  stand  rather  disjointed,  as  surely  they 
might  well  do :  however,  Madame  Diderot  is 
always  true  and  assiduous  ;  if  one  Daughter 
talk  enthusiastically,  and  at  length  (though 
her  father  has  written  the  Rclig-ieuse)  die  mad 
in  a  convent,  the  other,  a  quick,  intelligent, 
graceful  girl,  is  waxing  into  womanhood,  and 
takes  after  the  father's  Philosophism,  leaving 
the  mother's  Piety  far  enough  aside.  To 
which  elements  of  mixed  good  and  evil  from 
without,  add  this  so  incalculably  favourable 
one  from  within,  that  of  all  literary  men  Dide- 
rot is  the  least  a  self-listener ;  none  of  your 
puzzling,  repenting,  forecasting,  earnest-bilious 
temperaments,  but  sanguineous-lymphatic  ev- 
ery fibre  of  him,  living  lightly  from  hand  to 
mouth,  in  a  world  mostly  painted  rose-colour. 
The  Encyclopddie,  after  nigh  thirty  years  of 
endeavour,  (to  which  only  the  siege  of  Troy 
may  offer  some  faint  parallel,)  is  finished.  Scat- 
tered Compositions  of  all  sorts,  printed  or 
manuscript,  making  many  Volumes,  lie  also 
finished;  the  Philosophe  has  reaped  no  golden 
harvest  from  them.  He  is  getting  old :  can 
live  out  of  debt,  but  is  still  poor.  Thinking  to 
settle  his  daughter  in  marriage,  he  must  re- 
solve to  sell  his  Library  ;  money  is  not  other- 
wise to  be  raised.  Here,  however,  the  northern 
Cleopatra  steps  imperially  forward ;  purchases 
his  Library  for  its  full  value;  gives  him  a 
handsome  pension,  as  librarian  to  keep  it  for 
her;  and  pays  him  moreover  fifty  years  thereof 
by  advance  in  ready  money.  This  we  call 
imperial,  (in  a  world  so  necessitous  as  ours,) 
though  the  whole  munificence,  did  not  (we 
find)  cost  above  three  thousand  pounds ;  a 
trifle  to  the  Empress  of  all  the  Russias.  In 
fact,  it  is  about  the  sum  your  first-rate  king 
6ats,  as  board  wages,  in  one  day  ;  who,  how- 
ever, has  seldom  sufficient:  not  to  speak  of 
charitable  overplus.  In  admiration  of  his  Em- 
press, the  vivid  Philosophe  is  now  louder  than 


ever ;  he  even  breaks  forth  into  (rather  husky) 
singing.  Who  shall  blame  him?  The  North- 
ern Cleopatra  (whom,  in  any  case,  he  must 
regard  with  other  eyes  than  we)  has  stretched 
out  a  generous,  helping  hand  to  him,  where 
otherwise  there  was  no  help,  but  only  hindrance 
and  injury :  all  men  will,  and  should,  more  or 
less,  obey  the  proverb,  to  praise  the  fair  as 
their  own  market  goes  in  it. 

One  of  the  last  great  scenes  in  Diderot's 
Ljfe,  is  his  personal  visit  to  this  Benefactress. 
There  is  but  one  letter  from  him  with  Peters- 
burgh  for  date,  and  that  of  ominous  brevity. 
The  Philosophe  was  of  open,  unheedful,  free- 
and-easy  disposition ;  Prince  and  Polisson 
were  singularly  alike  to  him;  it  was  "hail 
fellow  well  met,"  with  every  Son  of  Adam,  be 
his  clothes  of  one  stuff"  or  the  other.  Such  a 
man  could  be  no  court-sycophant,  was  ill  cal- 
culated to  succeed  at  court.  We  can  imagine 
that  the  Neva-cholic,  and  the  character  of  the 
Neva-water  were  not  the  only  things  hurtful 
to  his  nerves  there.  For  King  Denis,  who  had 
dictated  such  wonderful  anti-regalities  in  the 
Abbe  Raynal's  History  ;*  and  himself,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  sibylism,  emitted  that  surprising  an- 
nouncement (surpassing  all  yet  uttered,  or 
utterable,  in  the  Tyrtoean  way)  how 

Ses  mains  (the  freeman's)  ourderaient  Us  entrailles  du 

prHre, 
Au  defaut  d'un  cordon,  pour  ctrangler  les  rois ; 

for  such  a  one,  the  climate  of  the  Neva  must 
have  had  something  oppressive  in  it.  The 
entrailles  du  pretre  were,  indeed,  much  at  his 
service  here,  (could  he  get  clutch  of  them ;) 
but  only  for  musical  philosophe  fiddle-strings; 
nowise  for  a  cordon!  Nevertheless,  Cleopatra 
is  an  uncommon  woman,  (or  rather  an  uncom- 
mon man,)  and  can  put  up  with  many  things; 
and,  in  a  gentle,  skilful  way,  make  the  crooked 
straight.  As  her  Philosophe  presents  himself 
in  common  apparel,  she  sends  him  a  splendid 
court-suit;  and  as  he  can  now  enter  in  a 
civilized  manner,  she  sees  him  often,  confers 
with  him  largely:  by  happy  chance,  Grimm 
too  at  length  arrives ;  and  the  winter  passes 
without  accident.  Returning  home  in  triumph, 
he  can  express  himself  contented,  charmed 
with  his  reception  ;  has  mineral  specimens, 
and  all  manner  of  hyperborean  memorials  for 
friends ;  unheard-of-things  to  tell ;  how  he 
crossed  the  bottomless,  half-thawed  Dwina, 
with  the  water  boiling  up  round  his  wheels, 
the  ice  bending  like  leather,  yet  crackling  like 


»  '•  But  who  dare  stand  for  this  1"  would  Diderot  ex- 
claim. "  I  will  !  I  ;"  eagerly  responded  the  Abbe.  "  Do 
but  proceed."  i^la  J\f6moire  de  Diderot,  by  De  Meister.) 
— Was  the  following  one  of  the  passages  ? 

"Happily  these  perverse  instructors  (of  Kings)  are 
chastised,  sooner  or  later,  by  the  ingratitude  and  con- 
tempt of  their  pupils.  Happily,  these  pupils  too,  mise- 
rable in  the  bosom  of  grandeur,  are  tormented  all  their 
life  by  a  deep  ennui,  which  they  cannot  banish  from  their 
palaces.  Happily,  the  religious  prrjudices  which  have 
been  planted  in  their  souls,  return  on  them  to  affright 
them.  Happily,  the  mournful  silence  of  their  people 
teaches  them,  from  time  to  time,  the  deep  hatred  that  is 
borne  them.  Happily,  they  are  too  cowardly  to  despise 
that  hatred.  Happily,  {heureusemenu)  after  a  life  which 
no  mortal,  not  even  the  meanest  of  his  subjects,  would 
accept,  if  he  knew  all  its  wretchedness,  they  find  black 
inquietude,  terror  and  despair,  seated  on  the  pillow  of 
their  death-bed,  {les  noires  inquietudes,  la  terreur  et  It 
desespoir  assis  au  chevet  de  leur  lit  de  mort.)"  Surely, 
"  kings  have  poor  times  of  it,  to  be  run  foul  of  by  the 
like  of  thee !" 


DIDEROT. 


415 


mere  ice, — and  shuddered,  and  got  through 
safe;  how  he  was  carried,  coach  and  all,  into 
the  ferry-boat  at  Mittau,  on  thirty  wild  men's 
backs,  who  floundered  in  the  mud,  and  nigh 
broke  his  shoulder-blade;  how  he  investigated 
Holland,  and  had  conversed  with  Empresses, 
and  High  Mightinesses,  and  principalities  and 
powers,  and  so  seen,  and  conquered  (for  his 
own  spiritual  behoof)  several  of  the  Seven 
Wonders. 

But,  alas!  his  health  is  broken;  old  age  is 
knocking  at  the  gate,  like  an  importunate 
creditor,  who  has  warrant  for  entering.  The 
radiant,  lightly-bounding  soul  is  now  getting 
all  dim,  and  stiflf,  and  heavy  with  sleep ;  Dide- 
rot loo  must  adjust  himself,  for  the  hour  draws 
nigh.  These  last  years  he  passes  retired  and 
private,  not  idle  or  miserable.  Philosophy  or 
Philosophism  has  nowise  lost  its  charm ; 
whatsoever  so  much  as  calls  itself  Philosopher 
can  interest  him.  Thus  poor  Seneca  (on  occa- 
sion of  some  new  Version  of  his  Works) 
having  come  before  the  public,  and  been 
roughly  dealt  with,  Diderot,  with  a  long,  last, 
concentrated  effort,  writes  his  Vie  de  Seneqne  ; 
struggling  to  make  the  hollow  solid.  Which, 
alas !  after  all  his  tinkering  still  sounds  hol- 
low; and  notable  Seneca,  so  wistfully  desirous 
to  stand  well  with  Truth,  and  yet  not  ill  with 
Nero,  is  and  remains  only  our  perhaps  nice- 
liest-proportioned  Half-and-half,  theplausiblest 
Plausible  on  record;  no  great  man,  no  true 
man,  no  man  at  all;  yet  how  much  lovelier 
than  such, — as  the  mild-spoken,  tolerating, 
charity-sermoning,  immaculate  Bishop  Dog- 
bolt,  to  a  rude,  self-helping,  sharp-tongued 
Apostle  Paul !  Under  which  view,  indeed, 
Seneca  (though  surely  erroneously,  for  the 
origin  of  the  thing  was  different)  has  been 
called,  in  this  generation,  "  the  father  of  all 
such  as  wear  shovel-hats." 

The  Vie  de  Seneqiic,  as  we  said,  was  Diderot's 
last  effort.  It  remains  only  to  be  added  of  him 
that  he  too  died;  a  lingering  but  quiet  death, 
which  took  place  on  the  30th  of  July,  1784. 
He  once  quotes  from  Montaigne  the  following, 
as  Skeptic's  viaticum:  "I  plunge  stupidly, 
head  foremost,  into  this  dumb  Deep,  which 
swallows  me,  and  chokes  me,  in  a  moment, — 
full  of  insipidity  and  indolence.  Death,  which 
is  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  suffering,  without 
consequence  and  without  injury,  does  not  re- 
quire peculiar  precepts."  It  was  Diderot's 
allotment  to  die  with  all  due  "stupidity:"  he 
was  leaning  on  his  elbows;  had  eaten  an 
apricot  two  minutes  before,  and  answered  his 
wife's  remonstrances  with :  Mais  que  diable  de 
mal  veux-tu  que  cela  me  fasse?  (How  the  dense 
can  that  hurt  me  ?)  She  spoke  again,  and  he 
answered  not.  His  House,  which  the  curious 
will  visit  when  they  go  to  Paris,  was  in  the 
Rue  Taranne,  at  the  intersection  thereof  with 
the  Rue  Saini-Benoit.  The  dust  that  was  once 
his  Body  went  to  mingle  with  the  common 
earth,  in  the  church  of  Saint-Roch;  his  lafe, 
the  wondrous  manifold  Force  that  was  in  him, 
that  was  He, — returned  to  ExEnxifY,  and  is 
there,  and  continues  there ! 

Two  things,  as  we  saw,  are  celebrated  of 
Diderot.     First,  that  he  had  the  most  encyclo- 


pedical head  ever  seen  in  this  world :  second, 
that  he  talked  as  never  man  talked ; — properly, 
as  never  man  his  admirers  had  heard,  or  as  no 
man  living  in  Paris  then.  That  is  to  say,  his 
was  at  once  the  widest,  fertilest,  and  readiest 
of  minds. 

With  regard  to  the  Encyclopedical  Head, 
suppose  it  to  mean  that  he  was  of  such  viva- 
city as  to  admit,  and  look  upon  with  interest, 
almost  all  things  which  the  circle  of  Existence 
could  offer  him;  in  which  sense,  this  exag- 
gerated laudation,  of  Encyclopedism,  is  not 
without  its  fraction  of  meaning.  Of  extra- 
ordinary openness  and  compass  we  must  grant 
the  mind  of  Diderot  to  be;  of  a  susceptibility, 
quick  activity;  even  naturally  of  a  depth,  and 
in  its  practical  realized  shape,  of  a  univer- 
sality, which  bring  it  into  kindred  with  the 
highest  order  of  minds.  On  all  forms  of  this 
wondrous  Creation  he  can  look  with  loving 
wonder;  whatsoever  thing  stands  there,  has 
some  brotherhood  with  him,  some  beauty  and 
meaning  for  him.  Neither  is  the  faculty  to 
see  and  interpret  wanting;  as,  indeed,  this 
faculty  to  see  is  inseparable  from  that  other 
faculty  to  look,  from  that  true  wish  to  look ; 
moreover  (under  another  figure,)  Intellect  is 
not  a  tool,  but  a  hand  that  can  handle  any  tooL 
Nay,  in  Diderot  we  may  discern  a  far  deeper 
universality  than  that  shown,  or  showable,  in 
Lebreton's  Encyclopedie ;  namely,  a  poetical; 
for,  in  slight  gleams,  this  too  manifests  itself. 
A  universality  less  of  the  head  than  of  the 
character;  such,  we  say,  is  traceable  in  this 
man,  at  lowest  the  power  to  have  acquired 
such.  Your  true  Encyclopedical  is  the  Homer, 
the  Shakspeare;  every  genuine  Poet  is  a  liv- 
ing embodied,  real  Encyclopedia, — in  more  or 
fewer  volumes;  were  his  experience,  his  in- 
sight of  details,  never  so  limited,  the  whole 
world  lies  imaged  as  a  whole  within  him; 
whosoever  has  not  seized  the  whole  cannot 
yet  speak  truly  (much  less  can  he  speak  rmo- 
sicnlly,  which  is  harmoniously,  concordantly)  of 
any  part,  but  will  perpetually  need  new  guid- 
ance, rectification.  The  fit  use  of  such  a 
man  is  as  hodman;  not  feeling  the  plan  of  the 
edifice,  let  him  carry  stones  to  it;  if  he  build 
the  smallest  stone,  it  is  likeliest  to  be  wrong, 
and  cannot  continue  there. 

But  the  truth  is,  as  regards  Diderot,  this 
saying  of  the  encyclopedical  head  comes 
mainly  from  his  having  edited  a  Bookseller's 
Encyclopedia,  and  can  afford  us  little  direc- 
tion. Looking  into  the  man,  and  omitting  his 
trade,  we  find  him  by  nature  gifted  in  a  high 
degree  with  openness  and  versatility,  yet  no- 
wise in  the  highest  degree ;  alas,  in  quite  an- 
other degree  than  that.  Nay,  if  it  be  meant 
further  that  in  practice,  as  a  writer  and  think- 
er, he  has  taken  in  the  Appearances  of  Life 
and  the  World,  and  images  them  back  with 
such  freedom,  clearness,  fidelity,  as  we  have 
not  many  times  witnessed  elsewhere,  as  we 
have  not  various  times  seen  infinitely  sur- 
passed elsewhere, — this  same  encyclopedical 
praise  must  altogether  be  denied  him.  Diderot's 
habitual  world,  we  must  on  the  contrary  say, 
is  a  half-world,  distorted  into  looking  like  a 
whole;  it  is  properly,  a  poor,  fractional,  insig- 
nificant world;  partial,  inaccurate,  perverted 


416 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


frotn  end  to  end.  Alas,  it  was  the  destiny  of 
the  man  to  live  as  a  Polemic ;  to  be  born  also 
in  the  moniing  tide  and  first  splendour  of  the 
Mechanical  Era ;  not  to  know,  with  the  small- 
est assurance  or  continuance,  that  in  the  Uni- 
verse, other  than  a  mechanical  meaning  could 
exist :  which  force  of  destiny  acting  on  him 
through  his  whole  course,  we  have  obtained 
what  now  stands  before  us  :  no  Seer,  but  only 
possibilities  of  a  Seer,  transient  irradiations 
of  a  Seer,  looking  through  the  organs  of  a 
Philosophe. 

These  two  considerations,  which  indeed  are 
properly  but  one,  (for  a  thinker,  especially  of 
French  birth,  in  the  Mechanical  Era,  could 
not  be  other  than  a  Polemic,)  must  never  for 
a  moment  be  left  out  of  view  in  judging  the 
works  of  Diderot.  It  is  a  great  truth,  one  side 
of  a  great  truth,  that  the  Man  makes  the  Cir- 
cumstances, and  spiritually  as  well  as  econo- 
mically, is  the  artificer  of  his  own  fortune. 
But  there  is  another  side  of  the  same  truth, 
that  the  man's  circumstances  are  the  element 
he  is  appointed  to  live  and  work  in  ;  that  he 
by  necessity  takes  his  complexion,  vesture, 
imbodyraent,  from  these,  and  is,  in  all  practi- 
cal manifestations,  modified  by  them  almost 
without  limit;  so  that  in  another  no  less  ge- 
nuine sense,  it  can  be  said  the  Circumstances 
make  the  Man.  Now,  if  it  continually  be- 
hoves us  to  insist  on  the  former  truth  towards 
ourselves,  it  equally  behoves  us  to  bear  in 
mind  the  latter  when  we  judge  of  other  men. 
The  most  gifted  soul,  appearing  in  France  in 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  can  as  little  imbody 
himself  in  the  intellectual  vesture  of  an  Athe- 
nian Plato,  as  in  the  grammatical  one ;  his 
thought  can  no  more  be  Greek,  than  his  lan- 
guage can.  He  thinks  of  the  things  belong- 
ing to  the  French  eighteenth  century,  and  in 
the  dialect  he  has  learned  there ;  in  the  light, 
and  under  the  conditions  prescribed  there. 
Thus,  as  the  most  original,  resolute,  and  self- 
directing  of  all  the  Moderns  has  written : 
"  Let  a  man  be  but  born  ten  years  sooner,  or 
ten  years  later,  his  whole  aspect  and  perform- 
ance shall  be  different."  Grant,  doubtless, 
that  a  certain  perennial  Spirit,  true  for  all 
times  and  all  countries,  can  and  must  look 
through  the  thinking  of  certain  men,  be  it  in 
what  dialect  soever :  understand,  meanwhile, 
that  strictly  this  holds  only  of  the  highest 
order  of  men,  and  cannot  be  exacted  of  infe- 
rior orders  ;  among  whom,  if  the  most  sedu- 
lous, loving  inspection  disclose  any  even 
secondary  symptoms  of  such  a  Spirit,  it  ought 
to  seem  enough.  Let  us  remember  well  that 
the  high-gifted,  high-striving  Diderot  was  born 
in  the  point  of  Time  and  of  Space,  when  of 
all  uses  he  could  turn  himself  to,  of  all  dia- 
lects speak  in,  this  of  Polemical  Philosophism, 
and  no  other,  seemed  the  most  promising  and 
fittest.  Let  us  remember  too  that  no  earnest 
Man,  in  any  Time,  ever  spoke  what  was 
wholly  meaningless ;  that,  in  all  human  con- 
victions, mnch  more  in  all  human  practices, 
there  was  a  true  side,  a  fraction  of  truth; 
which  fraction  is  precisely  the  thing  we  want 
to  extract  from  them,  if  we  want  any  thing  at 
all  to  do  with  them. 

Such  palliative  considerations  (which,  for 


the  rest,  concern  not  Diderot,  now  departed, 
and  indifferent  to  them,  but  only  ourselves 
who  could  wish  to  see  him,  and  not  to  mis-see 
him)  are  essential,  we  say,  through  our  whole 
survey  of  his  Opinions  and  Proceedings,  ge- 
nerally so  alien  to  our  own ;  but  most  of  all 
in  reference  to  his  head  Opinion,  properly  the 
source  of  all  the  rest,  and  the  more  shocking, 
even  horrible,  to  us  than  all  the  rest :  we 
mean  his  Atheism.  David  Hume,  dining  once 
in  company  where  Diderot  was,  remarked 
that  he  did  not  think  there  were  any  Atheists. 

"  Count  us,"  said  a  certain  Monsieur : 

they  were  eighteen.  "  Well,"  said  the  Mon- 
sieur   ,  "  it  is  pretty  fair  if   you  have 

fished  out  fifteen  at  the  first  cast ;  and  three 
others  who  know  not  what  to  think  of  it."  In 
fact,  the  case  was  common  :  your  Philosophe 
of  the  first  water  had  grown  to  reckon  Athe- 
ism a  necessary  accomplishment.  Gowkthrap- 
ple  Naigeon,  as  we  saw,  had  made  himself 
very  perfect  therein. 

Diderot  was  an  Atheist,  then  ;  stranger  still, 
a  proselytizing  Atheist,  who  esteemed  the 
creed  worth  earnest  reiterated  preaching,  and 
enforcement  with  all  vigour  !  The  unhappy 
man  had  "sailed  through  the  Universe  of 
Worlds  and  found  no  Maker  thereof;  had  de- 
scended to  the  abysses  where  Being  no  longer 
casts  its  shadow,  and  felt  only  the  rain-drops 
trickle  down ;  and  seen  only  the  glimmering 
rainbow  of  Creation,  which  originated  from 
no  Sun ;  and  heard  only  the  everlasting  storm 
which  no  one  governs  ;  and  looked  upwards 
for  the  Divine  Eye,  and  beheld  only  the  black, 
bottomless,  glaring  Death's  Exe-socket:" 
such,  with  all  his  wide  voyages,  was  the  phi- 
losophic fortune  he  had  realized. 

Sad  enough,  horrible  enough :  yet  instead 
of  shrieking  over  it,  or  howling  and  Ernul- 
phus'-cursing  over  it,  let  us,  as  the  more  pro- 
fitable method,  keep  our  composure,  and  in- 
quire a  little.  What  possibly  it  may  mean ! 
The  whole  phenomenon,  as  seems  to  us,  will 
explain  itself  from  the  fact  above  insisted  on, 
that  Diderot  w^as  a  Polemic  of  decided  cha- 
racter, in  the  Mechanical  Age.  With  great  ex- 
penditure of  words  and  froth,  in  arguments  as 
waste,  wild-weltering,  delirious-dismal  as  the 
chaos  they  would  demonstrate — which  argu- 
ments one  now  knows  not  whether  to  laugh  at 
or  to  weep  at,  and  almost  does  both, — have  Di- 
derot and  his  sect  perhaps  made  this  apparent 
to  all  who  examine  it :  That  in  the  French  Sys- 
tem of  Thought,  (called  also  the  Scotch,  and 
still  familiar  enough  everywhere,  which  for 
want  of  a  better  title  we  have  named  the  Me- 
chanical,) there  is  no  room  for  a  Divinity ; 
that  to  him  for  whom  ''intellect,  or  the  power 
of  knowing  and  believing  is  still  synonymous 
with  logic,  or  the  mere  power  of  arranging 
and  communicating,"  there  is  absolutely  no 
proof  discoverable  of  a  Divinity  ;  and  such  a 
man  has  nothing  for  it  but  either  (if  he  be  of 
half  spirit,  as  is  the  frequent  case)  to  trim 
despicably  all  his  days  between  two  opin« 
ions;  or  else  (if  he  be  of  whole  spirit)  to  an- 
chor on  the  rock  or  quagmire  of  Atheism, — 
and  further,  should  he  see  fit,  proclaim  to 
others  that  there  is  good  riding  there.  So 
much   may  Diderot    have    demonstrated:  a 


DIDEROT. 


417 


conclusion  at  which  we  nowise  turn  pale. 
"Was  it  much  to  know  that  Metaphysical  Spe- 
culation, by  nature,  whirls  round  in  endless 
Mahlstroms,  both  "creating  and  swallowing — 
itself?"  For  so  wonderful  a  self-swallowing 
product  of  the  Spirit  of  Time,  could  any  re- 
sult to  arrive  at  be  fitter  than  this  of  the  Eter- 
KAL  No  1  We  thank  Heaven  that  the  result 
is  finally  arrived  at ;  and  so  now  we  can  look 
out  for  something  other  and  further.  But, 
above  all  things,  proof  of  a  God  1  A  probable 
God !  The  smallest  of  Finites  struggling  to 
prove  to  itself  (that  is  to  say,  if  we  consider  it, 
to  picture  out  and  arrange  as  diagram,  and 
wtc/M(/e  within  itself)  the  Highest  Infinite;  in 
which,  by  hypothesis,  it  lives,  and  moves,  and 
has  its  being  !  This,  we  conjecture,  will  one 
day  seem  a  much  more  miraculous  miracle 
than  that  negative  result  it  has  arrived  at, — or 
any  other  result  a  still  absurder  chance  might 
have  led  it  to.  He  who,  in  some  singular 
Time  of  the  World's  History,  were  reduced 
to  wander  about,  in  stooping  posture,  with 
painfully  constructed  sulphur-match  and  far- 
thing rushlight,  (as  Gowkthrapple  Naigeon,) 
or  smoky  tar-link,  (as  Denis  Diderot,)  search- 
ing for  the  Sun,  and  did  not  find  it;  were  he 
wonderful  and  his  failure;  or  the  singular 
Time,  and  its  having  put  him  on  that  search  ? 

Two  small  consequences,  then,  we  fancy, 
may  have  followed,  or  be  following,  from  poor 
Diderot's  Atheism.  First,  that  all  speculations 
of  the  sort  we  call  Natural-theology,  endeavour- 
ing to  prove  the  beginning  of  all  Belief  by 
some  Belief  earlier  than  the  beginning,  are 
barren,  ineffectual,  impossible;  and  may,  so 
soon  as  otherwise  it  is  profitable,  be  abandoned. 
Of  final  causes,  man,  by  the  nature  of  the  case, 
can  prove  nothing ;  knows  them  (if  he  know 
any  thing  of  them)  not  by  glimmering  flint- 
sparks  of  Logic,  but  by  an  infinitely  higher 
light  of  intuition ;  never  long,  by  Heaven's 
mercy,  wholly  eclipsed  in  the  human  soul ;  and 
(under  the  name  of  Faith,  as  regards  this  mat- 
ter) familiar  to  us  now,  historically  or  in  con- 
scious possession,  for  upwards  of  four  thousand 
years.  To  all  open  men  it  will  indeed  always 
be  a  favourite  contemplation,  that  of  watching 
the  ways  of  Being,  how  animate  adjusts  itself 
to  inanimate,  rational  to  irrational ;  and  this, 
that  we  name  Nature,  is  not  a  desolate  phan- 
tasm of  a  chaos,  but  a  wondrous  existence  and 
reality.  If,  moreover,  in  those  same  "  marks 
of  design,"  as  he  has  called  them,  the  contem- 
plative man  find  new  evidence  of  a  designing 
Maker,  be  it  well  for  him :  meanwhile,  surely, 
the  still  clearer  evidence  lay  nearer  home,  in 
the  contemplative  man's  own  head  that  seeks 
after  such !  In  which  point  of  view  our  ex- 
tant Natural-theologies,  as  our  innumerable 
Evidences  of  the  Christian  Religion,  and  such 
like,  may,  in  reference  to  the  strange  season 
they  appear  in,  have  an  indubitable  value  and 
be  worth  printing  and  reprinting;  only  let  us 
understand  for  whom,  and  how,  they  are  va- 
luable; and  be  nowise  wroth  with  the  poor 
Atheist,  whom  they  have  not  convinced,  and 
could  not,  and  should  not  convince. 

The  second  consequence  seems  to  be  that 
this  whole  current  hypothesis  of  the  Universe 
being  "  a  Machine,"  and  then  of  an  Architect, 
63 


who  constructed  it,  sitting  as  it  were  apart,  and 
guiding  it,  and  seeing  it  go, — may  turn  out  an  in- 
anity and  nonentity ;  not  much  longer  tenable : 
with  which  result  likewise  we  shall,  in  the  quiet- 
est manner,  reconcile  ourselves.  "Think ye," 
says  Goethe,  "  that  God  made  the  Universe, 
and  then  let  it  run  round  his  finger  (am  Finger 
laufen  lies8e?y*  On  the  whole,  that  Metaphysi- 
cal hurly-burly  (of  our  poor,  jarring,  self-lis- 
tening Time)  ought  at  length  to  compose  itself: 
that  seeking  for  a  God  thei-e,  and  not  here;  every- 
where outwardly  in  physical  Nature,  and  not 
inwardly  in  our  own  Soul,  where  alone  He  is 
to  be  found  by  us, — begins  to  get  wearisome. 
Above  all,  that  "  faint  possible  Theism,"  which 
now  forms  our  common  English  creed,  cannot 
be  too  soon  swept  out  of  the  world.  What  is 
the  nature  of  that  individual,  who  with  hysteri- 
cal violence  theoretically  asserts  a  God,  per- 
haps a  revealed  Symbol  and  Worship  of  God ; 
and  for  the  rest,  in  thought,  word,  and  conduct, 
meet  with  him  where  you  will,  is  found  living 
as  if  his  theory  were  some  polite  figure  of 
speech,  and  his  theoretical  God  a  mere  distant 
Simulacrum,  with  whom  he,  for  his  part,  had 
nothing  further  to  do  1  Fool !  The  Eterital 
is  no  Simulacrum;  God  is  not  only  There,  but 
Here,  or  nowhere,  in  that  life-breath  of  thine, 
in  that  act  and  thought  of  thine, — and  thou 
wert  wise  to  look  to  it.  If  there  is  no  God,  as 
the  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  then  live  on 
with  thy  decencies,  and  lip-homages,  and  in- 
ward Greed,  and  falsehood,  and  all  the  hollow 
cunningly-devised  halfness  that  recommends 
thee  to  the  Mammon  of  this  world:  if  there  is 
a  God,  we  say,  look  to  it !  But  in  either  case, 
what  art  thou  1  The  Atheist  is  false  ;  yet  is 
there,  as  we  see,  a  fraction  of  truth  in  him :  he  is 
true  compared  with  thee ;  thou  unhappy  mortal, 
livest  wholly  in  a  lie,  art  wholly  a  lie. 

So  that  Diderot's  Atheism  comes,  if  not  to 
much,  yet  to  something :  we  learn  this  from  it 
(and  from  what  it  stands  connected  with,  and 
may  represent  for  us,)  that  the  Mechanical  Sys- 
tem of  Thought  is,  in  its  essence.  Atheistic;  that 
whosoever  will  admit  no  organ  of  truth  but 
logic,  and  nothing  to  exist  but  what  can  be 
argued  of,  must  even  content  himself  with  his 
sad  result,  as  the  only  solid  one  he  can  arrive 
at ;  and  so  with  the  best  grace  he  can  "  of  the 
CEther  make  a  gas,  of  God  a  force,  of  the  second 
world  a  coffin  ;"  of  man  an  aimless  nondescript, 
"  little  better  than  a  kind  of  vermin."  If  Diderot, 
by  bringing  matters  to  this  parting  of  the  roads, 
have  enabled  or  helped  us  to  strike  into  the 
truer  and  belter  road,  let  him  have  our  thanks 
for  it.  As  to  what  remains,  be  pity  our  only 
feeling  ;  was  not  his  creed  miserable  enough  ; 
nay,  moreover,  did  not  he  bear  its  miserable- 
ness,  so  to  speak,  in  our  stead,  so  that  it  need 
now  be  no  longer  borne  by  any  one. 

In  this  same,  for  him  unavoidable  circum- 
stance, of  the  age  he  lived  in,  and  the  system 
of  thought  universal  then,  will  be  found  the 
key  to  Diderot's  whole  spiritual  character  and 
procedure ;  the  excuse  for  much  in  him  that 
to  us  is  false  and  perverted.  Beyond  the 
meagre  "  rush-light  of  closet-logic,"  Diderot 
recognised  no  guidance.  That  "  the  Highest 
cannot  be  spoken  of  in  words,"  was  a  truth  he 
had  not  dreamt  of.    Whatsoever  thing  he  can- 


416 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


not  debate  of,  we  might  almost  say  measure 
and  weigh,  and  carry  off  with  him  to  be  eaten 
and  enjoyed,  is  simply  not  there  for  him.  He 
dwelt  all  his  days  in  the  "thin  rind  of  the 
Conscious  ;"  the  deep  fathomless  domain  of  the 
Unconscious,  whereon  the  other  rests,  and  has 
its  meaning,  was  not,  under  any  shape,  sur- 
mised by  him.  Thus  must  the  Sanctuary  of 
Man's  Soul  stand  perennially  shut  against  this 
man ;  where  his  hand  ceased  to  grope,  the 
World  ended :  within  such  strait  conditions 
had  he  to  live  and  labour.  And  naturally  to  dis- 
tort and  dislocate,  more  or  less,  all  things  he 
laboured  on  :  for  whosoever,  in  one  way  or 
another,  recognises  not  that  "  Divine  Idea  of 
the  World,  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appear- 
ances," can  rightly  interpret  no  Appearance ; 
and  whatsoever  spiritual  thing  he  does,  must 
do  it  partially,  do  it  falsely. 

Mournful  enough,  accordingly,  is  the  ac- 
count which  Diderot  has  given  himself  of 
Man's  existence;  on  the  duties,  relations, pos- 
sessions whereof  he  had  been  a  sedulous  think- 
er. In  every  conclusion  we  have  this  fact  of 
his  Mechanical  culture.  Coupled  too  with 
another  fact  honourable  to  him :  that  he  stuck 
not  at  half  measures;  but  resolutely  drove 
on  to  the  result,  and  held  by  it.  So  that 
we  cannot  call  him  a  skeptic  ;  he  has  merited 
the  more  decisive  name  of  Denier.  He  may  be 
said  to  have  denied  that  there  was  any  the 
smallest  Sacredness  in  Man,  or  in  the  Uni- 
verse ;  and  to  have  both  speculated  and  lived  on 
this  singular  footing.  We  behold  in  him  the  nota- 
ble extreme  of  a  man  guiding  himself  with  the 
least  spiritual  Belief  that  thinking  man  perhaps 
ever  had.  Religion,  in  all  recognisable  shapes 
and  senses,  he  has  done  what  man  can  do  to  clear 
out  of  him.  He  believes  that  pleasure  is  plea- 
sant; that  a  lie  is  unbelievable;  and  there,  his 
credo  terminates;  nay  there,  what  perhaps 
makes  his  case  almost  unique,  his  very  fancy 
seems  to  fall  silent. 

For  a  consequent  man,  all  possible  spiritual 
perversions  are  included  under  that  grossest 
one  of  "  proselytizing  Atheism ;"  the  rest,  of 
what  kind  and  degree  soever,  cannot  any 
longer  astonish  us.  Diderot  has  them  of  ail 
kinds  and  degrees  ;  indeed,  we  might  say,  the 
French  Philosophe  (take  him  at  his  word,  for 
inwardly  much  that  was  foreign  adhered  to 
him,  do  what  he  could)  has  emitted  a  Scheme 
of  the  World,  to  which  all  that  Oriental  Mul- 
lah, Bonze,  or  Talapoin  have  done  in  that 
kind  is  poor  and  feeble.  Omitting  his  whole 
unparalleled  Cosmoganies  and  Physiologies  ; 
coming  to  his  much  milder  Tables  of  the 
Moral  Law,  we  shall  glance  here  but  at  one 
minor  external  item,  the  relation  between  man 
and  man;  and  at  only  one  branch  of  this, 
and  with  all  slightness,  the  relation  of  cove- 
nants; for  example,  the  most  important  of 
these.  Marriage. 

Diderot  has  convinced  himself,  and,  indeed, 
as  above  became  plain  enough,  acts  on  the 
conviction,  that  Marriage,  contract  it,  solemnize 
it  in  what  way  you  will,  involves  a  solecism 
which  reduces  the  amount  of  it  to  simple 
zero.  It  is  a  suicidal  covenant;  annuls  itself 
in  the  very  forming.  "  Thou  makest  a  vow," 
says  he,  twice  or  thrice,  as  if  the  argument 


were  a  clencher,  "  thou  makest  a  vow  of 
eternal  constancy  under  a  rock,  which  is  even 
then  crumbling  away."  True,  O  Denis !  the 
rock  crumbles  away  :  all  things  are  changing; 
man  changes  faster  than  most  of  them.  That, 
in  the  meanwhile,  an  Unchangeable  lies  under 
all  this,  and  looks  forth,  solemn  and  benign, 
through  the  whole  destiny  and  workings  of 
man,  is  another  truth ;  which  no  Mechanical 
Philosophe,  in  the  dust  of  his  logic-mill,  can 
be  expected  to  grind  out  for  himself.  Man 
changes,  and  will  change :  the  question  then 
arises.  Is  it  wise  in  him  to  tumble  forth,  in 
headlong  obedience  to  this  love  of  change;  is 
it  so  much  as  possible  for  him?  Among  the 
dualisms  of  man's  wholly  dualistic  nature,  this 
we  might  fancy  was  an  observable  one :  that 
along  with  his  unceasing  tendency  to  change, 
there  is  a  no  less  ineradicable  tendency  to  per- 
severe. Were  man  only  here  to  change,  let 
him,  far  from  marrying,  cease  even  to  hedge 
in  fields,  and  plough  them  ;  before  the  autumn 
season,  he  may  have  lost  the  whim  of  reaping 
them.  Let  him  return  to  the  nomadic  state, 
and  set  his  house  on  wheels ;  nay  there  too  a 
certain  restraint  must  curb  his  love  of  change, 
or  his  cattle  will  perish  by  incessant  driving, 
without  grazing  in  the  intervals.  O  Denis, 
what  things  thou  babblest  in  thy  sleep !  How, 
in  this  world  of  perpetual  flux,  shall  man 
secure  himself  the  smallest  foundation,  except 
hereby  alone :  that  he  take  pre-assurance  of 
his  Fate ;  that  in  this  and  the  other  high  act 
of  life,  his  Will,  with  all  soXemmiy ,  abdicate  its 
right  to  change;  voluntarily  become  involun- 
tary, and  say  once  for  all,  Be  there  then  no 
further  dubitation  on  it !  Nay,  the  poor  un- 
heroic  craftsman;  that  very  stocking-weaver, 
on  whose  loom  thou  now  as  amateur  weavest: 
must  not  even  he  do  as  much, — when  he 
signed  his  apprentice-indentures?  The  fool! 
who  had  such  a  relish  in  himself  for  all  things, 
for  kingship  and  emperorship;  yet  made  a 
vow  (under  penalty  of  death  by  hunger)  of 
eternal  constancy  to  stocking-weaving.  Yet 
otherwise,  were  no  thriving  craftsmen  possible ; 
only  botchers,  bunglers,  transitory  nonde- 
scripts ;  unfed,  mostly  gallows-feeding.  But, 
on  the  whole,  what  feeling  it  was  in  the 
ancient  devout  deep  soul,  which  of  Marriage 
made  a  Sacrament :  this,  of  all  things  in  the 
world,  is  what  Denis  will  think  of  for  aeons, 
without  discovering.  Unless,  perhaps,  it  were 
to  increase  the  vestry-fees! 

Indeed,  it  must  be  granted,  nothing  yet  seen 
or  dreamt  of  can  surpass  the  liberality  of 
friend  Denis  as  magister  morum;  nay,  often 
our  poor  Philosophe  feels  called  on,  in  an  age 
of  such  Spartan  rigor,  to  step  forth  into  the 
public  Stews,  and  emit  his  inspiring  Made 
virtute!  there.  Whither  let  the  curious  in 
such  matters  follow  him :  we,  having  work  else- 
where, wish  him  "good  journey," — or  rather 
"  safe  return."  Of  Diderot's  indelicacy  and 
indecency  there  is  for  us  but  little  to  say. 
Diderot  is  not  what  we  call  indelicate  and  in- 
decent; he  is  utterly  unclean,  scandalous, 
shameless,  sansculottic-samoedic.  To  declare 
with  lyric  fury  that  this  is  wrong;  or  with 
historic  calmness,  that  a  pig  of  sensibility 
would  go  distracted  did  you  accuse  him  of  it, 


DIDEROT. 


419 


may  (especially  in  countries  where  "  indecent 
exposure"  is  cognised  at  police-offices)  be 
considered  superfluous.  The  only  question 
is  one  in  Natural  History:  Whence  comes  ill 
What  may  a  man,  not  otherwise  without  ele- 
vation of  mind,  of  kindly  character,  of  immense 
professed  philanthropy ;  and  doubtless  of  ex- 
traordinary insight,  mean  thereby  1  To  us  it 
is  but  another  illustration  of  the  fearless,  all- 
for-logic,  thoroughly  consistent,  Mechanical 
Thinker.  It  coheres  well  enough  with  Diderot's 
theory  of  man  ;  that  there  is  nothing  of  sacred 
either  m  man  or  around  man ;  and  that  chime- 
ras are  chimerical.  How  shall  he  for  whom 
nothing,  that  cannot  be  jargoned  of  in  debating- 
clubs,  exists,  have  any  faintest  forecast  of  the 
depth,  significance,  divineness  of  Silexce  ;  of 
the  sacredness  of  "  Secrets  known  to  all  V 

Nevertheless,  Nature  is  great;  and  Denis 
was  among  her  nobler  productions.  To  a 
soul  of  his  sort  something  like  what  we  call 
Conscience  could  nowise  be  wanting :  the 
feeling  of  Moral  Relation,  of  the  Infinite  charac- 
ter thereof,  (as  the  essence  and  soul  of  all  else 
that  can  be  felt  or  known,)  must  assert  itself 
in  him.  Yet  how  assert  itself]  An  Infini- 
tude to  one,  in  whose  whole  Synopsis  of  the 
Universe  no  Infinite  stands  marked  1  Won- 
derful enough  is  Diderot's  method ;  and  yet 
not  wonderful,  for  we  see  it,  and  have  always 
seen  it,  daily.  Since  there  is  nothing  sacred 
in  the  Universe,  whence  this  sacredness  of 
what  you  call  Virtue  1  Whence  or  how  comes 
it  that  you,  Denis  Diderot,  must  not  do  a  wrong 
thing;  could  not,  without  some  qualm,  speak, 
for  example,  one  Lie,  to  gain  Mohammed's 
Paradise  with  all  its  hourisl  There  is  no  re- 
source for  it,  but  to  get  into  that  interminable 
ravelment  of  Reward  and  Approval,  virtue 
being  its  own  reward ;  and  assert  louder  and 
louder, — contrary  to  the  stern  experience  of  all 
men,  from  the  Divine  Man,  expiring  with 
agony  of  bloody  sweat  on  the  accursed  tree, 
down  to  us  two,  O  reader  (if  we  have  ever 
done  one  Duty) — that  Virtue  is  synonymous 
with  Pleasurci  Alas !  was  Paul,  an  apostle 
of  the  Gentiles,  virtuous ;  and  was  virtue  its 
own  reward,  when  his  approving  conscience 
told  him  that  he  was  "  the  chief  of  sinners," 
and  (bounded  to  this  life  alone)  "  of  all  men 
the  most  miserable!"  Or  has  that  same  so 
sublime  Virtue,  at  bottom,  little  to  do  with 
Pleasure,  if  with  far  other  things  1  Are 
Eudoxia,  and  Eusebeia,  and  Euthanasia,  and 
all  the  rest  of  them,  of  small  account  to  Eubo- 
sia  and  Eupepsia;  and  the  pains  of  any 
moderately-paced  Career  of  Vice  (Denis  him- 
self being  judge)  as  a  drop  in  the  bucket  to 
the  "  Career  of  Indigestions  ?"  This  is  what 
Denis  never  in  this  world  will  grant. 

But  what  then  will  he  dol  One  of  two 
things :  admit,  with  Grimm,  that  there  are 
"  two  justices," — which  may  be  called  by  many 
handsome  names,  but  properly  are  nothing 
but  the  pleasant  justice,  and  the  unpleasant; 
whereof  only  the  former  is  binding.  Herein, 
however.  Nature  has  been  unkind  to  Denis ; 
he  is  not  a  literary  court-toad-eater;  but  a  free, 
genial,  even  poetic  creature.  There  remains, 
therefore,  nothing  but  the  second  expedient ; 
to  "  assert  louder  and  louder;"  in  other  words, 


to  become  a  Philosophe-Sentimentalist.  Most 
wearisome,  accordingly,  is  the  perpetual  clat- 
ter kept  up  here  about  vertu,  honnelete,  grandeur, 
sensibilite,  ames-noblcs ;  how  unspeakably  good  it 
is  to  be  virtuous,  how  pleasant,  how  sublime; 
"In  the  Devil  and  his  grandmother's  name,  be 
virtuous ;  and  let  us  have  an  end  of  it!"  In 
such  sort  (we  will  nevertheless  joyfully  recog- 
nise) does  great  Nature  in  spite  of  all  contra- 
dictions, declare  her  royalty,  her  divineness ; 
and,  for  the  poor  Mechanical  Philosophe,  has 
prepared  since  the  substance  is  hidden  from 
him,  a  shadow  wherewith  he  can  be  cheered. 

In  fine,  to  our  ill-starred  Mechanical  Phi- 
losophe-Sentimentalist, with  his  loud  preaching 
and  rather  poor  performing,  shall  we  not,  in 
various  respects,  "  thankfully  stretch  out  the 
hand?"  In  all  ways,  "it  was  necessary  that 
the  logical  side  of  things  should  likewise  be 
made  available."  On  the  whole,  wondrous 
higher  developments  of  much,  of  Morality 
among  the  rest,  are  visible  in  the  course  of  the 
world's  doings,  at  this  day.  A  plausible  pre- 
diction were  that  the  Ascetic  System  is  not  to 
regain  its  exclusive  dominancy.  Ever,  indeed, 
must  Self-denial,  "  Annihilation  of  Self,  be  the 
beginning  of  all  moral  action:"  meanwhile,  he 
that  looks  well,  may  discern  filaments  of  a 
nobler  System,  wherein  this  lies  included  as 
one  harmonious  element.  Who  knows  what 
new  unfoldiags  and  complex  adjustments  await 
us,  before,  (for  example,)  the  true  relation  of 
moral  Greatness  to  moral  Correctness,  and 
their  proportional  value,  can  be  established  1 
How,  again,  is  perfect  tolerance  for  the  Wrong 
to  co-exist  with  ever-present  conviction  that 
Right  stands  related  to  it,  as  a  God  does  to  a 
Devil, — an  Infinite  to  an  opposite  Infinite  1 
How,  in  a  word,  through  what  tumultuous  vi- 
cissitudes, after  how  many  false  partial  eflforts, 
deepening  the  confusion,  shall  it,  at  length,  be 
made  manifest,  and  kept  continually  manifest 
to  the  hearts  of  men,  that  the  Good  is  not  pro- 
perly the  highest,  but  the  Beautiful ;  that  the 
true  Beautiful  (diflTering  from  the  false,  as 
Heaven  does  from  Vauxhall,)  comprehends  in 
it  the  Good  1 — In  some  future  century,  it  may 
be  found  that  Denis  Diderot,  acting  and  pro- 
fessing, in  wholeness  and  with  full  conviction, 
what  the  immense  multitude  act  in  halfness 
and  without  conviction, — has,  though  by  strange 
inverse  methods,  forwarded  the  result.  It  was 
long  ago  written,  the  Omnipotent  "maketh  the 
wrath  of  the  wicked"  (the  folly  of  the  foolish) 
"  to  praise  Him."  In  any  case,  Diderot  acted 
it,  and  not  we  ;  Diderot  bears  it,  and  not  we : 
peace  be  with  Diderot ! 

The  other  branch  of  his  renown  is  excel- 
lence as  a  Talker.  Or  in  wider  view,  (think 
his  admirers,)  his  philosophy  was  not  more 
surpassing  than  his  delivery  thereof.  What 
his  philosophy  amounts  to  we  have  been  ex- 
amining :  but  now,  that  in  this  other  conversa- 
tional province  he  was  eminent,  is  easily  be- 
lieved. A  frank,  ever-hoping,  social  character ; 
a  mind  full  of  knowledge,  full  of  fervour;  of 
great  compass,  of  great  depth,  ever  on  the 
alert:  such  a  man  could  not  have  other  than 
a  "mouth  of  gold."  It  is  still  plain,  what- 
soever thing  imaged  itself  before  him,  was 


420 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


imaged  in  the  most  lucent  clearness ;  was 
rendered  back,  with  light  labour,  in  corre- 
sponding clearness.  Whether,  at  the  same 
time,  Diderot's  conversation,  relatively  so  su- 
perior, deserved  the  intrinsic  character  of  su- 
preme, may  admit  of  question.  The  worth 
of  words  spoken  depends,  after  all,  on  the 
Wisdom  that  resides  in  them  ;  and  in  Diderot's 
words  there  was  often  too  little  of  this.  Vi- 
vacity, far-darting  brilliancy,  keenness  of  theo- 
retic vision,  paradoxical  ingenuity,  gayely, 
even  touches  of  humour;  all  this  must  have 
been  here;  whosoever  had  preferred  sincerity, 
earnestness,  depth  of  practical  rather  than 
theoretic  insight,  with  not  less  of  impetuosity, 
of  clearness  and  sureness,  with  humour,  em- 
phasis, or  such  other  melody  or  rhythm  as  that 
utterance  demanded, — must  have  come  over 
to  London ;  and  (with  forbearant  submissive- 
ness)  listened  to  our  Johnson.  Had  we  the 
stronger  man,  then  ]  Be  it  rather,  as  in  that 
Duel  of  Coeur-de-Leon  with  the  light,  nimble, 
yet  also  invincible  Saladin,  that  each  nation 
had  the  strength  which  most  befitted  it. 

Closely  connected  with  this  power  of  con- 
versation is  Diderot's  facility  of  composition. 
A  talent  much  celebrated;  numerous  really 
surprising  proofs  whereof  are  on  record ;  how 
he  wrote  long  works  within  the  week ;  some- 
times within  almost  the  four-and-twenty  hours. 
Unhappily,  enough  still  remains  to  make  such 
feats  credible.  Most  of  Diderot's  Works  bear 
the  clearest  traces  of  extemporaneousness ; 
stans pede  inuno!  They  are  much  liker  printed 
talk,  than  the  concentrated  well-considered 
utterance,  which,  from  a  man  of  that  weight, 
we  expect  to  see  set  in  types.  It  is  said,  "  he 
wrote  good  pages,  but  could  not  write  a  good 
book."  Substitute  did  not  for  could  not  /  and 
there  is  some  truth  in  the  saying.  Clearness, 
^s  has  been  observed,  comprehensibility  at  a 
glance,  is  the  character  of  whatever  Diderot 
wrote :  a  clearness  which,  in  visual  objects, 
rises  into  the  region  of  the  Artistic,  and  re- 
sembles that  of  Richardson  or  Defoe.  Yet, 
grant  that  he  makes  his  meaning  clear,  what 
is  the  nature  of  that  meaning  itself  1  Alas,  for 
most  part,  only  a  hasty,  flimsy,  superficial 
meaning,  with  gleams  of  a  deeper  vision  peer- 
ing through.  More  or  less  of  Disorder  reigns 
in  all  Works  that  Diderot  wrote;  not  order,  but 
the  plausible  appearance  of  such :  the  true 
heart  of  the  matter  is  not  found ;  "  he  skips 
deftly  along  the  radii,  and  skips  over  the  centre, 
and  misses  it." 

Thus  may  Diderot's  admired  Universality 
and  admired  facility  have  both  turned  to  dis- 
advantage for  him.  We  speak  not  of  his 
reception  by  the  world :  this  indeed  is  the  "  age 
of  specialities ;"  yet,  owing  to  other  causes, 
Diderot  the  Encyclopedist  had  success  enough. 
But,  what  is  of  far  more  importance,  his  in- 
ward growth  was  marred :  the  strong  tree  shot 
not  up  in  any  one  noble  stem,  (bearing  boughs, 
and  fruit,  and  shade  all  round;)  but  spread 
out  horizontally,  after  a  very  moderate  height, 
into  innumerable  branches,  not  useless,  yet  of 
quite  secondary  use.  Diderot  could  have  been 
an  Artist ;  and  he  was  little  better  than  an  En- 
cyclopedic Artisan.  No  smatterer  indeed;  a 
faithful  artisan;  of  really  universal  equip- 


ment, in  his  sort:  he  did  the  work  of  many 
men,  yet  nothing,  or  little,  which  many  could 
not  have  done. 

Accordingly,  his  Literary  Works,  now  lying 
finished  some  fifty  years,  have  already,  to  the 
most  surprising  degree,  sunk  in  importance. 
Perhaps  no  man  so  much  talked  of  is  so  little 
known ;  to  the  great  majority  he  is  no  longer  a 
Reality,  but  a  Hearsay.  Such,  indeed,  partly, 
is  the  natural  fate  of  Works  Polemical,  which 
almost  all  Diderot's  are.  The  Polemic  anni- 
hilates his  opponent;  but  in  so  doing  annihi- 
lates himself  too,  and  both  are  swept  away  to 
make  room  for  something  other  and  farther. 
Add  to  this,  the  slight-textured  transitory  cha- 
racter of  Diderot's  style,  and  the  fact  is  well 
enough  explained.  Meanwhile,  let  him,  to 
whom  it  applies,  consider  it;  him  among 
whose  gifts  it  was  to  rise  into  the  Perennial, 
and  who  dwelt  rather  low  down  in  the  Ephe- 
meral, and  ephemerally  fought  and  scrambled 
there !  Diderot  the  great  has  contracted  into 
Diderot  the  easily-measurable :  so  must  it  be 
with  others  of  the  like. 

In  how  many  sentences  can  the  net-product 
of  all  that  tumultuous  Atheism,  printed  over 
many  volumes,  be  comprised!  Nay,  the 
whole  Encyrlopedie,  that  world's  wonder  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  Belus'  Tower  of  an  age 
of  refined  Illumination,  what  has  it  become! 
Alas  !  no  stone-tower,  that  will  stand  there  as 
our  strength  and  defence  through  all  times  : 
but,  at  best,  a  wooden  Helepolis,  (City-taker,) 
wherein  stationed,  the  Philosophus  Policaster 
has  burnt  and  battered  down  many  an  old 
ruinous  Sorbonne;  and  which  now,  when  that 
work  is  pretty  well  over,  may,  in  turn,  be  taken 
asunder,  and  used  as  firewood.  The  famed  En- 
cyclopedical Tree  itself  has  proved  an  artificial 
one,  and  borne  no  fruit.  We  mean  that,  in  its 
nature,  it  is  mechanical  only ;  one  of  those 
attempts  to  parcel  out  the  invisible  mystical 
Soul  of  Man,  with  its  infinitude  of  phases  and 
character,  into  shop-lists  of  what  are  called 
"  faculties,"  "  motives,"  and  such  like ;  which 
attempts  may  indeed  be  made  with  all  degrees 
of  insight,  from  that  of  a  Doctor  Spurzheira 
to  that  of  Denis  Diderot,  or  Jeremy  Bentham; 
and  prove  useful  for  a  da.y,  but  for  a  day  only. 

Nevertheless  it  were  false  to  regard  Diderot 
as  a  Mechanist  and  nothing  more ;  as  one 
working  and  grinding  blindly  in  the  mill  of 
mechanical  Logic,  joyful  with  his  lot  there, 
and  unconscious  of  any  other.  Call  him  one 
rather  who  contributed  to  deliver  us  therefrom  : 
both  by  his  manful  whole  spirit  as  a  Mechan- 
ist, which  drove  all  things  to  their  ultimatum 
and  crisis  ;  and  even  by  a  dim-struggling  fa- 
culty, which  virtually  aimed  beyond  this.  Di- 
derot, we  said,  was  gifted  by  Nature  for  an 
Artist :  strangely  flashing  through  his  mechani- 
cal encumbrances,  are  rays  of  thought,  which 
belong  to  the  Poet,  to  the  Prophet ;  which,  in 
other  environment,  could  have  revealed  the 
deepest  to  us.  Not  to  seek  far,  consider  this 
one  little  sentence,  which  he  makes  the  last  of 
the  dying  Sanderson :  Le  temps,  la  maiiere,  et 
Vespace  ne  sont  peut-etre  qu'un  point  (Time,  Mat- 
ter, and  Space  are  perhaps  but  a  point!) 

So  too,  in  Art,  both  as  a  speaker  and  a  doer, 
he  is  to  be  reckoned  as  one  of  those  who 


DIDEROT. 


481 


pressed  forward  irresistibly  out  of  the  artifi- 
cial barren  sphere  of  that  time,  into  a  truer 
genial  one.  His  Dramas,  the  File  Nalurel,  the 
Fere  de  Famille,  have  indeed  ceased  to  live ; 
yet  is  the  attempt  towards  great  things  visible 
in  them  ;  the  attempt  remains  to  us,  and  seeks 
otherwise,  and  has  found,  and  is  finding,  fulfil- 
ment. Not  less  in  his  Salons,  (Judgments  of 
Art-Exhibitions,)  written  hastily  for  Grimm, 
and  by  ill  chance,  on  artists  of  quite  seconda- 
ry character,  do  we  find  the  freest  recognition 
of  whatever  excellence  there  is;  nay,  an  im- 
petuous endeavour,  not  critically  but  even  crea- 
tively, towards  something  more  excellent.  In- 
deed, what  with  their  unrivalled  clearness, 
painting  the  picture  over  again  for  us,  so  that 
we  too  see  it, and  can  judge  it;  what  with  their 
sunny  fervour,  inventiveness,  real  artistic  ge- 
nius, (which  only  cannot  manipulate,)  they  are, 
with  some  few  exceptions  in  the  German 
tongue,  the  only  Pictorial  Criticisms  we  know 
of  worth  reading.  Here  too,  as  by  his  own 
practice  in  the  Dramatic  branch  of  art,  Dide- 
rot stands  forth  as  the  main  originator  (almost 
the  sole  one  in  his  own  country)  of  that  many- 
sided  struggle  towards  what  is  called  Nature,  and 
copying  of  Nature,  and  faithfulness  to  Nature ; 
a  deep  indispensable  truth,  subversive  of  the 
old  error;  yet  under  that  figure,  only  a  half- 
truth,  for  Art  too  is  Art,  as  surely  as  Nature  is 
Nature  ;  which  struggle,  meanwhile,  either  as 
half-truth  or  working  itself  into  a  whole  truth, 
may  be  seen  (in  countries  that  have  any  Art) 
still  forming  the  tendency  of  all  artistic  en- 
deavour. In  which  sense,  Diderot's  Essay  on 
Painting  has  been  judged  worth  translation  by 
the  greatest  modern  Judge  of  Art,  and  greatest 
modern  Artist,  in  the  highest  kind  of  Art ;  and 
may  be  read  anew,  with  argumentative  com- 
mentary and  exposition,  in  Goethe's  Works. 

Nay,  let  us  grant,  with  pleasure,  that  for  Di- 
derot himself  the  realms  of  Art  were  not 
wholly  un visited;  that  he  too,  so  heavily  im- 
prisoned, stole  Promethean  fire.  Among  these 
multitudinous,  most  miscellaneous  Writings 
of  his,  in  great  part  a  manufactured  farrago 
of  Philosophism  no  longer  saleable,  and  now 
looking  melancholy  enough, — are  two  that  we 
can  almost  call  Poems;  that  have  something 
perennially  poetic  in  them:  Jacques  le  Fata- 
liste ;  in  a  still  higher  degree,  the  Ncveu  de  Ra- 
meau.  The  occasional  blueness  of  both  ;  even 
that  darkest  indigo  in  some  parts  of  the  former, 
shall  not  altogether  affright  us.  As  it  were,  a 
loose  straggling  sunbeam  flies  here  over  Man's 
Existence  in  France,  now  nigh  a  century  be- 
hind us :  "  from  the  height  of  luxurious  ele- 
gance to  the  depths  of  shamelessness;"  all  is 
here.  Slack,  careless  seems  the  combination 
of  the  picture;  wriggling,  disjointed,  like  a 
bundle  of  flails ;  yet  strangely  united  in  the 
painter's  inward  unconscious  feeling.  Weari- 
somely crackling  wit  gets  silent ;  a  grim,  taci- 
turn, dare-devil,  almost  Hogarthian"  humour, 
rises  in  the  background.  Like  this  there  is 
nothing  that  we  know  of  in  the  whole  range 
of  French  Literature :  La  Fontaine  is  shallow 
in  comparision ;  the  La  Bruyere  wit-species 
not  to  be  named.  It  resembles  Don  Quixote, 
rather;  of  somewhat  similar  stature;  yet  of 
complexion  altogether  different;  through  the 


one  looks  a  sunny  Elysium,  through  the  other 
a  sulphurous  Erebus :  both  hold  of  the  Infi- 
nite. This  Jacques,  perhaps,  was  not  quite  so 
hastily  put  together:  yet  there  too  haste  is 
manifest:  the  Author  finishes  it  ofi",  not  by 
working  out  the  figures  and  movements,  but 
by  dashing  his  brush  against  the  canvas ;  a 
manoeuvre  which  in  this  case  has  not  suc- 
ceeded. The  Rameau's  Nephew,  which  is  the 
shorter,  is  also  the  better ;  may  pass  for  deci- 
dedly the  best  of  all  Diderot's  Compositions. 
It  looks  like  a  Sibylline  utterance  from  a  heart 
all  in  fusion :  no  ephemeral  thing  (for  it  was 
written  as  a  Satire  on  Palissot)  was  ever  more 
perennially  treated.  Strangely  enough,  too,  it 
lay  some  fifty  years,  in  German  and  Russian 
Libraries  ;  came  out  first  in  the  masterly  ver- 
sion of  Goethe,  in  1805  ;  and  only  (after  a  de- 
ceptive rc-translation  by  a  M.  Saur,  a  courage- 
ous mystifier  otherwise,)  reached  the  Paris 
public,  in  1821, — when  perhaps  all,  for  whom, 
and  against  whom  it  was  written,  were  no 
more ! — It  is  a  farce-tragedy ;  and  its  fate  has 
corresponded  to  its  purport.  One  day  it  must 
also  be  translated  into  English ;  but  will  re- 
quire to  be  done  by  head ;  the  common  steam- 
machinery  will  not  meet  it. 

We  here  (con  la  bocca  dolce)  take  leave  of  Di- 
derot in  his  intellectual  aspect,  as  Artist  and 
Thinker:  a  richly  endowed, unfavourably  situ- 
ated nature ;  whose  efibrt,  much  marred,  yet 
not  without  fidelity  of  aim,  can  triumph,  on 
rare  occasions ;  is  perhaps  nowhere  utterly 
fruitless.  In  the  moral  aspect,  as  Man,  he 
makes  a  somewhat  similar  figure ;  as  indeed, 
in  all  men,  in  him  especially,  the  Opinion  and 
the  Practice  stand  closely  united ;  and  as  a  wise 
man  has  remarked,  **  the  speculative  principles 
are  often  but  a  supplement  (or  excuse)  to  the 
practical  manner  of  life."  In  conduct,  Dide- 
rot can  nowise  seem  admirable  to  us;  yet 
neither  inexcusable ;  on  the  whole,  not  at  all 
quite  worthless.  Lavater  traced  in  his  physi- 
ognomy "  something  timorous ;"  which  reading 
his  friends  admitted  to  be  a  correct  one.  Di- 
derot, in  truth,  is  no  hero:  the  earnest  soul, 
wayfaring  and  warfaring  in  the  complexities 
of  a  World  like  to  overwhelm  him, yet  where- 
in he  by  Heaven's  grace  will  keep  faithfully 
warfaring,  prevailing  or  not,  can  derive  small 
solacement  from  this  light,  fluctuating,  not  to 
say  flimsy  existence  of  Diderot :  no  Gospel  in 
that  kind  has  he  left  us.  The  man,  in  fact, 
with  all  his  high  gifts,  had  rather  a  female 
character.  Susceptible,  sensitive,  living  by 
impulses,  which  at  best  he  had  fashioned  into 
some  show  of  principles ;  with  vehemence 
enough,  with  even  a  female  uncontrollableness; 
with  little  of  manful  steadfastness,  considerate- 
ness,  invincibility.  Thus,  too,  we  find  him 
living  mostly  in  the  society  of  women,  or  of 
men  who,  like  women,  flattered  him,  and  made 
life  easy  for  him ;  recoiling  with  horror  from 
an  earnest  Jean  Jacques,  who  understood  not 
the  science  of  walking  in  a  vain  show;  but 
imagined  (poor  man)  that  truth  was  there  as 
a  thing  to  be  told,  as  a  thing  to  be  acted. 

We  call  Diderot,  then,  not  a  coward;  yet 
not  in  any  sense  a  brave  man.  Neither  to- 
wards himself,  nor  towards  others,  was  he 
2N 


422 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


brave.  All  the  virtues,  says  M.  de  Meister, 
which  require  not  "a  great  suite  (sequency) 
of  ideas,"  were  his :  all  that  do  require  such  a 
suite  were  not  his.  In  other  words,  what  du- 
ties were  easy  for  him,  he  did:  happily  Na- 
ture had  rendered  several  easy.  His  spiritual 
aim,  moreover,  seemed  not  so  much  to  be  en- 
forcement, exposition  of  Duty,  as  discovery 
of  a  Duty-made-easy.  Natural  enough  that 
he  should  strike  into  that  province  of  sentiment, 
cceur-noble,  and  so  forth.  Alas,  to  declare  that 
the  beauty  of  virtue  is  beautiful,  costs  compa- 
ratively little;  to  win  it,  and  wear  it,  is  quite 
another  enterprise, — wherein  the  loud  brag- 
gart, we  know,  is  not  the  likeliest  to  succeed. 
On  the  whole,  peace  be  with  sentiment,  for  that 
also  lies  behind  us ! — For  the  rest,  as  hinted, 
what  duties  were  difficult  our  Diderot  left  un- 
done. How  should  he,  the  cosur  sensible,  front 
such  a  monster  as  Pain  1  And  now,  since 
misgivings  cannot  fail  in  that  course,  what  is 
to  be  done  but  fill  up  all  asperities  with  floods 
of  Sensibilite,  and  so  voyage  more  or  less 
smoothly  along  ]  Est-il  bon  ?  Est-il  mechant  ? 
is  his  own  account  of  himself.  At  all  events, 
he  was  no  voluntary  hypocrite ;  that  great 
praise  can  be  given  him.  And  thus  with  Me- 
chanical Philosophism,  and  passion  vive ;  work- 
ing, flirting;  "with  more  of  softness  than  of 
true  affection,  sometimes  with  the  malice  and 
rage  of  a  child,  but  on  the  whole  an  inex- 
haustible fund  of  goodnatured  simplicity,"  has 
he  come  down  to  us  for  better  for  worse  :  and 
what  can  we  do  but  receive  him  1 

If  now  we  and  our  reader,  reinterpreting 
for  our  present  want  that  Life  and  Perform- 
ance of  Diderot,  have  brought  it  clearer  be- 
fore us,  be  the  hour  spent  thereon,  were  it 
even  more  wearisome,  no  profitless  one ! 
Have  we  not  striven  to  unite  our  own  brief 
present  moment  more  and  more  compactly 
with  the  Past  and  with  the  Future  ;  have  we 


not  done  what  lay  at  our  hand  towards  reducing 
that  same  Memoirism  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury into  History,  and  "weaving"  a  thread  or 
two  thereof  nearer  to  the  condition  of  a  "  webl" 
But  finally,  if  we  rise  with  this  matter  (as 
we  should  try  to  do  with  all)  into  the  proper 
region  of  Universal  History,  and  look  on  it 
with  the  eye  not  of  this  lime,  or  of  that  time, 
but  of  Time  at  large,  perhaps  the  prediction 
might  stand  here,  that  intrinsically,  essentially 
little  lies  in  it;  that  one  day  when  the  net- 
result  of  our  European  way  of  life  comes  to 
be  summed  up,  this  whole  as  yet  so  boundless 
concern  of  French  Philosophism  will  dwindle 
into  the  thinnest  of  fractions,  or  vanish  into 
nonentity!  Alas,  while  the  rude  History  and 
Thoughts  of  those  same  "  Juifs  miset-ables,'"  the 
barbaric  War-song  of  a  Deborah  and  Barak, 
the  rapt  prophetic  Utterance  of  an  unkempt 
Isaiah,  last  now  (with  deepest  significance)  say 
only  these  three  thousand  years, — what  has  the 
thrice  resplendent  Encydopedie  shrivelled  into 
within  these  three-score !  This  is  a  fact 
which,  explain  it,  express  it,  in  which  way  he 
will,  your  Encyclopedist  should  actually  con- 
sider. Those  were  tones  caught  from  the  sa- 
cred Melody  of  the  All,  and  having  harmony 
and  meaning  for  ever;  these  of  his  are  but 
outer  discords,  and  their  jangling  dies  away 
without  result.  "The  special,  sole,  and  deep- 
est theme  of  the  World's  and  Man's  History," 
says  the  Thinker  of  our  time,  "  whereto  all 
other  themes  are  subordinated,  lemains  the 
Conflict  of  Unbelief  and  Belief.  All  epochs 
wherein  Belief  prevails,  under  what  form  it 
may,  are  splendid,  heart-elevatinj?,  fruitful  for 
contemporaries  and  posterity.  All  epochs,  on 
the  contrary,  wherein  Unbelief,  under  wha 
form  soever,  maintains  its  sorry  victory,  should 
they  even  for  a  moment  glitter  with  a  sham 
splendour,  vanish  from  the  eyes  of  posterity  ; 
because  no  one  chooses  to  buiden  himself 
with  study  of  the  unfruitful. 


ON  HISTORY  AGAIN. 


[Fraser's  Magazine,  1833.] 


[The  following  singular  fragment  on  History 
forms  part,  as  may  be  recognised,  of  the 
Inaugural  Discourse  delivered  by  our  assi- 
duous "D.  T."  at  the  opening  of  the  Society 
for  the  Diffusion  of  Common  Honesty.  The 
Discourse,  if  one  may  credit  the  Morning 
Papers,  "touched  in  the  most  wonderful 
manner,  didactically,  poetically,  almost  pro- 
phetically, on  all  things  in  this  world  and 
the  next,  in  a  strain  of  sustained  or  rather 
of  suppressed  passionate  eloquence  rarely 
witnessed  in  Parliament  or  out  of  it :  the 
chief  bursts  were  received  with  profound 
silence," — interrupted,  we    fear,  by  snuif- 


taking.  As  will  be  seen,  it  is  one  of  the 
didactic  passages  that  we  introduce  here. 
The  Editor  of  this  Magazine  is  responsible 
for  its  accuracy,  and  publishes,  if  not  with 
leave  given,  then  with  leave  taken. — 0.  Y.] 


*  •  *  HisTOHT  recommends  itself  as  the  most 
profitable  of  all  studies  :  and  truly,  for  such  a 
being  as  Man,  who  is  born,  and  has  to  learn  and 
work,  and  then  after  a  measured  term  of  years 
to  depart,  leaving  descendants  and  perform- 
ances, and  so,  in  all  ways,  to  vindicate  him- 
self as  vital  portion  of  a  Mankind,  no  study 
could  be  fitter.  History  is  the  Letter  of  In- 
structions, which  the  old  generations  write 
and  posthumously  transmit  to  the  new ;  nay 


ON  HISTORY  AGAIN. 


4S3 


it  may  be  called,  more  generally  still,  the  Mes- 
sage, verbal  or  written,  which  all  Mankind 
delivers  to  every  man  ;  it  is  the  only  articulate 
communication  (when  the  inarticulate  and 
mute,  intelligible  or  not,  lie  round  us  and  in 
us,  so  strangely  through  every  fibre  of  our 
being,  every  step  of  our  activity)  which  the 
Past  can  have  with  the  Present,  the  Distant 
with  what  is  Here.  All  Books,  therefore, 
were  they  but  Song-books  or  treatises  on  Ma- 
thematics, are  in  the  long  run  historical  doc- 
uments,— as  indeed  all  Speech  itself  is  :  thus 
might  we  say,  History  is  not  only  the  fittest 
study,  but  the  only  study,  and  includes  all 
others  whatsoever.  The  Perfect  in  History, 
he  who  understood,  and  saw  and  knew  within 
himself,  all  that  the  whole  Family  of  Adam 
had  hitherto  been  and  hitherto  done,  were  per- 
fect in  all  learning  extant  or  possible ;  needed 
not  henceforth  to  study  any  more  ;  and  hence- 
forth nothing  left  but  to  be  and  to  do  something 
himself,  and  others  might  make  History  of  it, 
and  learn  of  him. 

Perfection  in  any  kind  is  well  known  not  to 
be  the  lot  of  man  :  but  of  all  supernatural  per- 
fect-characters, this  of  the  Perfect  in  History 
(so  easily  conceivable  too)  were  perhaps  the 
most  miraculous.  Clearly  a  faultless  monster 
which  the  world  is  not  to  see,  not  even  on 
paper.  Had  the  Wandering  Jew,  indeed,  begun 
to  wander  at  Eden,  and  with  a  Fortunatus'  Hat 
on  his  head!  Nanac  Shah  too,  we  remember, 
steeped  himself  three  days  in  some  sacred 
Well ;  and  there  learnt  enough  :  Nanac's  was 
a  far  easier  method;  but  unhappily  not  prac- 
ticable,— in  this  climate.  Consider,  however, 
at  what  immeasurable  distance  from  this 
Perfect  Nanac  your  highest  Imperfect  Gibbons 
play  their  part?  Were  there  no  brave  men, 
thinkest  thou,  before  Agamemnon  1  Beyond 
the  Thracian  Bosphorus,  was  all  dead  and 
void  ;  from  Cape  Horn  to  Nova  Zembla,  round 
the  whole  habitable  Globe,  not  a  mouse  stirring? 
Or,  again,  in  reference  to  Time  : — the  Creation 
of  the  World  is  indeed  old,  compare  it  to  the 
Year  One;  yet  young,  of  yesterday,  compare 
it  to  Eternity !  Alas,  all  Universal  History  is 
but  a  sort  of  Parish  History;  which  the  "  P.  P. 
Clerk  of  this  Parish,"  member  of  "our  Ale- 
house Club"  (instituted  for  what  "Psalmody" 
is  in  request  there)  puts  together, — in  such  sort 
as  his  fellow-members  will  praise.  Of  the  thing 
now  gone  silent,  named  Past,  which  was  once 
Present,  and  loud  enough,  how  much  do  we 
know?  Our  "Letter  of  Instructions"  comes 
to  us  in  the  saddest  state;  falsified,  blotted  out, 
torn,  lost,  and  but  a  shred  of  it  in  existence; 
this  too  so  difficult  to  read  or  spell. 

Unspeakably  precious  meanwhile  is  our  shred 
of  a  "Letter,"  is  our  "written  or  spoken  Mes- 
sage," such  as  wte  have  it.  Only  he  who  un- 
derstands what  has  been,  can  know  what  should 
be  and  will  be.  It  is  of  the  last  importance 
that  the  individual  have  ascertained  his  re- 
lation to  the  whole  ;  "  an  individual  helps  not," 
it  has  been  written  ;  "only  he  who  unites  with 
many  at  the  proper  hour."  How  easy,  in  a  sense 
for  your  all-instructed  Nanac  to  work  without 
waste  of  force,  (or  what  we  call  fault ;)  and,  in 
practice,  act  new  History,  as  perfectly  as,  in 
theory,  he  knew  the  old !      Comprehending  i 


what  the  given  world  was,  what  it  had  and  what 
it  wanted,  how  might  his  clear  effort  strike  in 
at  the  right  time  and  the  right  point ;  wholly 
increasing  the  true  current  and  tendency,  no- 
where cancelling  itself  in  opposition  thereto  ! 
Unhappily,  such  smooth-running,  ever-accele- 
rated course  is  nowise  the  one  appointed  us  ; 
cross  currents  we  have,  perplexed  backfloods ; 
innumerable  efforts  (every  new  man  is  a  new 
effort)  consume  themselves  in  aimless  eddies  : 
thus  is  the  River  of  Existence  so  wild-flowing, 
wasteful ;  and  whole  multitudes,  and  whole 
generations,  in  painful  unreason,  spend  and 
are  spent  on  what  can  never  profit.  Of  all 
which,  does  not  one  half  originate  in  this  which 
we  have  named  want  of  Perfection  in  History; 
— the  other  half,  indeed,  in  another  want  still 
deeper,  still  more  irremediable  ? 

Here,  however,  let  us  grant  that  Nature,  in 
regard  to  such  historic  want,  is  nowise  blama- 
ble:  taking  up  the  other  face  of  the  matter,  let 
us  rather  admire  the  pains  she  has  been  at,  the 
truly  magnificent  provision  she  has  made, 
that  this  same  Message  of  Instructions  might 
reach  us  in  boundless  plenitude.  Endowments, 
faculties  enough  we  have :  it  is  her  wise  will 
too  that  no  faculty  imparted  to  us  shall  rust 
from  disuse;  the  miraculous  faculty  of  Speech, 
once  given,  becomes  not  more  a  gifl  than  a  ne- 
cessity ;  the  Tongue,  with  or  without  much 
meaning,  will  keep  in  motion  ;  and  only  in 
some  La  Trappe,  by  unspeakable  self-restraint, 
forbear  wagging.  As  little  can  the  fingers  that 
have  learned  the  miracle  of  Writing  lie  idle; 
if  there  is  a  rage  of  speaking,  we  know  also 
there  is  a  rage  of  writing,  perhaps  the  more 
furious  of  the  two.  It  is  said,  "so  eager  are 
men  to  speak,  they  will  not  let  one  another  get 
to  speech ;"  but,  on  the  other  hand,  writing  is 
usually  transacted  in  private,  and  every  man 
has  his  own  desk  and  inkstand,  and  sits  inde- 
pendent and  unrestrainable  there.  Lastly, 
multiply  this  power  of  the  Pen  some  ten  thou- 
sand fold :  that  is  to  say,  invent  the  Printing- 
Press,  with  its  Printer's  Devils,  with  its  Editors, 
Contributors,  Booksellers,  Billstickers,  and  see 
what  it  will  do  !  Such  are  the  means  where- 
with Nature,  and  Art  the  daughter  of  Nature, 
have  equipped  their  favourite,  man,  for  publish- 
ing himself  to  man. 

Consider  now  two  things :  first,  that  one 
Tongue,  of  average  velocity,  will  publish  at 
the  rate  of  a  thick  octavo  volume  per  day ;  and 
then  how  many  nimble  enough  Tongues  may 
be  supposed  to  be  at  work  on  this  Planet 
Earth,  in  this  City  London,  at  this  hour !  Se- 
condly, that  a  literary  Contributor,  if  in  good 
heart  and  urged  by  hunger,  will  many  times 
(as  we  are  credibly  informed)  accomplish  his 
two  magazine  sheets  within  the  four-and- 
twenty  hours;  such  Contributors  being  now 
numerable  not  by  the  thousand,  but  by  the 
million.  Nay,  taking  History  in  its  narrower, 
vulgar  sense,  as  the  mere  chronicle  of  "occur- 
rences" (of  things  that  can  be,  as  we  say, 
"narrated,")  our  calculation  is  still  but  a  little 
altered.  Simple  Narrative,  it  will  be  observed, 
is  the  grand  staple  of  Speech  :  "  the  common 
man,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "  is  copious  in  Narra- 
tive, exiguous  in  Reflection ;  only  with  the 
cultivated  man  is  it  otherwise,  reverse-wise." 


iU 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Allow  even  the  thousandth  part  of  human  pub- 
lishing for  the  emission  of  Thought,  though 
perhaps  the  millionth  were  enough,  we  have 
still  the  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  employ- 
ed in  History  proper,  in  relating  occurrences, 
or  conjecturing  probabilities  of  such  ;  that  is 
to  say,  either  in  History  or  Prophecy,  which 
is  a  new  form  of  History ; — and  so  the  reader 
can  judge  with  what  abundance  this  life- 
breath  of  the  human  intellect  is  furnished  in 
our  world ;  whether  Nature  has  been  stingy 
to  him  or  munificent.  Courage,  reader !  Never 
can  the  historical  inquirer  want  pabulum, 
better  or  worse ;  are  there  not  forty-eight  lon- 
gitudinal feet  of  small-printed  History  in  thy 
Daily  Newspaper? 

The  truth  is,  if  Universal  History  is  such  a 
miserable  defective  "  shred"  as  we  have  named 
it,  the  fault  lies  not  in  our  historic  organs,  but 
wholly  in  our  misuse  of  these ;  say  rather,  in 
so  many  wants  and  obstructions,  varying  with 
the  various  age,  that  pervert  our  right  use  of 
them  ;  especially  two  wants  that  press  heavily 
in  all  ages  :  want  of  Honesty,  want  of  Under- 
standing. If  the  thing  published  is  not  true, 
is  only  a  supposition,  or  even  a  wilful  inven- 
tion, what  can  be  done  with  it,  except  abolish 
it  and  annihilate  it]  But  again,  Truth,  says 
Home  Tooke,  means  simply  the  thing  trowed, 
the  thing  believed  ;  and  now,  from  this  to  the 
thing  extant,  what  a  new  fatal  deduction  have 
we  to  suffer !  Without  Understanding,  Belief 
itself  will  profit  little:  and  how  can  your  pub- 
lishing avail,  when  there  was  no  vision  in  it, 
but  mere  blindness  ?  For  us  in  political  ap- 
pointments, the  man  you  appoint  is  not  he  who 
was  ablest  to  discharge  the  duty,  but  only  he 
who  was  ablest  to  be  appointed ;  so  too,  in  all 
historic  elections  and  selections,  the  maddest 
work  goes  on.  The  even  worthiest  to  be  known 
is  perhaps  of  all  others  the  least  spoken  of; 
nay  some  say,  it  lies  in  the  very  nature  of  such 
events  to  be  so.  Thus,  in  those  same  forty- 
eight  longitudinal  feet  of  History,  or  even  when 
they  have  stretched  out  into  forty-eight  longi- 
tudinal miles,  of  the  like  quality,  there  may  not 
be  the  forty-eighth  part  of  a  hair's-breadth  that 
will  turn  to  any  thing.  Truly,  in  these  times, 
the  quantity  of  printed  Publication  that  will 
need  to  be  consumed  with  fire,  before  the 
smallest  permanent  advantage  can  be  drawn 
from  it,  might  fill  us  with  astonishment,  almost 
with  apprehension.  Where,  alas,  is  the  in- 
trepid Herculean  Dr.  Wagtail,  that  will  reduce 
all  these  paper-mountains  into  tinder,  and  ex- 
tract therefrom  the  three  drops  of  Tinder- water 
Elixir  1 

For,  indeed,  looking  at  the  activity  of  the 
historic  Pen  and  Press  through  this  last  half- 
century,  and  what  bulk  of  History  it  yields  for 
that  period  alone,  and  how  it  is  henceforth 
like  to  increase  in  decimal  or  vigesimal  geo- 
metric progression, — one  might  feel  as  if  a 
day  were  not  distant,  when  perceiving  that  the 
whole  Earth  would  not  now  contain  those 
writings  of  what  was  done  in  the  Earth,  the 
human  memory  must  needs  sink  confounded, 
and  cease  remembering! — To  some  the  reflec- 
tion may  be  new  and  consolatory,  that  this 
state  of  ours  is  not  so  unexampled  as  it  seems  ; 
that  with  memory  and  things  memorable  the 


case  was  always  intrinsically  similar.  The 
Life  of  Nero  occupies  some  diamond  pages  of 
our  Tacitus:  but  in  the  parchment  and  pa- 
pyrus archives  of  Nero's  generation  how  many 
did  it  fill  ?  The  Author  of  the  Vie  de  Seneque, 
at  this  distance,  picking  up  a  few  residuary 
snips,  has  with  ease  made  two  octavos  of  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  were  the  contents  of  the 
then  extant  Roman  memories,  or,  going  to  the 
utmost  length,  were  all  that  was  then  spoken 
on  it,  put  in  types,  how  many  "  longitudinal 
feet"  of  small-pica  had  we, — in  belts  that  would 
go  round  the  Globe? 

History,  then,  before  it  can  become  Univer- 
sal History,  needs  of  all  things  to  be  com- 
pressed. Were  there  no  epitomizing  of  His- 
tory, one  could  not  remember  beyond  a  week. 
Nay,  go  to  that  with  it,  and  exclude  compres- 
sion altogether,  we  could  not  remember  an 
hour,  or  at  all :  for  Time,  like  Space,  is  in- 
finitely divisible;  and  an  hour  with  its  events, 
with  its  sensations  and  emotions,  might  be 
diffused  to  such  expansion  as  should  cover 
the  whole  field  of  memory,  and  push  all  else 
over  the  limits.  Habit,  however,  and  the  natural 
constitution  of  man,  do  themselves  prescribe 
serviceable  rules  for  remembering ;  and  keep 
at  a  safe  distance  from  us  all  such  fantastic 
possibilities; — into  which  only  some  foolish 
Mohammedan  Caliph,  ducking  his  head  in  a 
bucket  of  enchanted  water,  and  so  beating  out 
one  wet  minute  into  seven  long  years  of  servi- 
tude and  hardship,  could  fall.  The  rudest 
peasant  has  his  complete  set  of  Annual  Regis- 
ters legibly  printed  in  his  brain;  and,  without 
the  smallest  training  in  Mnemonics,  the  pro- 
per pauses,  sub-divisions,  and  subordinations 
of  the  little  to  the  great,  all  introduced  there. 
Memory  and  Oblivion,  like  Day  and  Night, 
and  indeed  like  all  other  Contradictions  in  this 
strange  dualislic  Life  of  ours,  are  necessary 
for  each  other's  existence :  Oblivion  is  the 
dark  page,  whereon  Memory  writes  her  light- 
beam  characters,  and  makes  them  legible ; 
were  it  all  light,  nothing  could  be  read  there, 
any  more  than  if  it  were  all  darkness. 

As  with  man  and  these  autobiographic  An- 
nual-Registers of  his,  so  goes  it  with  Man- 
kind and  its  Universal  History,  (which  also  is 
its  Autobiography :)  a  like  unconscious  talent 
of  remembering  and  of  forgetting  again  does 
the  work  here.  The  transactions  of  the  day, 
were  they  never  so  noisy,  cannot  remain  loud 
for  ever;  the  morrow  comes  with  its  new 
noises,  claiming  also  to  be  registered  :  in  the 
immeasurable  conflict  and  concert  of  this  chaos 
of  existence,  figure  after  figure  sinks,  as  all 
that  has  emerged  must  one  day  sink:  what 
cannot  be  kept  in  mind  will  even  go  out  of 
mind ;  History  contracts  itself  into  readable 
extent;  and  at  last,  in  the  hands  of  some  Bos- 
suet  or  Miiller,  the  whole  printed  History  of 
the  World,  from  the  Creation  downwards,  has 
grown  shorter  than  that  of  the  Ward  of  Port- 
soken  for  one  solar  day. 

Whether  such  contraction  and  epitome  is 
always  wisely  formed,  might  admit  of  question ; 
or  rather,  as  we  say,  admits  of  no  question. 
Scandalous  Cleopatras  and  Messalinas,  Cali- 
gulas  and  Commoduses,in  unprofitable  propor- 
tion, survive  for  memory ;  while  a  scientific 


ON  HISTORY  AGAIN. 


4i& 


Pancirollus  must  write  his  Book  of  Arts  Lost ; 
and  a  moral  Pancirollus  (were  the  vision  lent 
him)  might  write  a  still  more  mournful  Book 
of  Virtues  Lost;  of  noble  men,  doing,  and 
daring,  and  enduring,  whose  heroic  life,  as  a 
new  revelation  and  development  of  Life  itself, 
were  a  possession  for  all,  but  is  now  lost  and 
forgotten,  History  having  otherwise  filled  her 
page.  In  fact,  here  as  elsewhere  what  we  call 
Accident  governs  much  ;  in  any  case.  History 
must  come  together  not  as  it  should,  but  as  it 
can  and  will. 

Remark  nevertheless  how,  by  natural  ten- 
dency alone,  and  as  it  were  without  man's 
forethought,  a  certain  fitness  of  selection,  and 
this  even  to  a  high  degree,  becomes  inevitable. 
Wholly  worthless  the  selection  could  not  be, 
were  there  no  better  rule  than  this  to  guide  it: 
that  men  permanently  speak  only  of  what  is 
extant  and  actively  alive  beside  them.  Thus 
do  the  things  that  have  produced  fruit,  nay 
whose  fruit  still  grows,  turn  out  to  be  the 
things  chosen  for  record  and  writing  of;  which 
things  alone  were  great,  and  worth  recording. 
The  Battle  of  Chalons,  where  Hunland  met 
Rome,  and  the  Earth  was  played  for,  at  sword- 
fence,  by  two  earth  bestriding  giants,  the  sweep 
of  whose  swords  cut  kingdoms  in  pieces, 
hovers  dim  in  the  languid  remembrance  of  a 
few ;  while  the  poor  police-court  Treachery  of 
a  wretched  Iscariot,  transacted  in  the  wretched 
land  of  Palestine,  centuries  earlier,  for  "  thirty 
pieces  of  silver,"  lives  clear  in  the  heads,  in 
the  hearts  of  all  men.  Nay  moreover,  as  only 
that  which  bore  fruit  was  great ;  so  of  all 
things,  that  whose  fruit  is  still  here  and  grow- 
ing must  be  the  greatest,  the  best  worth  re- 
membering ;  which  again,  a$  we  see,  by  the 
very  nature  of  the  case,  is  ]teainly  the  thing 
remembered.  Observe  too  h^v  this  "  mainly" 
tends  always  to  become  a  "  solely,"  and  the 
approximate  continually  approaches  nearer  ; 
for  triviality  after  triviality,  as  it  perishes 
from  the  living  activity  of  men,  drops  away 
from  their  speech  and  memory,  and  the  great 
and  vital  more  and  more  exclusively  survive 
there.  Thus  does  Accident  correct  Accident; 
and  in  the  wondrous  boundless  jostle  of  things, 
(an  airaful  Power  presiding  over  it,  say  rather, 
dwelling  in  it,)  a  result  comes  out  that  may 
be  put  up  with. 

Curious,  at  all  events,  and  worth  looking  at 
once  in  our  life,  is  this  same  compressure  of 
History,  be  the  process  thereof  what  it  may. 
How  the  "  forty-eight  longitudinal  feet"  have 
shrunk  together  after  a  century,  after  ten 
centuries  !  Look  back  from  end  to  beginning, 
over  any  History;  over  our  own  England: 
how,  in  rapidest  law  of  perspective,  it  dwindles 
from  the  canvas!  An  unhappy  Sybarite,  if  we 
stand  within  two  centuries  of  him  and  name 
him  Charles  Second,  shall  have  twelve  times 
the  space  of  a  heroic  Alfred ;  two  or  three  thou- 


sand times,  if  we  name  him  George  Founh. 
The  whole  Saxon  Heptarchy,  though  events, 
to  which  Magna  Charta,  and  the  world-famous 
Third  Reading,  are  as  dust  in  the  balance, 
took  place  then  (for  did  not  England,  to  men- 
tion nothing  else,  get  itself,  if  not  represented 
in  Parliament,  yet  converted  to  Christianity?) 
is  summed  up  practically  in  that  one  sequence 
of  Milton's  (the  only  one  succeeding  writers 
have  copied,  or  readers  remembejed)  of  the 
"fighting  and  flocking  of  kites  and  crows." 
Neither  was  that  an  unimportant  wassail-night, 
when  the  two  black-browed  Brothers,  strong- 
headed,  headstrong,  Hengist  and  Horsa,  {Stal- 
lion and  Horse,)  determined  on  a  man-hunt  in 
Britain,  the  boar-hunt  at  home  having  got 
over-crowded ;  and  so,  of  a  few  hungry  Angles, 
made  an  English  Nation,  and  planted  it  here, 
and — produced  thee,  O  Reader  !  Of  Hengist*s 
whole  campaignings  scarcely  half  a  page  of 
good  Narrative  can  now  be  written  ;  the  Lord* 
Mayor's  Visit  to  Oxford  standing,  meanwhile, 
revealed  to  mankind  in  a  respectable  volume. 
Nay  what  of  this  ?  Does  not  the  Destruction 
of  a  Brunswick  Theatre  take  above  a  million 
times  as  much  telling  as  the  Creation  of  a 
World  1 

To  use  a  ready-made  similitude,  we  might 
liken  Universal  History  to  a  magic  web;  and 
consider  with  astonishment  how,  by  philoso- 
phic insight  and  indolent  neglect,  the  ever- 
growing fabric  wove  itself  forward,  out  of  that 
ravelled  immeasurable  mass  of  threads  and 
thrums,  (which  we  name  Memoirs,)  nay,  at 
each  new  lengthening,  (at  each  new  epoch,) 
changed  its  whole  proportions,  its  hue  and 
structure  to  the  very  origin.  Thus,  do  not  the 
records  of  a  Tacitus  acquire  new  meaning, 
after  seventeen  hundred  years,  in  the  hands  of 
a  Montesquieu  1  Niebuhr  must  reinterpret  for 
us,  at  a  still  greater  distance,  the  writings  of  a 
Titus  Livius :  nay,  the  religious  archaic  chroni- 
cles of  a  Hebrew  Prophet  and  Lawgiver  escape 
not  the  like  fortune;  and  many  a  ponderous 
Eichhorn  scans,  with  new-ground  philosophic 
specfecles,  the  revelation  of  a  Moses,  and 
strives  to  re-produce  for  this  century  what, 
thirty"  centuries  ago,  was  of  plainly  infinite 
significance  to  all.  Consider  History  with  the 
beginnings  of  it  stretching  dimly  into  the 
remote  Time ;  emerging  darkly  out  of  the 
mysterious  Eternity :  the  ends  of  it  enveloping 
us  at  this  hour,  whereof  we,  at  this  hour,  both 
as  actors  and  relators,  form  part !  In  shape 
we  might  mathematically  name  it  Hyperbolic- 
asymptotic  ;  ever  of  infinite  breadth  around  us  ; 
soon  shrinking  within  narrow  limits:  ever 
narrowing  more  and  more  into  the  infinite 
depth  behind  us.  In  essence  and  significance 
it  has  been  called  "  the  true  Epic  Poem,  and 
universal  Divine  Scripture,  whose  'plenary  in- 
spiration' no  man  (out  of  Bedlam  or  in  it) 
shall  bring  in  question."        *        »        » 


«4 


2v3 


426 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


IN    TWO    FLIGHTS. 


[Fkaser's  Magazine,  1833.] 


Flight  First. 

**The  life  of  every  man,"  says  our  friend 
Herr  Sauerteig,  "the  life  even  of  the  meanest 
man,  it  were  good  to  remember,  is  a  Poem  ; 
perfect  in  all  manner  of  Aristotelean  requi- 
sites ;  with  beginning,  middle,  and  end ;  with 
perplexities,  and  solutions;  with  its  Will- 
strength,  ( IVillenkraft,)  and  warfare  against 
Fate,  its  elegy  and  battle-singing,  courage 
marred  by  crime,  everywhere  the  two  tragic 
elements  of  Pity  and  Fear;  above  all,  with 
supernatural  machinery  enough, — for  was  not 
the  man  born  out  of  NoNENxiTr;  did  he  not 
die,  and  miraculously  vanishing  return  thither  ? 
The  most  indubitable  Poem  !  Nay,  whoso  will, 
may  he  not  name  it  a  Prophecy,  or  whatever 
else  is  highest  in  his  vocabulary  ;  since  only 
in  Reality  lies  the  essence  and  foundation  of 
ail  that  was  ever  fabled,  visioned,  sung, 
spoken,  or  babbled  by  the  human  species; 
and  the  actual  Life  of  Man  includes  in  it  all 
Revelations,  true  and  false,  that  have  been, 
are,  or  are  to  be.  Man  !  I  say  therefore,  reve- 
rence thy  fellow-man.  He  too  issued  from  Above  ; 
is  mystical  and  supernatural,  (as  thou  namest 
it;)  this  know  thou  of  a  truth.  Seeing  also 
that  we  ourselves  are  of  so  high  Authorship, 
is  not  that,  in  very  deed,  '  the  highest  Reve- 
rence,' and  most  needful  for  us  :  '  Reverence 
for  oneself  r 

"Thus,  to  my  view,  is  every  Life,  more  pro- 
perly is  every  Man  that  has  life  to  lead,  a 
small  strophe,  or  occasional  verse,  composed 
by  the  Supernal  Powers ;  and  published,  in 
such  type  and  shape,  with  such  embellish- 
ments, emblematic  head-piece  and  tail-piece 
as  thou  seest,  to  the  thinking  or  unthinking 
universe.  Heroic  strophes  some  few  are; 
full  of  force  and  a  sacred  fire,  so  that  to  latest 
ages  the  hearts  of  those  that  read  therein  are 
made  to  tingle.  Jeremiads  others  seem  :  mere 
weeping  laments,  harmonious  or  disharmo- 
nious Remonstrances  against  Destiny ;  whereat 
we  too  may  sometimes  profitably  weep.  Again 
have  we  not  (flesh-and-blood)  strophes  of  the 
idyllic  sort, — though  in  these  days  rarel}', 
owing  to  Poor  liaws.  Game  Laws,  Population 
Theories,  and  the  like  !  Farther,  of  the  comic 
laughter-loving  sort;  yet  ever  with  an  un- 
fathomable earnestness,  as  is  fit,  lying  under- 
neath :  for,  bethink  thee,  what  is  the  mirth- 
fullest,  grinning  face  of  any  Grimaldi,  but  a 
transitory  mask,  behind  which  quite  otherwise 
grins — the  most  indubitable  Death's-head!  How- 
ever, I  say  farther,  there  are  strophes  of  the 
pastoral  sort,  (as  in  Ettrick,  Aflghaunistan, 
and  elsewhere ;)  of  the  farcic-tragic,  melo- 
dramatic, of  all  named  and  a  thousand  un- 
nameable  sorts  there  are  poetic  strophes,  writ- 
ten, as  was  said,  in  Heaven,  printed  on  Earth, 
and  published,  (bound  in  woollen  cloth,  or 
clulhes,)  for  the  use  of  the  studious.    Finally,  a 


small  number  seem  utter  Pasquils,  mere  ribald 
libels  on  Humanity:  these  too,  however,  are  at 
times  worth  reading. 

"  In  this  wise,"  continues  our  too  obscure 
friend,  "  out  of  all  imaginable  elements,  awak- 
ening all  imaginable  moods  of  heart  and  soul, 
'  barbarous  enough  to  excite,  tender  enough 
to  assuage,'  ever  contradictory  yet  ever  co- 
alescing, is  that  mighty  world-old  Rhapsodia 
of  Existence,  page  after  page,  (generation  after 
generation,)  and  chapter,  (or  epoch,)  after 
chapter,  poetically  put  together !  This  is  what 
some  one  names  '  the  grand  sacred  Epos,  or 
Bible  of  World-History;  infinite  in  meaning 
as  the  Divine  Mind  it  emblems  ;  wherein  he 
is  wise  that  can  read  here  a  line  and  there  a 
line. 

"  Remark,  too,  under  another  aspect,  whether 
it  is  not  in  this  same  Bible  of  World-History 
that  all  men,  in  all  times,  with  or  without  clear 
consciousness,  have  been  unwearied  to  read, 
(what  we  may  call  read ;)  and  again  to  write, 
or  rather  to  be  written!  What  is  all  History, 
and  all  Poesy,  but  a  deciphering  somewhat 
thereof,  (out  of  that  mystic  heaven-written 
Sanscrit,)  and  rendering  it  into  the  speech  of 
men]  isTnow  ^/ij/se//",  value  thyself,  is  a  moral- 
ist's commandment,  (which  I  only  half  approve 
of;)  but  Knoiv  others,  value  others,  is  the  best 
of  Nature  herself.  Or  again.  Work  while  it  is 
called  To-day  :  ij  not  that  also  the  irreversible 
law  of  being  for  mortal  man  1  And  now,  what 
is  all  working,  what  is  all  knowing,  but  a  faint 
interpreting  and  a  faint  showing  forth  of  that 
same  Mystery  of  Life,  which  ever  remains  in- 
finite,— heaven-written  mystic  Sanscrit  1  View 
it  as  we  will,  to  him  that  lives  Life  is  a  divine 
matter;  felt  to  be  of  quite  sacred  significance. 
Consider  the  wretchedest  '  straddling  biped 
that  wears  breeches'  of  thy  acquaintance; 
into  whose  wool-head,  Thought,  as  thou  rashl}-- 
supposest,  never  entered ;  who, in  froth-element 
of  business,  pleasure,  or  what  else  he  names 
it,  walks  forever  in  a  vain  show  ;  asking  not 
Whence,  or  Why,  or  Whither;  looking  up  to 
the  Heaven  above  as  if  some  upholsterer  had 
made  it,  and  down  to  the  Hell  beneath  as  if  he 
had  neither  part  nor  lot  there:  yet  tell  me, 
does  not  he  too,  over  and  above  his  five  finite 
senses,  acknowledge  some  sixth  infinite  sense, 
were  it  only  that  of  Vanity  ?  For,  sate  him  in 
the  other  five  as  you  may,  will  this  sixth  sense 
leave  him  rest  1  Does  he  not  rise  early  and 
sit  late,  and  study  impromptus,  and,  (in  con- 
stitutional countries,)  parliamentary  motions, 
and  bursts  of  eloquence,  and  gird  himself  in 
whalebone, and  pad  himself  and  perk  himself, 
and  in  all  ways  painfully  take  heed  of  his 
goings;  feeling  (if  we  must  admit  it)  that  an 
altogether  infinite  endowment  has  been  in- 
trusted him  also,  namely,  a  Life  to  lead  1  Thus 
does  he  too,  with  his  whole  force,  in  his  own 
way,  proclaim  that  the  world-old  Rhapsodia  of 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


427 


Existence  is  divine,  and  an  inspired  Bible; 
and,  himself  a  wondrous  verse  therein,  (be  it 
heroic,  be  it  pasquillic,)  study  with  his  whole 
soul,  as  we  said,  both  to  read  and  to  be  tiritten ! 

"  Here  also  I  will  observe,  that  the  manner 
in  which  men  read  this  same  Bible  is,  like  all 
else,  proportionate  to  their  stage  of  culture,  to 
the  circumstances  of  their  environment.  First, 
and  among  the  earliest  Oriental  nations,  it 
was  read  wholly  like  a  Sacred  Book;  most 
clearly  by  the  most  earnest,  those  wondrous 
Hebrew  Readers ;  whose  reading  accordingly 
was  itself  sacred,  has  meaning  for  all  tribes 
of  mortal  men  ;  since  ever,  to  the  latest  genera- 
tion of  the  world,  a  true  utterance  from  the 
innermost  of  man's  being  will  speak  signifi- 
cantly to  man.  But,  again,  in  how  different  a 
style  was  that  other  Oriental  reading  of  the 
Magi ;  of  Zerdusht,  or  whoever  it  was  that  first 
so  opened  the  matter?  Gorgeous  semi-sensual 
Grandeurs  and  Splendours ;  on  infinite  dark- 
ness brightest-glowing  light  and  fire ; — of 
which,  all  defaced  by  Time,  and  turned  mostly 
into  lies,  a  quite  late  refle^r,  in  those  Arabian 
Tales  and  the  like,  still  leads  captive  every 
heart.  Look  thirdly  at  the  earnest  West,  and 
that  Consecration  of  the  Flesh,  which  stept 
forth  life-lusty,  radiant,  smiling-earnest,  in 
immortal  grace,  from  under  the  chisel  and  the 
stylus  of  old  Greece.  Here  too  was  the  Infinite 
intelligibly  proclaimed  as  infinite:  and  the 
antique  man  walked  between  a  Tartarus  and 
an  Elysium,  his  brilliant  Paphos-islet  of  exist- 
ence embraced  by  boundless  oceans  of  sadness 
and  fatal  gloom. — Of  which  three  antique  man- 
ners of  reading,  our  modern  manner,  you  will 
remark,  has  been  little  more  than  the  imita- 
tion ;  for  always,  indeed,  the  West  has  been 
rifer  of  doers  than  of  speakers.  The  Hebrew 
manner  has  had  its  echo  in  our  Pulpits  and 
choral  aisles;  the  Ethnic  Greek  and  Arabian 
in  numberless  mountains  of  Fiction,  rhymed, 
rhymeless,  published  by  subscription,  by  puf- 
fery, in  periodicals,  or  by  money  of  your  own, 
(durch  eignes  Geld.)  Till  now  at  last  (by  dint 
of  iteration  and  reiteration  through  some  ten 
centuries)  all  these  manners  have  grown  ob- 
solete, wearisome,  meaningless ;  listened  to 
only  as  the  monotonous  moaning  wind,  while 
there  is  nothing  else  to  listen  to  ; — and  so  now, 
well  nigh  in  total  oblivion  of  the  Infinitude  of 
Life,  (except  what  small  unconscious  recognition 
the  '  straddling  biped'  above  argued  of  may 
have,)  we  wait,  in  hope  and  patience,  for  some 
fourth  manner  of  anew  convincingly  announc- 
ing it." 

These  singular  sentences  from  the  ^sthc- 
tische  Spring-wurzel  we  have  thought  right  to 
translate  and  quote,  by  way  of  proem  and 
apology.  We  are  here  about  to  give  some 
critical  account  of  what  Herr  Sauerteig  would 
call  a  "  flesh-and-blood  Poem  of  the  purest 
Pasquil  sort;"  in  plain  words,  to  examine  the 
biography  of  the  most  perfect  scoundrel  lhat 
in  these  latter  ages  has  marked  the  world's 
history.  Pasquils  too,  says  Sauerteig,  "are  at 
times  worth  reading."  Or  quitting  that  mys- 
tic dialect  of  his,  may  we  not  assert  in  our 
own  way,  that  the  history  of  an  Original  Man 
is  always  worth  knowing]  So  magnificent  a 
thing  is  Will,  (incarnated  in  a  creature  of  like 


fashion  with  ourselves,)  we  run  to  witness  all 
manifestations  thereof:  what  man  soever  has 
marked  out  a  peculiar  path  of  life  for  himself, 
(let  it  lead  this  way  or  that  way,)  and  success- 
fully travelled  the  same,  of  him  we  specially 
inquire.  How  he  travelled ;  What  befell  him 
on  the  journey?  Though  the  man  were  a 
knave  of  the  first  water,  this  hinders  not  the 
question.  How  he  managed  his  knavery  ?  Nay, 
it  rather  encourages  such  question ;  for  no- 
thing properly  is  wholly  despicable,  at  once 
detestable  and  forgettable,  but  your  half-knave, 
he  who  is  neither  true  nor  false ;  who  never  in 
his  existence  once  spoke  or  did  any  true  thing, 
(for  indeed  his  mind  lives  in  twilight  with  cat- 
vision,  incapable  of  discerning  truth ;)  and  yet 
had  not  the  manfulness  to  speak  or  act  any 
decided  lie;  but  spent  his  whole  life  in  plas- 
tering together  the  True  and  the  False,  and 
therefrom  manufacturing  the  Plausible.  Such 
a  one  our  Transcendentals  have  defined  as  a 
moral  Hybrid  and  chimera;  therefore,  under 
the  moral  point  of  view,  as  an  Impossibility,  and 
mere  deceptive  Nonentity, — put  together  for 
commercial  purposes.  Of  which  sort,  neverthe- 
less, how  many  millions,  through  all  manner  of 
gradations,  from  the  wielder  of  king's  sceptres 
to  the  vender  of  brimstone  matches,  at  tea- 
tables,  council-tables,  behind  shop-counters,  in 
priests'  pulpits, incessantly  and  everywhere,  do 
now,  in  this  world  of  ours,  in  this  isle  of  ours, 
offer  themselves  to  view !  From  such,  at 
least  from  this  intolerable  over-proportion  of 
such,  might  the  merciful  Heavens  one  day 
deliver  us.  Glorious,  heroic,  fruitful  for  his 
own  Time,  and  for  all  Time,  (and  all  Eternity) 
is  the  constant  Speaker  and  Doer  of  Truth  ! 
If  no  such  again,  in  the  present  generation,  is 
to  be  vouchsafed  us,  let  us  have  at  least  the 
melancholy  pleasure  of  beholding  a  decided 
Liar.  Wretched  mortal,  that  with  a  single 
eye  to  be  "  respectable,"  for  ever  sittest  cob- 
bling together  Inconsistencies,  which  stick  not 
for  an  hour,  but  require  ever  new  gluten  and 
labour, — will  it,  by  no  length  of  experience,  no 
bounty  of  Time  or  Chance,  be  revealed  to  thee 
that  Truth  is  of  Heaven  and  Falsehood  is  of 
Hell ;  that  if  thou  cast  not  from  thee  the  one 
or  the  other,  thy  existence  is  wholly  an  illu- 
sion and  optical  and  tactual  Phantasm;  that 
properly  thou  existest  not  at  all  ?  Respectable! 
What  in  the  Devil's  name,  is  the  use  of  Respect- 
ability, (with  never  so  many  gigs  and  silver 
spoons,)  if  thou  inwardly  art  the  pitifullest  of 
all  men  ?  I  would  thou  wert  either  cold  or  hot. 
One  such  desirable  second-best,  perhaps  the 
chief  of  all  such,  we  have  here  found  in  the 
Count  Alessandro  di  Cagliostro,  Pupil  of  the 
Sage  Althotas,  Foster-child  of  the  Scherif  of 
Mecca,  probable  Son  of  the  last  King  of  Trebi- 
sond ;  named  also  Acharat,  and  unfortunate 
child  of  Nature ;  by  profession  healer  of  dis- 
eases, abolisher  of  wrinkles,  friend  of  the  poor 
and  impotent,  grandmaster  of  the  Egyptian 
Mason-lodge  of  High  Science,  Spirit-sum- 
moner.  Gold-cook,  Grand  Cophta,  Prophet, 
Priest,  and  thaumaturgic  morallist  and  Swin- 
dler; really  a  Liar  of  the  first  magnitude, 
thoroughpaced  in  all  provinces  of  lying,  what 
one  may  call  the  King  of  Liars.  Mendez 
Pinto,   Baron   Munchausen,  and  others,  are 


4t» 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


celebrated  in  this  art,  and  not  without  some 
colour  of  justice ;  yet  must  it  in  candour  re- 
main doubtful  whether  any  of  these  compara- 
tively were  much  more  than  liars  from  the 
teeth  onwards:  a  perfect  character  of  the 
species  in  question,  who  lied  not  in  word  only, 
nor  in  act  and  word  only,  but  continually,  in 
thought,  word,  and  act;  and,  so  to  speak,  lived 
wholly  in  an  element  of  lying,  and  from  birth 
to  death  did  nothing  but  lie, — was  still  a  de- 
sideratum. Of  which  desideratum  Count 
Alessandro  offers,  we  say,  if  not  the  fulfilment, 
perhaps  as  near  an  approach  to  such  as  the 
limited  human  faculties  permit.  Not  in  the 
modern  ages,  probably  not  in  the  ancient, 
(though  these  had  their  Autolycus,  their  Apol- 
lonius,  and  enough  else,)  did  any  completer 
figure  of  this  sort  issue  out  of  Chaos  and  Old 
Night:  a  sublime  kind  of  figure,  presenting 
himself  with  "  the  air  of  calm  strength,"  of  sure 
perfection  in  his  art;  whom  the  heart  opens 
itself  to  with  wonder  and  a  sort  of  welcome. 
"  The  only  vice,  I  know,"  says  one,  "  is  Incon- 
sistency." At  lowest,  answered  we,  he  that 
does  his  work  shall  have  his  work  judged  of. 
Indeed,  if  Satan  himself  has  in  these  days  be- 
come a  poetic  hero,  why  should  not  Cagliostro, 
for  some  short  hour,  be  a  prose  onel  "One 
first  question,"  says  a  great  Philosopher,  "  I 
ask  of  every  man :  Has  he  an  aim,  which  with 
undivided  soul  he  follows,  and  advances  to- 
wards ?  Whether  his  aim  is  a  right  one  or  a 
wrong  one,  forms  but  my  second  question." 
Here  then  is  a  small  "human  Pasquil,"  not 
without  poetic  interest. 

However,  be  this  as  it  may,  we  apprehend 
the  eye  of  science  at  least  cannot  view  him 
with  indifference.  Doubtful,  false  as  much  is 
in  Cagliostro's  manner  of  being,  of  this  there 
is  no  doubt,  that  starting  from  the  lowest  point 
of  Fortune's  wheel,  he  rose  to  a  height  univer- 
sally notable ;  that,  without  external  further- 
ance, money,  beauty,  bravery,  almost  without 
common  sense,  or  any  discernible  worth  what- 
ever, he  sumptuously  supported,  for  a  long 
course  of  years,  the  wants  and  digestion  of 
one  of  the  greediest  bodies,  and  one  of  the 
greediest  minds ;  outwardly  in  his  five  senses, 
inwardly  in  his  "  sixth  sense,  that  of  vanity," 
nothing  straitened.  Clear  enough  it  is,  how- 
ever much  may  be  supposititious,  that  this  ja- 
panned Chariot,  rushing  through  the  world, 
with  dust-clouds  and  loud  noise,  at  the  speed 
of  four  swift  horses,  and  topheavy  with  lug- 
gage, has  an  existence.  The  six  Beef-eaters 
too,  that  ride  prosperously  heralding  his  ad- 
vent, honourably  escorting,  menially  waiting 
on  him,  are  they  not  realities]  Ever  must 
the  purse  open,  paying  turnpikes,  tavern-bills, 
drink-moneys,  and  the  thousandfold  tear  and 
wear  of  such  a  team ;  yet  ever,  like  a  horn-of- 
plenty,  does  it  pour;  and  after  brief  rest,  the 
chariot  ceases  not  to  roll.  Whereupon  rather 
pressingly  rises  the  scientific  question  :  How? 
Within  that  wonderful  machinery,  of  horses, 
wheels,  top-luggage,  beef-eaters,  sits  only  a 
gross,  thickset  individual,  evincing  dulnoss 
enough ;  and  by  his  side  a  Seraphina,  with  a 
look  of  doubtful  reputation:  how  comes  it 
that  means  still  meet  ends,  that  the  whole  En- 
gine (like  a  steam-coach  wanting  fuel)  does 


not  stagnate,  go  silent,  and  fall  to  pieces  in 
the  ditch?  Such  question  did  the  scientific 
curiosity  of  the  present  writer  often  put:  and 
for  many  a  day  in  vain. 

Neither,  indeed,  as  Book-readers  know,  was 
he  peculiar  herein.  The  great  Schiller,  for 
example,  struck  both  with  the  poetic  and  th? 
scientific  phases  of  the  matter,  admitted  the 
influences  of  the  former  to  shape  themselves 
anew  within  him ;  and  strove  with  his  usual 
impetuosity  to  burst  (since  unlocking  was 
impossible)  the  secrets  of  the  latter:  and  so 
his  unfinished  Novel,  the  Geisterseher,  saw  the 
light.  Still  more  renowned  is  Goethe's  Drama 
of  the  Gross-Kophta ;  which,  as  himself  in- 
forms us,  delivered  him  from  a  state  of  mind 
that  had  become  alarming  to  certain  friends ;  so 
deep  was  the  hold  this  business,  at  one  of  its 
epochs,  had  taken  of  him.  A  dramatic  Fic- 
tion, that  of  his,  based  on  the  strictest  possible 
historical  study  and  inquiry ;  wherein  perhaps 
the  faithfullest  image  of  the  historical  Fact,  as 
yet  extant  in  any  shape,  lies  in  artistic  minia- 
ture curiously  unfolded.  Nay  mere  Newspa- 
per-readers, of  a  certain  age,  can  bethink 
them  of  our  London  Egyptian  Lodges  of  High 
Science ;  of  the  Countess  Seraphina's  daz- 
zling jewelleries,  nocturnal  brilliancies,  sibyi- 
lic  ministrations  and  revelations;  of  Miss  Fry 
and  Milord  Scott,  and  Messrs.  Priddle  and 
Shark  Bailiff;  and  Lord  Mansfield's  judgment- 
seat;  the  Comte  d'Adhemar,  the  Diamond 
Necklace,  and  Lord  George  Gordon.  For 
Cagliostro,  hovering  through  unknown  space, 
twice  (perhaps  thrice)  lighted  on  our  London, 
and  did  business  in  the  great  chaos  there. 

Unparalleled  Cagliostro !  Looking  at  thy 
so  attractively  decorated  private  theatre,  where- 
in thou  actedst  and  livedst,  what  hand  but 
itches  to  draw  aside  thy  curtain ;  overhaul 
thy  paste-boards,  paintpots,  paper-mantles, 
stage-lamps,  and  turning  the  whole  inside  out, 
find  thee  in  the  middle  thereof!  For  there  of 
a  truth  wert  thou :  though  the  rest  was  all 
foam  and  sham,  there  sattest  thou,  as  large  as 
life,  and  as  esurient ;  warring  against  the 
world,  and  indeed  conquering  the  world,  for  it 
remained  thy  tributary,  and  yielded  daily  ra- 
tions. Innumerable  Sheriff's-ofl[icers,  Exempts, 
Sbirri,  Alguazils,  of  every  European  climate, 
were  prowling  on  thy  traces,  their  intents  hos- 
tile enough ;  thyself  wast  single  against  them 
all ;  in  the  whole  earth  thou  hadst  no  friend. 
What,  say  we  in  the  whole  earth  ]  In  the 
whole  universe  thou  hadst  no  friend  !  Heaven 
knew  nothing  of  thee  (could  in  charity  know 
nothing  of  thee ;)  and  as  for  Beelzebub,  his 
friendship,  as  is  ascertained,  cannot  count  for 
much. 

But  to  proceed  with  business.  The  present 
inquirer,  in  obstinate  investigation  of  a  phe- 
nomenon so  noteworthy,  has  searched  through 
the  whole  not  inconsiderable  circle  which  his 
tether  (of  circumstances,  geographical  posi- 
tion, trade,  health,  extent  of  money  capital) 
enables  him  to  describe :  and,  sad  to  say, 
with  the  most  imperfect  results.  He  has  read 
Books  in  various  languages  and  jargons ; 
feared  not  to  soil  his  fingers,  hunting  through 
ancient  dusty  Magazines,  to  sicken  his  heart 
in  any  labyrinth  of  iniquity  and  imbecility ; 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


489 


Tiay  he  had  not  grudged  to  dive  even  into  the 
infectious  Memoirs  de  Casanova,  for  a  hint  or 
two, — could  he  have  found  that  work,  which, 
however,  most  British  Librarians  make  a 
point  of  denying  that  they  possess.  A  pain- 
ful search,  as  through  some  spiritual  pest- 
house  ;  and  then  with  such  issue!  The  quan- 
tity of  discoverable  Printing  about  Cagliostro 
(so  much  being  burnt)  is  now  not  great; 
nevertheless  in  frightful  proportion  to  the 
quantity  of  information  given.  Except  vague 
Newspaper  rumours  and  surmises,  the  things 
found  written  of  this  Quack  are  little  more  than 
temporary  Manifestoes,  by  himself,  by  gulled 
or  gulling  disciples  of  his :  not  true  there- 
fore ;  at  best  only  certain  fractions  of  what  he 
wished  or  expected  the  blinder  Public  to  reckon 
true ;  misty,  embroiled,  for  most  part  highly 
stupid;  perplexing,  even  provoking;  which 
can  only  be  believed — to  be  (under  such  and 
such  conditions)  Lies.  Of  this  sort  emphati- 
cally is  the  English  "  Life  of  the  Count  Caglios- 
tro, price  three  shillings  and  sixpence :"  a 
Book  indeed  which  one  might  hold  (so  fatu- 
ous, inane  is  it)  to  be  some  mere  dream-vision 
and  unreal  eidolon,  did  it  not  now  stand  pal- 
pably there,  as  "Sold  by  T.  Hookham,  Bond 
Street,  1787 ;"  and  bear  to  be  handled,  spurned 
at,  and  torn  into  pipe-matches.  Some  human 
creature  doubtless  was  at  the  writing  of  it; 
but  of  what  kind,  country,  trade,  character,  or 
gender,  you  will  in  vain  strive  to  fancy.  Of 
like  fabulous  stamp  are  the  Mdmoires  pour  le 
Comte  de  Cagliostro,  emitted  with  Requite  a  join- 
dre,  from  the  Bastille  (during  that  sorrowful 
business  of  the  Diamond  Necklace)  in  1786 ; 
no  less  the  Lettre  du  Comte  de  Cagliostro  au  Peu- 
ple  Anglais,  which  followed  shortly  after,  at 
London  ;  from  which  two  indeed,  that  fatuous 
inexplicable  English  Life  has  perhaps  been 
mainly  manufactured.  Next  come  the  Me- 
tnoires  authentiques  pour  servir  a,  VHistoire  du 
Comte  de  Cagliostro,  (twice  printed  in  the  same 
year  1786,  at  Strasburg  and  at  Paris ;)  a  swag- 
gering, lascivious  Novellette,  without  talent, 
without  truth  or  worth,  happily  of  small  size. 
So  fares  it  with  us:  alas,  all  this  is  but  the 
outside  decorations  of  the  private  theatre,  or 
the  sounding  of  catcalls  and  applauses  from 
the  stupid  audience  ;  nowise  the  interior  bare 
walls  and  dress-room  which  we  wanted  to  see ! 
Almost  our  sole  even  half-genuine  documents 
are  a  small  barren  Pamphlet,  Cagliostro  de- 
masqui  a  Varsovie,  en  1780  ;  and  a  small  barren 
Volume  purporting  to  be  his  Life,  written  at 
Rome,  of  which  latter  we  have  a  French  ver- 
sion, dated  1791.  It  is  on  this  Vie  de  Joseph 
Balsamo,  vonnu  sous  le  Norn  de  Comte  Cagliostro, 
that  our  main  dependence  must  be  placed  ;  of 
which  Work,  meanwhile,  whether  it  is  wholly 
or  only  half-genuine,  the  reader  may  judge  by 
one  fact :  that  it  comes  to  us  through  the  me- 
dium of  the  Roman  Inquisition,  and  the  proofs 
to  substantiate  it  lie  in  the  Holy  Otfice  there. 
Alas,  this  reporting  Familiar  of  the  Inquisition 
was  too  probably  something  of  a  Liar;  and 
he  reports  lying  Confessions  of  one  who  was 
not  so  much  a  Liar  as  a  Lie  !  In  such  enig- 
matic duskiness,  and  thrice-folded  involution, 
after  all  inquiries,  does  the  matter  yet  hang. 
Nevertheless,  by  dint   of  meditation    and 


comparison,  light-points  that  stand  fixed,  and 
abide  scrutiny,  do  here  and  there  disclose 
themselves  ;  diffusing  a  fainter  light  over  what 
otherwise  were  dark,  so  that  it  is  no  longer 
invisible,  but  only  dim.  Nay,  after  all,  is  there 
not  in  this  same  uncertainty  a  kind  of  fitness, 
of  poetic  congruity  1  Much  that  would  offend 
the  eye  stands  discreetly  lapped  in  shade. 
Here  too  Destiny  has  cared  for  her  favourite  : 
that  a  powder-nimbus  of  astonishment,  mysti- 
fication, and  uncertainty,  should  still  encircle 
the  Quack  of  Quacks,  is  right  and  suitable  ; 
such  was  by  Nature  and  Art  his  chosen  uni- 
form and  environment.  Thus,  as  formerly  in 
Life,  so  now  in  History,  it  is  in  huge  fluctuat- 
ing smoke-whirlwinds,  partially  illumed  (into 
a  most  brazen  glory,)  yet  united,  coalescing 
with  the  region  of  everlasting  Darkness,  in 
miraculous  clear-obscure,  that  he  works  and 
rides. 

"  Stern  Accuracy  in  inquiring,  bold  Imagi- 
nation in  expounding  and  filling  up ;  these," 
says  friend  Sauerteig,  "  are  the  two  pinions  on 
which  History  soars,"— or  flutters  and  wabbles. 
To  which  two  pinions  let  us  and  the  readers 
of  this  Magazine  now  daringly  commit  our- 
selves. Or  chiefly  indeed  to  the  latter  pinion 
(of  Imagination ;)  which,  if  it  be  the  larger, 
will  make  an  unequal  flight.  Meanwhile,  the 
style  at  least  shall  if  possible  be  equal  to  the 
subject. 

Know,  then,  that  in  the  year  1743,  in  the 
city  of  Palermo,  in  Sicily,  the  family  of  Signor 
Pietro  Balsamo,  a  shopkeeper,  were  exhile- 
rated  by  the  birth  of  a  Boy.  Such  occurrences 
have  now  become  so  frequent  that,  miraculous 
as  they  are,  they  occasion  little  astonishment: 
old  Balsamo  for  a  space,  indeed,  laid  down  his 
ell-wands  and  unjust  balances;  but  for  the 
rest,  met  the  event  with  equanimity.  Of  the 
possettings,  junkettings,  gossippings,  and  other 
ceremonial  rejoicings,  transacted  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  country,  for  welcome  to  a 
New-comer,  not  the  faintest  tradition  has  sur- 
vived ;  enough,  that  the  small  New-comer, 
hitherto  a  mere  ethnic  or  heathen,  is  in  a  few 
days  made  a  Christian  of,  or  as  we  vulgarly 
say,  christened;  by  the  name  of  Giuseppe.  A 
fat,  red,  globular  kind  of  fellow,  not  under  nine 
pounds  avoirdupois,  the  bold  Imagination  can 
figure  him  to  be :  if  not  proofs,  there  are  indi- 
cations that  sufliciently  betoken  as  much. 

Of  his  teething  and  swaddling  adventures, 
of  his  scaldings,  squallings,  pukings,  purgings, 
the  strictest  search  into  History  can  discover 
nothing;  not  so  much  as  the  epoch  when  he 
passed  out  of  long-clothes  stands  noted  in  the 
fasti  of  Sicily.  That  same  "  larger  pinion," 
(of  Imagination,)  nevertheless,  conducts  him 
from  his  native  blind-alley,  into  the  adjacent 
street  casaro ;  descries  him,  with  certain  con- 
temporaries now  unknown,  essaying  himself 
in  small  games  of  skill ;  watching  what  phe- 
nomena, of  carriage-transits,  dog-battles,  street- 
music,  or  such  like,  the  neighbourhood  might 
offer  (intent  above  all  on  any  windfall  of 
chance  provender  .)  now,  with  incipient  scienti- 
fic spirit,  paddling  in  the  gutters;  now,  as 
small  poet,  or  maker,  baking  mud-pies.  Thus 
does  he  tentatively  coast  along  the  outskirts  of 


430 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Existence,  till  once  he  shall  be  strong  enough 
to  land  and  make  a  footing  there.  Neither 
does  it  seem  doubtful  that  with  the  earliest  ex- 
ercise of  speech,  the  gifts  of  simulation  and 
dissimulation  began  to  manifest  themselves : 
Giuseppe  (or  Beppo,  as  he  was  now  called) 
could  indeed  speak  the  truth, — but  only  when 
he  saw  his  advantage  in  it.  Hungry  also,  as 
above  hinted,  he  too  probably  often  was :  a 
keen  faculty  of  digestion,  a  meager  larder 
within  doors ;  these  two  circumstances,  so 
frequently  conjoined  in  this  world,  reduced 
him  to  his  inventions.  As  to  the  thing  called 
Morals,  and  knowledge  of  Right  and  Wrong, 
it  seems  pretty  certain  that  such  knowledge 
(the  sad  fruit  of  Man's  Fall)  had  in  great  part 
been  spared  him ;  if  he  ever  heard  the  com- 
mandment, Them  shalt  not  steal,  he  most  proba- 
bly could  not  believe  in  it,  therefore  could  not 
obey  it.  For  the  rest,  though  of  quick  temper, 
and  a  ready  striker,  (where  clear  prospect  of 
victory  showed  itself,)  we  fancy  him  vocife- 
rous rather  than  bellicose,  not  prone  to  vio- 
lence where  stratagem  will  serve  ;  almost  pa- 
cific, indeed,  had  not  his  many  wants  necessi- 
tated him  to  many  conquests.  Above  all 
things,  a  brazen  impudence  developes  itself; 
the  crowning  gift  of  one  born  to  scoundrelism. 
In  a  word,  the  fat,  thickset  Beppo,  as  he  skulks 
about  there,  plundering,  playing  dog's-tricks, 
with  his  finger  in  every  mischief,  already 
gains  character;  shrill  housewives  of  the 
neighbourhood,  whose  sausages  he  has  filched, 
whose  weaker  sons  maltreated,  name  him 
Beppo  Maldetto,  and  indignantly  prophesy  that 
he  will  be  hanged.  A  prediction  which,  as 
will  be  seen,  the  issue  has  signally  falsified. 

We  hinted  that  the  household  larder  was  in 
a  leanish  state ;  in  fact,  the  outlook  of  the 
Balsamo  family  was  getting  troubled ;  old 
Balsamo  had,  during  these  things,  been  called 
away  on  his  long  journey.  Poor  man  !  The 
future  eminence  and  pre-eminence  of  his  Bep- 
po he  foresaw  not,  or  what  a  world's-vvonder 
he  had  thoughtlessly  generated ;  as  indeed, 
which  of  us,  by  much  calculating,  can  sum  up 
the  net-total  (Utility,  or  Inutility)  of  any  his 
most  indifferent  act, — a  seed  cast  into  the  seed- 
field  of  Time,  to  grow  there,  producing  fruits 
or  poisons,  for  ever!  Meanwhile  Beppo  him- 
self gazed  heavily  into  the  matter :  hung  his 
thick  lips,  while  he  saw  his  mother  weeping ; 
and,  for  the  rest,  eating  what  fat  or  sweet  thing 
he  could  come  at,  let  Destiny  take  its  course. 

The  poor  widow,  (ill-named  Felicita,)  spin- 
ning out  a  painful  livelihood  by  such  means 
as  only  the  poor  and  forsaken  know,  could  not 
but  many  times  cast  an  impatient  eye  on  her 
brass-faced,  voracious  Beppo ;  and  ask  him. 
If  he  never  meant  to  turn  himself  to  any 
thing !  A  maternal  uncle,  of  the  moneyed 
sort,  (for  he  has  uncles  not  without  influence,) 
has  already  placed  him  in  the  Seminary  of 
Saint  Roch,  to  gain  some  tincture  of  school- 
ing there:  but  Beppo  feels  himself  misplaced 
in  that  sphere  ;  "  more  than  once  runs  away ;" 
is  flogged,  snubbed,  tyrannically  checked  on 
all  sides  ;  and  finally,  with  such  slender  stock 
of  schooling  as  had  pleased  to  offer  itself,  re- 
turns to  the  street.  The  widow,  as  we  said, 
"urges  him,  the  uncles  urge  :  Beppo,  wilt  thou 


never  turn  thyself  to  any  thing  ?  Beppo,  with 
such  speculative  faculty,  from  such  low  watch- 
tower,  as  he  commands,  is  in  truth,  (being 
forced  to  it,)  from  time  to  time,  looking  abroad 
into  the  world;  surveying  the  conditions  of 
mankind,  therewith  contrasting  his  own  wishes 
and  capabilities.  Alas,  his  wishes  are  mani- 
fold; a  most  hot  Hunger,  (in  all  kinds,)  as 
above  hinted  ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  his  lead- 
ing capability  seemed  only  the  Power  to  Eat. 
What  profession,  or  condition,  then  1  Choose; 
for  it  is  time.  Of  all  the  terrestrial  professions, 
that  of  Gentleman,  it  seemed  to  Beppo,  had, 
under  these  circumstances,  been  most  suited 
to  his  feelings  :  but  then  the  outfit]  the  appren- 
tice-fee'? Failing  which,  he,  with  perhaps  as 
much  sagacity  as  one  could  expect,  decides  for 
the  Ecclesiastical. 

Behold  him  then,  once  more  by  the  uncle's 
management,  journeying  (a  chubby,  brass- 
faced  boy  of  thirteen)  beside  the  Reverend 
Father  General  of  the  Benfratelli,  to  their 
neighbouring  Convent  of  Cartegirone,  with 
intent  to  enter  himself  novice  there.  He  has 
donned  the  novice-habit;  is  "intrusted  to  the 
keeping  of  the  Convent  Apothecary,"  on  whose 
gallipots  and  crucibles  he  looks  round  with 
wonder.  Were  it  by  accident  that  he  found 
himself  Apothecary's  Famulus,  were  it  by 
choice  of  his  own — nay  was  it  not,  in  either 
case,  by  design,  of  Destiny  intent  on  perfecting 
her  work  ? — enough,  in  this  Cartegirone  La- 
boratory there  awaited  him,  (though  as  yet  he 
knew  it  not,)  life-guidance  and  determination; 
the  great  want  of  every  genius,  even  of  the 
scoundrel-genius.  He  himself  confesses  thai 
he  here  learned  some  (or,  as  he  calls  it,  the) 
"principles  of  chemistry  and  medicine." 
Natural  enough :  new  books  of  the  Chemists 
lay  here,  old  books  of  the  Alchymists;  distil- 
lations, sublimations  visibly  went  on  ;  discus- 
sions there  were,  oral  and  written,  of  gold- 
making,  salve-making,  treasure-digging,  divin- 
ing-rods, projection,  and  the  alcahest :  besides, 
had  he  not,  among  his  fingers,  calxes,  acids, 
Leyden-jars  1  Some  first  elements  of  medico- 
chemical  conjurorship,  so  far  as  phosphores- 
cent mixtures,  aqua-toffana,  ipecacuanha,  can- 
tharides  tincture,  and  such  like  would  go, 
were  now  attainable ;  sufficient  (when  the 
hour  came)  to  set  up  any  average  Quack, 
much  more  the  Quack  of  Quacks.  It  is  here, 
in  this  unpromising  environment,  that  the 
seeds,  therapeutic,  thaumaturgic,  of  the  Grand 
Cophta's  stupendous  workings  and  renown 
were  sown. 

Meanwhile,  as  observed,  the  environment 
looked  unpromising  enough.  Beppo  with  his 
two  endowments,  of  Hunger  and  of  Power  to 
Eat,  had  made  the  best  choice  he  could;  yet, 
as  it  soon  proved,  a  rash  and  disappointing 
one.  To  his  astonishment,  he  finds  that  even 
here  he  "  is  in  a  conditional  world ;"  and,  if  he 
will  employ  his  capability  of  eating,  (or  enjoy- 
ing,) must  first,  in  some  measure,  work  and 
suffer.  Contention  enough  hereupon:  but 
now  dimly  arises,  or  reproduces  itself,  the 
question.  Whether  there  were  not  a  shorter 
road,  that  of  stealing !  Stealing — under  which, 
generically  taken,  you  may  include  the  whole 
art  of  scoundrelism ;  for  what  is  Lying  itself 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


431 


but  a  theft  of  my  belief? — stealing,  we  say,  is 
properly  the  North-West  Passage  to  Enjoy- 
ment: while  common  Navigators  sail  pain- 
fully along  torrid  shores,  laboriously  doubling 
this  or  the  other  Cape  of  Hope,  your  adroit 
Thief-Parry,  drawn  on  smooth  dog-sledges,  is 
already  there  and  back  again.  The  misfortune 
is  that  stealing  requires  a  talent;  and  failure 
in  that  North-West  voyage  is  more  fatal  than 
in  any  other.  We  hear  that  Beppo  was  "  often 
punished:"  painful  experiences  of  the  fate  of 
genius ;  for  all  genius,  by  its  nature,  comes  to 
disturb  somebody  in  his  ease,  and  your  thief- 
genius  more  so  than  most ! 

Readers  can  now  fancy  the  sensitive  skin 
of  Beppo  morlified  with  prickly  cilices,  wealed 
by  knotted  thongs ;  his  soul  afflicted  by  vigils 
and  forced  fasts ;  no  eye  turned  kindly  on 
him;  everywhere  the  bent  of  his  genius  rudely 
contravened.  However,  it  is  the  first  property 
of  genius  to  grow  in  spite  of  contradiction,  and 
even  by  means  thereof; — as  the  vital  germ 
pushes  itself  through  the  dull  soil,  and  lives 
by  what  strove  to  bury  it!  Beppo,  waxing 
into  strength  of  bone  and  character,  sets  his 
face  stiffly  against  persecution,  and  is  not  a 
whit  disheartened.  On  such  chastisements  and 
chastisers  he  can  look  with  a  certain  genial 
disdain.  Beyond  convent  walls,  with  their 
sour  stupid  shavelings,  lies  Palermo,  lies  the 
world;  here  too  is  he,  still  alive, — though 
worse  ofl^  than  he  wished ;  and  feels  that  the 
world  is  his  oyster,  which  he  (by  chemical  or 
other  means)  will  one  day  open.  Nay,  we 
find  there  is  a  touch  of  grim  Humour  unfolds 
itself  in  the  youth;  the  surest  sign  (as  is  often 
said)  of  a  character  naturally  great.  Witness, 
for  example,  how  he  acts  on  this  to  his  ardent 
temperament  so  trying  occasion.  While  the 
monks  sit  at  meat,  the  impetuous  voracious 
Beppo  (that  stupid  Inquisition  Biographer 
records  it  as  a  thing  of  course)  is  set  not  to 
eat  with  them,  not  to  pick  up  the  crumbs  that 
fall  from  them,  but  to  stand  "  reading  the  Mar- 
tyrology"  for  their  pastime!  The  brave  ad- 
justs himself  to  the  inevitable.  Beppo  reads 
that  dullest  Martyrology  of  theirs ;  but  reads 
out  of  it  not  what  is  printed  there,  but  what 
his  own  vivid  brain  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
devises:  instead  of  the  names  of  Saints,  all 
heartily  indifferent  to  him,  he  reads  out  the 
names  of  the  most  notable  Palermo  "unfortu- 
nate-females," now  beginning  to  interest  him 
a  little.  What  a  "deep  world-irony"  (as  the 
Germans  call  it)  lies  here!  The  Monks,  of 
course,  felled  him  to  the  earth,  and  flayed  him 
with  scourges;  but  what  did  it  avail]  This 
only  became  apparent,  to  himself  and  them, 
that  he  had  now  outgrown  their  monk  disci- 
pline ;  as  the  psyche  does  its  chrysalis-shell, 
and  bursts  it.  Giuseppe  Balsamo  bids  farewell 
to  Cartegirone  for  ever  and  a  day. 

So  now,  by  consent  or  not  of  the  ghostly 
Benfratelli  (Friars  of  Merry,  as  they  were 
named!)  our  Beppo  has  again  returned  to  the 
maternal  uncle  at  Palermo.  The  uncle  natu- 
rally asked  him.  What  he  next  meant  to  do  1 
Beppo,  after  stammering  and  hesitating  for 
some  length  of  weeks,  makes  answer:  Try 
Painting.  Well  and  good!  So  Beppo  gets 
him  colours,  brushes,  fit  tackle,  and  addicts 


himself  for  some  space  of  time  to  the  study  of 
what  is  innocently  called  Design.  Alas,  if  we 
consider  Beppo's  great  Hunger,  now  that  new 
senses  were  unfolding  in  him,  how  inadequate 
are  the  exiguous  resources  of  Design ;  how 
necessary  to  attempt  quite  another  deeper  spe- 
cies of  JDesign,  of  Designs!  It  is  true,  he 
lives  with  his  uncle,  has  culinary  meat ;  but 
where  is  the  pocket-money  for  other  costlier 
sorts  of  meats  to  come  from  1  As  the  Kaiser 
Joseph  was  wont  to  say :  From  my  head  alone 
(Z)e  ma  tete  seule!) 

The  Roman  Biographer  (though  a  most 
wooden  man)  has  incidentally  thrown  some 
light  on  Beppo's  position  at  this  juncture: 
both  on  his  wants  and  his  resources.  As  to 
the  first,  it  appears  (using  the  wooden  man's 
phraseology)  that  he  kept  the  "worst  com- 
pany," led  the  "loosest  life;"  was  hand  in 
glove  with  all  the  swindlers,  gamblers,  idle 
apprentices,  unfortunate-females,  of  Palermo: 
in  the  study  and  practice  of  Scoundrelism 
diligent  beyond  most.  The  genius  which  has 
burst  asunder  convent-walls,  and  other  rub- 
bish of  impediments,  now  flames  upward 
towards  its  mature  splendour.  Wheresoever 
a  stroke  of  mischief  is  to  be  done,  a  slush  of 
so-called  vicious  enjoyment  to  be  swallowed, 
there  with  hand  and  throat  is  Beppo  Balsamo 
seen.  He  will  be  a  Master,  one  day,  in  his 
profession.  Not  indeed  that  he  has  yet  quitted 
Painting,  or  even  purposes  so  much  :  for  the 
present,  it  is  useful,  indispensable,  as  a  stalk- 
ing-horse to  the  maternal  uncle  and  neigh- 
bours ;  nay  to  himself,  for  with  all  the  ebul- 
lient impulses  of  scoundrel-genius  restlessly 
seething  in  him,  irrepressibly  bursting  through, 
he  has  the  noble  unconsciousness  of  genius ; 
guesses  not,  dares  not  guess,  that  he  is  a  born 
scoundrel,  much  less  a  born  world-scoundrel. 

But  as  for  the  other  question,  of  his  re- 
sources, these  we  perceive  were  several-fold, 
and  continually  extending.  Not  to  mention 
any  pictorial  exiguities,  (existing  mostly  in 
Expectance,)  there  had  almost  accidentally 
arisen  for  him,  in  the  first  place,  the  resource 
of  Pandering.  He  has  a  fair  cousin  living  in 
the  house  with  him,  and  she  again  has  a  lover; 
Beppo  stations  himself  as  go-between ;  de- 
livers letters ;  fails  not  to  drop  hints  that  a 
lady,  to  be  won  or  kept,  must  be  generously 
treated;  that  such  and  such  a  pair  of  ear-rings, 
watch,  necklace,  or  even  sum  of  money,  would 
work  wonders;  which  valuables  (adds  the 
wooden  Roman  Biographer)  "  he  then  appro- 
priated furtively."  Like  enough  !  Next,  how- 
ever, as  another  more  lasting  resource,  he 
forges ;  at  first  in  a  small  way,  and  trying  his 
apprentice-hand:  tickets  for  the  theatre,  and 
such  trifles.  Ere  long,  however,  we  see  him 
fly  at  higher  quarry;  by  practice  he  has  ac- 
quired perfection  in  the  great  art  of  counter- 
feiting hands  ;  and  will  exercise  it  on  the  large 
or  on  the  narrow  scale,  for  a  consideration. 
Among  his  relatives  is  a  Notary,  with  whom 
he  can  insinuate  himself;  for  purpose  of  study, 
or  even  of  practice.  In  the  presses  of  this 
Notary  lies  a  Will,  which  Beppo  contrives  to 
come  at,  and  falsify  "for  the  benefit  of  ^  cer- 
tain Religious  House."  Much  good  may  it  do 
them  I     Many  years  afterwards,  the  fraud  was 


i93 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


detected ;  but  Beppo's  benefit  in  it  was  spent 
and  safe  long  before.  Thus  again  the  stolid 
Biographer  expresses  horror  or  wonder  that 
he  should  have  forged  leave-of-absence  for  a 
monk,  "counterfeiting  the  signature  of  the 
Superior."  Why  not  1  A  forger  must  forge 
what  is  wanted  of  him ;  the  Lion  truly  preys 
not  on  mice ;  yet  shall  he  refuse  such  if  they 
jump  into  his  mouth  1  Enough,  the  indefati- 
gable Beppo  has  here  opened  a  quite  boundless 
mine  ;  wherein  through  his  whole  life  he  will, 
as  occasion  calls,  dig,  at  his  convenience. 
Finally,  he  can  predict  fortunes  and  show 
visions  ;  by  phosphorus  and  legerdemain.  This 
however,  only  as  a  dilettantism;  to  take  up 
the  earnest  profession  of  Magician  does  not 
yet  enter  into  his  views.  Thus  perfecting  him- 
self in  all  branches  of  his  art,  does  our  Bal- 
samo  live  and  grow.  Stupid,  pudding-faced 
as  he  looks  and  is,  there  is  a  vulpine  astucity 
in  him ;  and  then  a  wholeness,  a  heartiness,  a 
kind  of  blubbery  impetuosity,  an  oiliness  so 
plausible-looking :  give  him  only  length  of 
life,  he  will  rise  to  the  top  of  his  profes- 
sion. 

Consistent  enough  with  such  blubbery  im- 
petuosity in  Beppo  is  another  fact  we  find  re- 
corded of  him,  that  at  this  time  he  was  found 
**  in  most  brawls,''  whether  in  street  or  tavern. 
The  way  of  his  business  led  him  into  liability 
to  such;  neither  as  yet  had  he  learned  pru- 
dence by  age.  Of  choleric  temper,  with  all  his 
obesity;  a  square-built,  burly,  vociferous  fel- 
low; ever  ready  with  his  stroke,  (if  victory 
seemed  sure;)  nay,  at  bottom,  not  without  a 
certain  pig-like  defensive-ferocity,  perhaps 
even  something  more.  Thus,  when  you  find 
him  making  a  point  to  attack,  if  possible,  "  all 
officers  of  justice,"  and  deforce  them;  deliver- 
ing the  wretched  from  their  talons:  was  not 
this,  we  say,  a  kind  of  dog-faithfulness,  and 
public  spirit,  either  of  the  mastiff  or  of  the  cur 
species  1  Perhaps,  too,  there  was  a  touch  of 
that  old  Humour  and  "  world-irony"  in  it.  One 
still  more  unquestionable  feat  he  is  recorded 
(we  fear,  on  imperfect  evidence)  to  have  done: 
«*  assassinated  a  canon." 

Remonstrances  from  growling  maternal 
uncles  could  not  fail ;  threats,  disdains  from 
ill-affected  neighbours  ;  tears  from  an  expostu- 
lating widowed  mother  ;  these  he  shakes  from 
him  like  dewdrops  from  the  lion's  mane.  Still 
less  could  the  Police  neglect  him  ;  him  the 
visibly  rising  Professor  of  Swindlery ;  the 
swashbuckler,  to  boot,  and  deforcer  of  bailiffs  : 
he  has  often  been  captured,  haled  to  their  bar; 
yet  hitherto,  by  defect  of  evidence,  by  good 
luck,  intercession  of  friends,  been  dismissed 
with  admonition.  Two  things,  nevertheless, 
might  now  be  growing  clear:  first,  that  the  die 
was  cast  with  Beppo,  and  he  a  scoundrel  for  life ; 
second,  that  such  a  mixed,  composite,  crypto- 
scoundrel  life  could  not  endure,  but  must  un- 
fold itself  into  a  pure,  declared  one.  The  Tree 
that  is  planted  stands  not  still ;  must  pass 
through  all  its  stages  and  phases,  from  the 
state  of  acorn  to  that  of  green  leafy  oak,  of 
withered  leafless  oak;  to  the  state  of  felled 
timber,  finally  to  that  of  firewood  and  ashes. 


Not  less  (though  less  visibly  to  dull  eyes)  the 
Act  that  is  done,  the  Condition  that  has  realized 
itself;  above  all  things,  the  Man  (with  his 
Fortunes)  that  has  been  born.  Beppo,  every 
way  in  vigorous  vitality,  cannot  continue  half 
painting  half  swindling  in  Palermo;  must 
develop  himself  into  whole  swindler;  and,  un- 
less hanged  there,  seek  his  bread  elsewhere. 
What  the  proximate  cause,  or  signal,  of  such 
crisis  and  development  might  be,  no  man 
could  say ;  yet  most  men  would  have  con- 
fidently guessed.  The  Police.  Nevertheless  it 
proved  otherwise  ;  not  by  the  flaming  sword 
of  Justice,  but  by  the  rusty  dirk  of  a  foolish 
private  individual,  is  Beppo  driven  forth. 

Walking  one  day  in  the  fields  (as  the  bold 
historic  Imagination  will  figure)  with  a  cer- 
tain ninny  of  a  "Goldsmith  named  Marano," 
as  they  pass  one  of  those  rock-chasms  frequent 
in  the  fair  Island  of  Sicily,  Beppo  begins,  in 
his  oily,  voluble  way,  to  hint  that  Treasures 
often  lay  hid;  that  a  Treasure  lay  hid  there  (as 
he  knew  by  some  pricking  of  his  thumbs, 
divining  rod,  or  other  talismanic  monition  ;) 
which  Treasure  might,  by  aid  of  science, 
courage,  secrecy,  and  a  small  judicious  ad- 
vance of  money,  be  fortunately  lifted.  The 
gudgeon  takes:  advances  (by  degrees)  to  the 
length  of  "sixty  gold  Ounces;"  sees  magic 
circles  drawn  in  the  wane  or  in  the  full  of  the 
moon,  blue  (phosphorus)  flames  arise,  split 
twigs  auspiciously  quiver;  and  at  length — 
demands  peremptorily  that  the  Treasure  be 
dug.  A  night  is  fixed  on  :  the  ninny  Gold- 
smith, trembling  with  rapture  and  terror,  breaks 
ground;  digs,  with  thick  breath  and  cold  sweat, 
fiercely  down,  down,  Beppo  relieving  him : 
the  work  advances ;  when,  ah !  at  a  certain 
stage  of  it  (before  fruition)  hideous  yells  arise, 
a  jingle  like  the  emptying  of  Birmingham ; 
six  Devils  pounce  upon  the  poor  sheep  Gold- 
smith, and  beat  him  almost  to  mutton ;  merci- 
fully sparing  Balsamo, — who  indeed  has  him- 
self summoned  them  thither,  and  as  it  were 
created  them  (with  goatskins  and  burnt  cork.) 
Marano,  though  a  ninny,  now  knew  how  it  lay ; 
and  furthermore  that  he  had  a  stiletto.  One 
of  the  grand  drawbacks  of  swindler-genius ! 
You  accomplish  the  Problem  ;  and  then — the 
Elementary  Quantities  (Algebraic  Symbols) 
you  worked  on  will  fly  in  your  face  ! 

Hearing  of  stilettos,  our  Algebraist  begins 
to  look  around  him,  and  view  his  empire  of 
Palermo  in  the  concrete.  An  empire  now 
much  exhausted;  much  infested,  too,  with  sor- 
rows of  all  kinds,  and  every  day  the  more ; 
nigh  ruinous,  in  short ;  not  worth  being  stab- 
bed for.  There  is  a  world  elsewhere.  In  any 
case,  the  young  Raven  has  now  shed  his  pens, 
and  got  fledged  for  flying.  Shall  he  not  spurn 
the  whole  from  him,  and  soar  off?  Resolved, 
performed  !  Our  Beppo  quits  Palermo ;  and, 
as  it  proved,  on  a  long  voyage  :  or  as  the  In- 
quisition Biographer  has  it,  "he  fled  from 
Palermo,  and  overran  the  whole  Earth." 

Here  then  ends  the  First  Act  of  Count  Ales- 
sandro  Cagliostro's  Life-drama.  Let  the  cur- 
tain drop ;  and  bang  unrent,  before  an  audi- 
ence of  mixed  feeling,  till  the  First  of  August 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


433 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 

IN    TWO    FLIGHTS. 

[Fraser's  Magazine,  1833.] 


Flight  Last. 

Before  entering  on  the  second  Section  of 
Count  Beppo's  History,  the  Editor  will  indulge 
in  a  philosophical  reflection. 

This  Beppic  Hegira  (Flight  from  Palermo) 
we  have  now  arrived  at  brings  us  down,  in 
European  History,  to  somewhere  about  the 
epoch  of  the  Peace  of  Paris.  Old  Feudal  Eu- 
rope (while  he  flies  forth  into  the  whole  Earth") 
has  just  finished  the  last  of  her  "  tavern  brawls, 
(or  wars ;)  and  lain  down  to  doze,  and  yawn, 
and  disconsolately  wear  ofl"  the  headaches, 
bruises,  nervous  prostration,  and  flaccidity 
consequent  thereon :  for  the  brawl  had  been  a 
long  one,  (Seven  Years  long ;)  and  there  had 
been  many  such,  begotten,  as  is  usual,  of  In- 
toxication, (from  Pride,  or  other  Devil's-drink,) 
and  foul  humours  in  the  constitution.  Alas,  it 
was  not  so  much  a  disconsolate  doze,  after 
ebriety  and  quarrel,  that  poor  old  Feudal  Eu- 
rope had  now  to  undergo,  and  then  on  awaken- 
ing to  drink  anew  (wine  of  Abomination,) 
and  quarrel  anew  :  old  Feudal  Europe  has 
fallen  a-dozing  to  die!  Her  next  awakening 
will  be  with  no  tavern-brawl  (at  the  King^s 
Head  or  Prime  Minister;)  but  with  the  stern 
Avatar  of  Demockacy,  hymning  its  world- 
thrilling  birth  and  battle  song  in  the  distant 
West; — therefrom  to  go  out  conquering  and  to 
conquer,  till  it  have  made  the  circuit  of  all  the 
Earth,  and  old  dead  Feudal  Europe  is  born 
again  (after  infinite  pangs  !)  into  a  new  Indus- 
trial one.  At  Beppo's  Hegira,  as  we  said,  Eu- 
rope was  in  the  last  languor  and  stertorous 
fever-sleep  of  Dissolution :  alas,  with  us  and 
with  our  sons,  (for  a  generation  or  two,)  it  is 
almost  still  worse, — were  it  not  that  in  Birth- 
throes  there  is  ever  Hope,  in  Death-throes  the 
final  departure  of  Hope. 

Now  the  philosophic  reflection  we  were  to 
indulge  in,  was  no  other  than  this,  most  ger- 
mane to  our  subject:  the  portentous  extent 
of  Quackery,  the  multitudinous  variety  of 
Quacks  that  along  with  our  Beppo,  and  under 
him  each  in  his  degree,  overran  all  Europe 
during  that  same  period,  the  latter  half  of  last 
century.  It  was  the  very  age  of  impostors, 
cut-purses,  swindlers,  double-gangers,  enthu- 
siasts, ambiguous  persons;  quacks  simple, 
quacks  compound;  crack-brained,  or  with  de- 
ceit prepense;  quacks  and  quackeries  of  all 
colours  and  kinds.  How  many  Mesmerists, 
Magicians,  Cabalists,  Swedenborgians,  Illumi- 
nati,  Crucified  Nuns,  and  Devils  of  Loudun ! 
To  which  the  Inquisition  Biographer  adds  Vam- 
pires, Sylphs,  Rosicrucians,  Free-masons,  and 
an  Et  cetera.  Consider  yourSchropfers.Caglios- 
tros,  Casanovas,  Saint-Germains,Dr.  Grahams ; 
the  Chevalier  d'Eon,  Psalmanazar,  Abbe  Paris, 
and  the  Ghost  of  Cock-lane  !  As  if  Bedlam 
had  broken  loose;  as  if  rather  (in  that  "spiri- 
55 


tual  Twelfth-hour  of  the  Night")  the  everlast- 
ing  Pit  had  opened  itself,  and  from  its  still 
blacker  bosom  had  issued  Madness  and  all 
manner  of  shapeless  Misbirths,  to  masquerade 
and  chatter  there. 

But,  indeed,  if  we  consider,  how  could  it  be 
otherwise  1  In  that  stertorous  last  fever-sleep 
of  our  European  world,  must  not  Phantasms 
enough  (born  of  the  Pit,  as  all  such  are)  flit 
past,  in  ghastly  masquerading  and  chattering  ! 
A  low  scarce-audible  moan  (in  Parliamentary 
Petitions,  Meal-mobs,  Popish  Riots,  Treatises 
on  Atheism)  struggles  from  the  moribund 
sleeper ;  frees  him  not  from  his  hellish  guests 
and  saturnalia  ;  Phantasms  these  "  of  a  dying 
brain."  So  too,  when  the  old  Roman  world, 
the  measure  of  its  iniquities  being  full,  was  to 
expire,  and  (in  still  bitter  agonies)  be  born 
again,  had  they  not  Veneficae,  Mathematici, 
Apolloniuscs  with  the  Golden  Thigh,  Apollo- 
nius'  Asses,  and  False  Christs  enough, — be- 
fore a  Redeemer  arose ! 

For,  in  truth,  and  altogether  apart  from  such 
half-figurative  language.  Putrescence  is  not 
more  naturally  the  scene  of  unclean  creatures 
in  the  world  physical,  than  Social  Decay  is  of 
quacks  in  the  world  moral.  Nay,  look  at  it 
with  the  eye  of  the  mere  Logician,  of  the  Po- 
litical Economist.  In  such  periods  of  Social 
Decay,  what  is  called  an  overflowing  Popula- 
tion, that  is  a  Population  which,  under  the  old 
Captains  of  Industry,  (named  Higher  Classes, 
Ricos  Hombres,  Aristocracies,  and  the  like,)  can 
no  longer  find  work  and  wages,  increases  the 
number  of  Unprofessionals,  Lack-alls,  Social 
Nondescripts ;  with  appetite  of  utmost  keen- 
ness, which  there  is  no  known  method  of  satis- 
fying. Nay. more,  and  perversely  enough,  ever 
as  Population  augments,  your  Captains  of  In- 
dustry can  and  do  dwindle  more  and  more  into 
Captains  of  Idleness ;  whereby  the  more  and 
more  overflowing  Population  is  worse  and 
worse  governed  (shown  what  to  do,  for  that  is 
the  only  government:)  thus  is  the  candle  light- 
ed at  both  ends ;  and  the  number  of  social 
Nondescripts  increases  in  double-quick  ratio. 
Whoso  is  alive,  it  is  said,  "must  live;"  at  all 
events,  will  live;  a  task  which  daily  gets 
harder,  reduces  to  stranger  shifts.  And  now 
furthermore,  with  general  economic  distress,  in 
such  a  Period,  there  is  usually  conjoined  the 
utmost  decay  of  moral  principle:  indeed,  so 
universal  is  this  conjunction,  many  men  have 
seen  it  to  be  a  concatenation  and  causation ; 
justly  enough,  except  that  such  have  (ever 
since  a  certain  religious-repentant  feeling  went 
out  of  date)  committed  one  sore  mistake :  what 
is  vulgarly  called  putting  the  cart  before  the 
horse.  Political-Economical  Benefactor  of  the 
Species  !  deceive  not  thyself  with  barren  so- 
phisms: National  suflTering  is  (if  thou  wilt 
understand  the  words)  verily  a  "judgment  of 
2  O 


434 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


God;"  has  ever  been  preceded  by  national 
crime.  "  Be  it  here  once  more  maintained  be- 
fore the  world,"  cries  Sauerteig,  in  one  of  his 
Springwurzel,  "that  temporal  Distress,  that 
Misery  of  any  kind,  is  not  the  cause  of  Immor- 
tality, but  the  effect  thereof !  Among  individu- 
als, it  is  true,  so  wide  is  the  empire  of  Chance, 
poverty  and  wealth  go  all  at  hap-hazard ;  a 
Saint  Paul  is  making  tents  at  Corinth,  while  a 
Kaiser  Nero  fiddles,  in  ivory  palaces  over  a 
burning  Rome.  Nevertheless  here  too,  if  no- 
wise wealth  and  poverty,  yet  well-being  and 
ill-being,  even  in  the  temporal  economic  sense, 
go  commonly  in  respective  partnership  with 
Wisdom  and  with  Folly :  no  man  can,  for  a 
length  of  time,  be  wholly  wretched,  if  there 
is  not  a  disharmony  (a  folly  and  wickedness) 
within  himself;  neither  can  the  richest  CroBsus, 
and  never  so  eupeptic,  (for  he  too  has  indiges- 
tions and  dies  at  last  from  surfeit,)  be  other 
than  discontented,  perplexed,  unhappy,  if  he 
be  a  Fool." — This  we  apprehend  is  true,  O 
Sauerteig,  yet  not  the  whole  truth  :  for  there  is 
more  than  days'  work  and  days'  wages  in  this 
world  of  ours;  which,  as  thou  knowest, is  it- 
self quite  other  than  a  "  Workshop  and  Fancy- 
Bazaar,"  is  also  a  "  mystic  Temple  and  Hall  of 
Doom."  Thus  we  have  heard  of  such  things 
as  good  men  struggling  with  adversity,  and  of- 
fering a  spectacle  for  the  very  gods. — "But 
with  a  nation,"  continues  he,  "  where  the  mul- 
titude of  the  chances  covers,  in  great  mea- 
sure, the  uncertainty  of  Chance,  it  may  be 
said  to  hold  always  that  general  Suffering  is 
the  fruit  of  general  Misbehaviour,  general 
Dishonesty.  Consider  it  well ;  had  all  men 
stood  faithfully  to  their  posts,  the  Evil,  when 
it  first  rose,  had  been  manfully  fronted,  and 
abolished,  not  lazily  blinked,  and  left  to  grow, 
with  the  foul  sluggard's  comfort:'  It  will  last  my 
time.'  Thou  foul  sluggard,  and  even  thief 
{Faulenzer,ja  Dieb!)  For  art  thou  not  a  thief, 
to  pocket  thy  day's  wages  (be  they  counted  in 
groschen  or  in  gold  thousands)  for  this,  if  it  be 
for  any  thing,  for  watching  on  thy  special 
watch-tower  that  God's  City  (which  this  His 
World  is,  where  His  children  dwell)  suffer  no 
damage  ;  and,  all  the  while,  to  watch  only  that 
thy  own  ease  be  not  invaded, — let  otherwise 
hard  come  to  hard  as  it  will  and  can  ]  Un- 
happy !  It  will  last  thy  time :  thy  worthless 
sham  of  an  existence,  wherein  nothing  but  the 
Digestion  was  real,  will  have  evaporated  in  the 
interim  ;  it  will  last  thy  time  :  but  will  it  last 
thy  Eternity?  Or  what  if  it  should  not  last  thy 
time,  (mark  that  also,  for  that  also  will  be  the 
fate  of  some  such  lying  sluggard ;)  but  take 
fire,  and  explode,  and  consume  thee  like  the 
moth !" 

The  sum  of  the  matter,  in  any  case,  is,  that 
national  Poverty  and  national  Dishonesty  go 
together;  that  continually  increasing  social 
Nondescripts  get  ever  the  hungrier,  ever  the 
falser.  Now  say,  have  we  not  here  the  very 
making  of  Quackery;  raw-material,  plastic- 
energy,  both  in  full  action  7  Dishonesty  the 
raw-material.  Hunger  the  plastic-energy:  what 
will  not  the  two  realize  1  Nay  observe  farther 
how  Dishonesty  is  the  raw-material  not  of 
Quacks  only,  but  also,  in  great  part,  of  Dupes. 
In  Goodness,  were  it  never  so  simple,  there  is 


the  surest  instinct  for  the  Good;  the  uneasiest 
unconquerable  repulsion  for  the  False  an:. 
Bad.  The  very  Devil  Mephistopheles  cannot 
deceive  poor  guileless  Margaret:  "it  stands 
written  on  his  front  that  he  never  loved  a  liv- 
ing soul."  The  like  too  has  many  a  human 
inferior  Quack  painfully  experienced;  the  like 
lies  in  store  for  our  hero  Beppo.  But  now 
with  such  abundant  raw-material  not  only  to 
make  Quacks  of,  but  to  feed  and  occupy  them 
on,  if  the  plastic-energy  (of  Hunger)  fail  not, 
what  a  world  shall  we  have  !  The  wonder  is 
not  that  the  eighteenth  century  had  very  nu- 
merous Quacks,  but  rather  that  they  were  not 
innumerable. 

In  that  same  French  Revolution  alone,  which 
burnt  up  so  much,  what  unmeasured  masses 
of  Quackism  were  set  fire  to  ;  nay,  as  foul  me- 
phitic  fire-damp  in  that  case,  were  made  to 
flame  in  a  fierce,  sublime  splendour ;  coruscat- 
ing, even  illuminating !  The  Count  Saint 
Germain,  some  twenty  years  later,  had  found 
a  quite  new  element,  of  Fraternization,  Sacred 
right  of  Insurrection,  Oratorship  of  the  Human 
Species,  wherefrom  to  body  himself  forth  quite 
otherwise:  Schropfer  needed  not  now,  as 
Blackguard  undeterred,  have  solemnly  shot 
himself  in  the  Rosenthal;  might  have  solemnly 
sacrificed  himself,  as  Jacobin  half-heroic,  in 
the  Place  de  la  Revolution.  For  your  quack- 
genius  is  indeed  born,  but  also  made ;  circum- 
stances shape  him  or  stunt  him.  Beppo  Bal- 
samo,  born  British  in  these  new  days,  could 
have  conjured  fewer  Spirits ;  yet  had  found  a 
living  and  glory,  as  Castlereagh  Spy,  Irish 
Associationist,  Blacking-Manufacturer,  Book- 
Publisher,  Able  Editor.  Withal  too  the  reader 
will  observe  that  Quacks,  in  every  time,  are 
of  two  sorts:  the  Declared  Quack;  and  the 
Undeclared,  who,  if  you  question  him,  will 
deny  stormfully,  both  to  others  and  to  himself ; 
of  which  two  quack-species  the  proportions 
vary  with  the  varying  capacity  of  the  age.  If 
Beppo's  was  the  age  of  the  Declared,  therein, 
after  all  French  Revolutions,  we  will  grant,  lay 
one  of  its  main  distinctions  from  ours;  which 
is  it  not  yet  (and  for  a  generation  or  two)  the 
age  of  the  Undeclared  1  Alas,  almost  a  still 
more  detestable  age; — yet  now  (by  God's 
grace)  with  Prophecy,  with  irreversible  Enact- 
ment (registered  in  Heaven's  chancery, — 
where  thou  too,  if  thou  wilt  look,  mayst  read 
and  know)  that  its  death-doom  shall  not  linger. 
Be  it  speedy,  be  it  sure ! — And  so  herewith 
were  our  philosophical  reflection,  on  the  na- 
ture, causes,  prevalence,  decline,  and  expected 
(temporary)  destruction  of  Quackery,  con- 
cluded; and  now  the  Beppic  poetic  Narrative 
can  once  more  take  its  course. 

Beppo  then,  like  a  Noah's  Raven,  is  out 
upon  that  watery  Avaste,  (of  dissolute,  beduped, 
distracted  European  Life,)  to  see  if  there  is 
any  carrion  there.  One  unguided  little  Raven, 
in  the  wide-weltering  "  Mother  of  dead  Dogs:" 
will  he  not  come  to  harm ;  will  he  not  be  snapt 
up,  drowned,  starved,  and  washed  to  the  Devil 
there  ]  No  fear  of  him, — for  a  time.  His  eye, 
(or  scientific  judgmerrt,)  it  is  true,  as  yet  takes 
in  only  a  small  section  of  it;  but  then  his 
scent  (instinct  of  genius)  is  prodigious  :  seve- 
ral endowments  (forgery  and  others)  he  has 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


435 


unfolded  into  talents ;  the  two  sources  of  all 
quack-talent,  Cunning  and  Impudence,  are  his 
in  richest  measure. 

As  to  his  immediate  course  of  action  and 
adventure,  the  foolish  Inquisition  Biographer, 
it  must  be  owned,  shows  himself  a  fool,  and 
can  give  us  next  to  no  insight.  Like  enough, 
Beppo  "fled  to  Messina;"  simply  as  to  the 
nearest  city,  and  to  get  across  to  the  mainland: 
but  as  to  this  "  certain  Althotas"  whom  he  met 
there,  and  voyaged  with  to  Alexandria  in  Egypt, 
and  how  they  made  hemp  into  silk,  and  realized 
much  money,  and  came  to  Malta,  and  studied 
in  the  Laboratory  there,  and  then  the  certain 
Althotas  died, — of  all  this  what  shall  be  said"? 
The  foolish  Inquisition  Biographer  is  uncer- 
tain whether  the  certain  Althotas  was  a  Greek 
or  a  Spaniard :  but  unhappily  the  prior  ques- 
tion is  not  settled,  whether  he  was  at  all.  Su- 
perfluous it  seems  to  put  down  Beppo's  own 
account  of  his  procedure;  he  gave  multifarious 
accounts,  as  tue  exigencies  of  the  case  de- 
manded: this  of  the  "certain  Althotas,"  and 
hemp  made  into  false  silk,  is  as  verisimilar  as 
that  other  of  the  "  sage  Althotas,"  the  heirship- 
apparent  of  Trebisond,  and  the  Scherif  of 
Mecca's  "  Adieu,  unfortunate  Child  of  Nature." 
Nay  the  guesses  of  the  ignorant  world;  how 
Count  Cagliostro  had  been  travelling  tutor  to  a 
Prince,  (name  not  given,)  whom  he  murdered 
and  took  the  money  from;  with  others  of  the 
like, — were  perhaps  still  more  absurd.  Beppo, 
we  can  see,  was  out  and  away, — the  Devil 
knew  whither.  Far,  variegated,  painful,  might 
his  roamings  be.  A  plausible-looking  shadow 
of  him  shows  itself  hovering  over  Naples  and 
Calabria;  thither,  as  to  a  famed  high-school 
of  Laziness  and  Scoundrelism,  he  may  likely 
enough  have  gone  to  graduate.  Of  the  Malta 
Laboratory,  and  Alexandrian  hemp-silk,  the 
less  we  say  the  better.  This  only  is  clear: 
That  Beppo  dived  deep  down  into  the  lugu- 
brious-obscure regions  of  Rascaldom ;  like  a 
Knight  to  the  palace  of  his  Fairy;  remained 
unseen  there,  and  returned  thence  armed  at  all 
points. 

If  we  fancy,  meanwhile,  that  Beppo  already 
meditated  becoming  grand  Cophta,  and  riding 
at  Strasburg  in  the  Cardinal's  carriage,  we 
mistake  much.  Gift  of  Prophecy  has  been 
wisely  denied  to  man.  Did  a  man  foresee  his 
life,  and  not  merely  hope  it,  and  grope  it,  and 
so,  by  Necessity  and  Free-will,  make  and 
fabricate  it  into  a  reality,  he  were  no  man,  but 
some  other  kind  of  creature,  superhuman  or 
subterhuman.  No  man  sees  far:  the  most 
see  no  farther  than  their  noses.  From  the 
quite  dim  uncertain  mass  of  the  future,  ("lying 
there,"  says  a  Scotch  Humourist,  "uncombed, 
uncarded,  like  a  mass  of  tarry  wool  proverbially 
ill  to  spin")  they  spin  out,  better  or  worse, 
their  rumply,  infirm  thread  of  Existence,  (and 
wind  it  up,  up — till  the  spool  is  full;)  seeing 
but  some  little  half-yard  of  it  at  once  ;  exclaim- 
ing, as  they  look  into  the  betarred,  entangled 
mass  of  Futurity,  We  shall  see  ! 

The  first  authentic  fact  with  regard  to 
Beppo  is,  that  his  swart  squat  figure  becomes 
visible  in  the  Corso  and  Campo  Vaccino  of 
Rome;  that  he  "lodges  at  the  Sign  of  the  Sun 
in  the  Rotunda,"  and  sells  pen-drawings  there. 


Properly  they  are  not  pen-drawings ;  but  printed 
engravings  or  etchings,  to  which  Beppo,  with 
a  pen  and  a  little  Indian  ink,  has  added  the 
degree  of  scratching  to  give  them  the  air  of 
such.  Thereby  mainly  does  he  realize  a  thin 
livelihood.  From  which  we  infer  that  his 
transactions  in  Naples  and  Calabria,  with 
Althotas  and  hemp-silk,  or  whatever  else,  had 
not  turned  to  much. 

Forged  pen-drawings  are  no  mine  of  wealth: 
neither  was  Beppo  Balsamo  any  thing  of  an 
Adonis;  on  the  contrary,  a  most  dusky,  bull- 
necked,  mastiff-faced,  sinister-looking  indi- 
vidual: nevertheless,  on  applying  for  the 
favour  or  the  hand  of  Lorenza  Feliciani,  a 
beautiful  Roman  donzella,  "dwelling  near  the 
Trinity  of  the  Pilgrims,"  the  unfortunate  child 
of  Nature  prospers  beyond  ourhopes.  Authori- 
ties differ  as  to  the  rank  and  status  of  fair 
Lorenza:  one  account  says,  she  was  the. 
daughter  of  a  Girdle-maker;  but  adds  errone- 
ously that  it  was  in  Calabria.  The  matter 
must  remain  suspended.  Certain  enough,  she 
was  a  handsome  buxom  creature, "  both  pretty 
and  lady-like,"  (it  is  presumable;)  but  having 
no  offer,  in  a  country  too  prone  to  celibacy, 
took  up  with  the  bull-necked  forger  of  pen- 
drawings,  whose  suittoo  was  doubtless  pressed 
with  the  most  flowing  rhetoric.  She  gave  her- 
self in  marriage  to  him ;  and  the  parents  ad- 
mitted him  to  quarter  in  their  house,  till  it 
should  appear  what  was  next  to  be  done. 

Two  kitchen-fires,  says  the  Proverb,  burn 
not  on  one  hearth :  here,  moreover,  might  be 
quite  special  causes  of  discord.  Pen-drawing, 
at  best  a  hungry  concern,  has  now  exhausted 
itself,  and  must  be  given  up  :  but  Beppo's  house- 
hold prospects  brighten,  on  the  other  side  ;  in 
the  charms  of  his  Lorenza  he  sees  before  him 
what  the  French  call  "  a  Future  confused  and 
immense."  The  hint  was  given;  and  with  re- 
luctance, or  without  reluctance,  (for  the  evi- 
dence leans  both  ways,)  was  taken  and  reduced 
to  practice :  Signor  and  Signora  Balsamo  are 
forth  from  the  old  Girdler's  house,  into  the 
wide  world,  seeking  and  finding  adventures. 

The  foolish  Inquisition  Biographer,  with 
painful  scientific  accuracy,  furnishes  a  de- 
scriptive catalogue  of  all  the  successive  Cul- 
lies (Italian  Counts,  French  Envoys,  Spanish 
Marquises,  Dukes,  and  Drakes)  in  various 
quarters  of  the  known  world,  whom  this  ac- 
complished pair  took  in  ;  with  the  sums  each 
yielded,  and  the  methods  employed  to  bewitch 
him.  Into  which  descriptive  catalogue,  why 
should  we  here  so  much  as  cast  a  glance  1 
Cullies,  (the  easy  cushions  on  which  knaves 
and  knavesses  repose  and  fatten,)  have  at  all 
times  existed  in  considerable  profusion :  neither 
can  the  fact  of  a  "  clothed  animal,"  (Marquis 
or  other,)  having  acted  in  that  capacity  to 
never  such  lengths,  entitle  him  to  mention  in 
History.  We  pass  over  these.  Beppo  (or,  as 
we  must  now  learn  to  call  him,  the  Count)  ap- 
pears at  Venice,  at  Marseilles,  at  Madrid,  Cadiz, 
Lisbon,  Brussels;  makes  scientific  pilgrimage 
to  Saint-Germain,  (in  Westphalia,)  religious- 
commercial  to  Saint  James  in  Compostella,  to 
Our  Lady  in  Loretta  :  south,  north,  east,  west, 
he  shows  himself;  finds  everywhere  Lubricity 
and  Stupidity,  (better  or  worse  provided  with 


436 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


cash,)  the  two  elements  on  which  he  thauma- 
turgically  can  work  and  live.  Practice  makes 
perfection ;  Beppo  too  was  an  apt  scholar. 
By  all  methods  he  can  awaken  the  stagnant 
imagination ;  cast  maddening  powder  in  the 
eyes.  Already  in  Rome  he  has  cultivated 
whiskers,  and  put  on  the  uniform  of  a  Prus- 
sian Colonel:  dame  Lorenza  is  fair  to  look 
upon ;  but  how  much  fairer,  if  by  the  air  of 
distance  and  dignity  you  lend  enchantment  to 
her!  In  other  places,  the  Count  appears  as 
real  Count;  as  Marquis  Pelligrini,  (lately  from 
foreign  parts;)  as  Count  this  and  Count  that, 
Count  Proteus-Incognito;  finally  as  Count 
Alessandro  Cagliostro.*  Figure  him  shooting 
through  the  world  with  utmost  rapidity  ;  duck- 
ing under  here,  when  the  sword-fishes  (of 
justice)  make  a  dart  at  him ;  ducking  up 
yonder,  in  new  shape,  at  the  distance  of  a 
thousand  miles ;  not  unprovided  with  forged 
vouchers  of  Respectability  ;  above  all,  with  that 
best  voucher  of  Respectability,  a  four-horse  car- 
riage, beef-eaters,  and  open  purse,  for  Count 
Cagliostro  has  ready  money  and  pays  his  way. 
At  some  Hotel  of  the  Sun,  Hotel  of  the  Angel, 
Gold  Lion,  or  Green  Goose,  or  whatever  Hotel 
it  is,  in  whatever  world  famous  City,  his 
chariot- wheels  have  rested;  sleep  and  food 
have  refreshed  his  live-stock,  chiefly  the  pearl 
and  soul  thereof,  his  indispensable  Lorenza, 
now  no  longer  Dame  Lorenza,  but  Countess 
Seraphina,  looking  seraphic  enough  !  Moneyed 
Donothings,  whereof  in  this  vexed  Earth  there 
are  many,  ever  lounging  about  such  places, 
scan  and  comment  on  the  foreign  coat-of-arms ; 
ogle  the  fair  foreign  woman ;  who  timidly 
recoils  from  their  gaze,  timidly  responds  to 
their  reverences,  as  in  halls  and  passages, 
they  obsequiously  throw  themselves  in  her 
way:  ere  long  one  moneyed  Donothing  (from 
amid  his  tags,  tassels,  sword-belts,  fop-tackle, 
frizzled  hair  without  brains  beneath  it)  is 
heard  speaking  to  another :  "  Seen  the  Count- 
es:5  ? — Divine  creature  that !"  and  so  the  game 
is  begun. 

Let  not  the  too  sanguine  reader,  meanwhile, 
fancy  that  it  is  all  holyday  and  heyday  with  his 
lordship.  The  course  of  Scoundrelism,  any  more 
than  that  of  true  love,  never  did  run  smooth. 
Seasons  there  may  be  when  Count  Proteus-In- 
cognito has  his  epaulettes  torn  from  his  shoul- 
ders ;  his  garment-skirts  dipt  close  by  the  but- 
tocks ;  and  is  bid  sternly  tarry  at  Jericho  till  his 
beard  be  grown.  Harpies  of  Law  defile  his  so- 
lemn feasts  ;  his  light  burns  languid  ;  for  a  space 
seems  utterly  snuffed  out,  and  dead  in  mal- 
odorous vapour.  Dead  only  to  blaze  up  the 
brighter!  There  is  scoundrel-life  in  Beppo 
Cagliostro ;  cast  him  among  the  mud,  tread 
him  out  of  sight  there,  the  miasmata  do  but 
stimulate  and  refresh  him,  he  rises  sneezing, 
is  strong  and  young  again. 

Behold  him,  for  example,  again  in  Palermo, 
(after  having  seen  many  men  and  many 
lands ;)  and  how  he  again  escapes  thence. 
Why  did  he  return  to  Palermo?  Perhaps  to 
astonish  old  friends  by  new  grandeur;  or  for 
temporary  shelter,  if  the  Continent  were  get- 


*  Not  altogether  an  invention  this  last ;  for  his  grand- 
uncle  (a  bell-founder  at  Messina  "?)  was  actually  sur- 
nained  Cagliostro^  as  well  as  named  Oiuseppe,—0.  Y, 


ting  hot  for  him ;  or  perhaps  in  the  mere  way  of 
general  trade.  He  is  seized  there,  and  clapt  in 
prison,  for  those  foolish  old  businesses  of  the 
treasure-digging  Goldsmith,  of  the  forged  Will. 
"The  manner  of  his  escape,"  says  one, 
whose  few  words  on  this  obscure  matter  are 
so  many  light-points  for  us^"  deserves  to  be 
described.  The  son  of  one  of  the  first  Sicilian 
Princes,  and  great  landed  Proprietors,  (who 
moreover  had  filled  important  stations  at  the 
Neapolitan  Court,)  was  a  person  that  united 
with  a  strong  body  and  ungovernable  temper 
all  the  tyrannical  caprice,  which  the  rich  and 
great,  without  cultivation,  think  themselves 
entitled  to  exhibit. 

"  Donna  Lorenza  had  contrived  to  gain  this 
man;  and  on  him  the  fictitious  Marchese 
Pellegrini  founded  his  security.  The  Prince 
testified  openly  that  he  was  the  protector  of 
this  stranger  pair:  but  what  was  his  fury  when 
Joseph  Balsamo,  at  the  instance  of  those  whom 
he  had  cheated,  was  cast  into  prison !  He 
tried  various  means  to  deliver  him ;  and  as 
these  would  not  prosper,  he  publicly,  in  the 
President's  antechamber,  threatened  the  plain- 
tiffs' Advocate  with  the  frightfullest  misusage 
if  the  suit  were  not  dropt,  and  Balsamo  forth- 
with set  at  liberty.  As  the  Advocate  declined 
such  proposal,  he  clutched  him,  beat  him, 
threw  him  on  the  floor,  trampled  him  with  his 
feet,  and  could  hardly  be  restrained  from  still 
farther  outrages,  when  the  President  himself 
came  running  out,  at  the  tumult,  and  com- 
manded peace. 

"This  latter,  a  weak,  dependent  man,  made 
no  attempt  to  punish  the  injurer ;  the  plaintiffs 
and  their  Advocate  grew  fainthearted ;  and 
Balsamo  was  let  go;  not  so  much  as  a  regis- 
tration in  the  Court-Books  specifying  his  dis- 
missal, who  occasioned  it,  or  how  it  took 
place."* 

Thus  sometimes,  "a  friend  in  the  court  is 
better  than  a  penny  in  the  purse!"  Marchese 
Pellegrini  "quickly  thereafter  left  Palermo, 
and  performed  various  travels,  thereof  my 
author  could  impart  no  clear  information." 
Whither,  or  how  far,  the  Game-chicken  Prince 
went  with  him  is  not  hinted. 

So  it  might,  at  times,  be  quite  otherwise  than 
in  coach-and-four  that  our  Cagliostro  jou  rneyed. 
Occasionally  we  find  him  as  outrider  journey- 
ing on  horseback;  only  Seraphina  and  her  sop 
(whom  she  is  to  suck  and  eat)  lolling  on  car- 
riage-cushions; the  hardy  Count  glad  that 
hereby  he  can  have  the  shot  paid.  Nay  some- 
times he  looks  utterly  poverty-struck,  and 
must  journey  one  knows  not  how.  Thus  one 
briefest  but  authentic-looking  glimpse  of  him 
presents  itself  in  England,  in  the  year  1772: 
no  Count  is  he  here,  but  mere  Signor  Balsamo 
again ;  engaged  in  house-painting,  for  which 
he  has  a  most  peculiar  talent.  Was  it  true 
that  he  painted  the  country  house  of"  a  Doctor 
Benemore  ;"  and  having  not  painted,  but  only 
smeared  it,  was  refused  payment,  and  got  a 
lawsuit  with  expenses  instead?  If  Dr.  Bene- 
more have  left  any  representatives  in  this 
Earth,  they  are  desired  to  speak  out.  We  add 
only,  that  if  young  Beppo  had  one  of  the  prei- 


*  Goethe's  Werke,  b.  xxviii  132. 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


487 


tiest  wives,  old  Benemore  had  one  of  the  ugliest 
daughters ;  and  so,  putting  one  thing  to  another, 
matters  might  not  be  so  bad. 

For  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  Count,  on 
his  own  side,  even  in  his  days  of  highest 
splendour,  is  not  idle.  Faded  dames  of  quality 
have  many  wants :  the  Count  has  not  studied 
in  the  convent  Laboratory,  or  pilgrimed  to  the 
Count  Saint-Germain,  in  Westphalia,  to  no 
purpose.  With  loftiest  condescension  he  stoops 
to  impart  somewhat  of  his  supernatural  secrets, 
— for  a  consideration.  Rowland's  Kalydor  is 
valuable;  but  what  to  the  Beautifying-water 
of  Count  Alessandro  !  He  that  will  undertake 
to  smooth  wrinkles,  and  make  withered  green 
parchment  into  a  fair  carnation  skin,  is  he  not 
one  whom  faded  dames  of  quality  will  delight 
to  honour?  Or  again,  let  the  Beautifying- 
water  succeed  or  not,  have  not  such  dames 
(if  calumny  may  be  in  aught  believed)  another 
want  ]  This  want  too  the  indefatigable  Cag- 
liostro  will  supply, — for  a  consideration.  For 
faded  gentlemen  of  quality  the  Count  likewise 
has  help.  Not  a  charming  Countess  alone ; 
but  a  "  Wine  of  Egypt,"  (cantharides  not  being 
unknown  to  him,)  soldindrops,  more  precious 
than  nectar;  which  what  faded  gentleman  of 
quality  would  not  purchase  with  any  thing 
short  of  life  ?  Consider  now  what  may  be 
done  with  potions,  washes,  charms,  love-phil- 
tres, among  a  class  of  mortals,  idle  from  the 
mother's  womb ;  rejoicing  to  be  taught  the 
Ionic  dances,  and  meditating  of  love  from  their 
tender^nails ! 

Thus  waxing,  waning,  broad-shining,  or  ex- 
tinct, an  inconstant  but  unwearied  Moon,  rides 
on  its  course  the  Cagliostric  star.  Thus  are 
Count  and  Countess  busy  in  their  vocation; 
thus  do  they  spend  the  golden  season  of  their 
youth, — "  for  the  Greatest  Happiness  of  the 
greatest  number?"  Happy  enough,  had  there 
been  no  sumptuary  or  adultery,  or  swindlery 
Law-acts  ;  no  Heaven  above,  no  Hell  beneath ; 
no  flight  of  Time,  and  gloomy  land  of  Eld  and 
Destitution  and  Desperation,  towards  which, 
by  law  of  Fate,  they  see  themselves  at  all 
moments,  with  frightful  regularity,  unaidably 
drifting. 

The  prudent  man  provides  against  the  ine- 
vitable. Already  Count  Cagliostro,  with  his 
love-philtres,  his  cantharidic  Wine  of  Egypt ; 
nay  far  earlier,  by  his  blue-flames  and  divining- 
rods,  (as  with  the  poor  sheep  Goldsmith  of 
Palermo;)  and  ever  since,  by  many  a  signifi- 
cant hint  thrown  out  where  the  scene  suited, — 
has  dabbled  in  the  Supernatural.  As  his 
seraphic  Countess  gives  signs  of  withering, 
and  one  luxuriant  branch  of  industry  will  die 
and  drop  off",  others  must  be  pushed  into  bud- 
ding. Whether  it  was  in  England  during  what 
he  called  his  "  first  visit,"  in  the  year  1776, 
(for  the  before-first,  house-smearing  visit  was, 
reason  or  none,  to  go  for  nothing,)  that  he  first 
thought  of  Prophecy  as  a  trade,  is  unknown  : 
certain  enough  he  had  -begun  to  practise  it 
then ;  and  this  indeed  not  without  a  glimpse 
of  insight  into  the  national  character.  Various, 
truly,  are  the  pursuits  of  mankind;  whereon 
they  would  fain,  unfolding  the  future,  take 
Destiny  by  surprise ;  with  us  however,  as  a 
nation  of  shopkeepers,  they  may  be  all  said  to 


centre  in  this  one,  Put  money  in  thy  purse  !  O 
for  a  Fortunatus'-Pocket,  with  its  ever-new 
coined  gold ; — if,  indeed,  the  true  prayer  were 
not  rather:  O  for  a  Crassus'-Drink,  (of  liquid 
gold,)  that  so  the  accursed  throat  of  Avarice 
might  for  once  have  enough  and  to  spare ! 
Meanwhile  whoso  should  engage,  keeping 
clear  of  the  gallows,  to  teach  men  the  secret 
of  making  money,  were  not  he  a  Professor  sure 
of  audience  ?  Strong  were  the  general  Skep- 
ticism ;  still  stronger  the  general  Need  and 
Greed.  Count  Cagliostro,  from  his  residence  in 
Whitcombe  street,  it  is  clear,  had  looked  into 
the  mysteries  of  the  Little-go ;  by  occult  science 
knew  the  lucky  number.  Bish  as  yet  was  not ; 
but  Lotteries  were ;  gulls  also  were.  The 
Count  has  his  Language-master,  his  Portuguese 
Jew,  his  nondescript  Ex-Jesuits,  whom  he 
puts  forth,  as  antennae,  into  coflfee-houses,  to 
stir  up  the  minds  of  men.  "Lord"  Scott, 
(a  swindler  swindled,)  and  Miss  Fry,  and 
many  others  were  they  here  could  tell  what  it 
cost  them  ;  nay  the  very  Lawbooks,  and  Lord 
Mansfield  and  Mr.  Howarth  speak  of  hundreds, 
and  jewel-boxes,  and  quite  handsome  booties. 
Thus  can  the  bustard  pluck  geese,  and  (if  Law 
get  the  carcass)  live  upon  their  giblets ; — now 
and  then,  however,  finds  a  vulture,  too  tough 
to  pluck. 

The  attentive  reader  is  no  doubt  curious  to 
understand  all  the  What  and  the  How  of  Cag- 
liostro's  procedure  while  England  was  the 
scene.  As  we  too  are,  and  have  been;  but 
unhappily  all  in  vain.  To  that  English  Life, 
(of  uncertain  gender,)  none,  as  was  said,  need 
in  their  utmost  extremity  repair.  Scarcely 
the  very  lodging  of  Cagliostro  can  be  ascer- 
tained; except  incidentally  that  it  was  once  iu 
Whitcombe  street;  for  a  few  days,  in  War- 
wick Court,  Holborn:  finally,  for  some  space, 
in  the  King's  Bench  Juil.  Vain  were  it  mean- 
while, for  any  reverencer  of  genius  to  pilgrim 
thither,  seeking  memorials  of  a  great  man. 
Cagliostro  is  clean  gone;  on  the  strictest 
search,  no  token  never  so  faint  discloses  itself. 
He  went,  and  left  nothing  behind  him  ; — ex- 
cept perhaps  a  few  cast-clothes,  and  other 
inevitable  exuviae,  long  since,  not  indeed  an- 
nihilated, (this  nothing  can  be,)  yet  beaten 
into  mud,  and  spread  as  new  soil  over  the 
general  surface  of  Middlesex  and  Surrey; 
floated  by  the  Thames  into  old  Ocean ;  or  flit- 
ting (the  gaseous  parts  of  them)  in  the  univer- 
sal Atmosphere,  borne  thereby  to  remotest 
corners  of  the  Earth,  or  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  Solar  System !  So  fleeting  is  the  track  and 
habitation  of  man ;  so  wondrous  the  stuff  he 
builds  of;  his  house,  his  very  house  of  houses, 
(what  we  call  his  Body,)  were  he  the  first  of 
geniuses,  will  evaporate  in  the  strangest  man- 
ner, and  vanish  even  whither  we  have  said. 

To  us  on  our  side,  however,  it  is  cheering 
to  discover,  for  one  thing,  that  Cagliostro 
found  antagonists  worthy  of  him  :  the  bustard 
plucking  geese,  and  living  on  their  giblets, 
found  not  our  whole  Island  peopled  with  geese, 
but  here  and  there  (as  above  hinted)  with  vul- 
tures, with  hawks  of  still  sharper  quality  than 
his.  Priddie,  Aylett,  Saunders,  O'Reilly:  let 
these  stand  forth  as  the  vindicators  of  English 
national  character.  Bv  whom  Count  Ales- 
2  o2 


438 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLAISEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sandro  Cagliostro,  as  in  dim  fluctuating  out- 
line indubitably  appears,  was  bewritted,  ar- 
rested, fleeced,  hatchelled,  bewildered,  and  be- 
devilled, till  the  very  Jail  of  King's  Bench 
seemed  a  refuge  from  them,  A  wholly  obscure 
contest,  as  was  natural ;  wherein,  however,  to 
all  candid  eyes  the  vulturous  and  falconish 
character  of  our  Isle  fully  asserts  itself;  and 
the  foreign  Quack  of  Quacks,  with  all  his 
thaumaturgic  Hemp-silks,  Lottery-numbers, 
Beauty-waters,  Seductions,  Phosphorus  boxes, 
and  Wines  of  Egypt,  is  seen  matched,  and  nigh 
throttled,  by  the  natural  unassisted  cunning  of 
English  Attorneys.  Whereupon  the  bustard, 
feeling  himself  so  pecked  and  plucked,  takes 
wing,  and  flies  to  foreign  parts. 

One  good  thing  he  has  carried  with  him, 
notwithstanding:  initiation  into  some  primary 
arcana  of  Free-masonry.  The  Quack  of 
Quacks,  with  his  primitive  bias  towards  the 
supernatural-mystificator}'-,  must  long  have  had 
his  eye  on  Masonry;  which,  with  its  blazonry 
and  mummery,  sashes,  drawn  sabres,  brothers 
Terrible,  brothers  Venerable,  (the  whole  so  im- 
posing by  candle-light,)  offered  the  choicest 
element  for  him.  All  men  profit  by  Union 
with  men  ;  the  quack  as  much  as  another;  nay 
in  these  two  words  Sworn  Serrery  alone  has  he 
not  found  a  very  talisman !  Cagliostro  then 
determines  on  Masonship.  It  was  afterwards 
urged  that  the  lodge  he  and  his  Seraphina  got 
admission  to  (for  she  also  was  made  a  Mason, 
or  Masoness ;  and  had  a  riband-garter  solemnly 
bound  on,  with  order  to  sleep  in  it  for  a  night) 
was  of  low  rank  in  the  social  scale;  number- 
ing not  a  few  of  the  pastrycook  and  hairdresser 
species.  To  which  it  could  only  be  replied, 
that  these  alone  spoke  French;  that  a  man 
and  mason,  though  he  cooked  pastry,  was  still 
a  man  and  mason.  Be  this  as  it  might,  the 
apt  Recipiendary  is  rapidly  promoted  through 
the  three  grades  of  Apprentice,  Companion, 
Master;  at  the  cost  of  five  guineas.  That  of 
his  being  first  raised  into  the  air,  by  means  of 
a  rope  and  pulley  fixed  in  the  ceiling,  "during 
which  the  heavy  mass  of  his  body  must  as- 
suredly have  caused  him  a  dolorous  sensa- 
tion;" and  then  being  forced  blindfold  to  shoot 
himself  (though  with  privily  r/udoaded  pistol) 
in  sign  of  courage  and  obedience:  all  this  we 
can  esteem  an  apocrypha, — palmed  on  the 
Roman  Inquisition,  otherwise  prone  to  delu- 
sion. Five  guineas,  and  some  foolish  froth- 
speeches  (delivered  over  liquor,  and  otherwise) 
was  the  cost.  If  you  ask  now.  In  u-hat  London 
Lodge  was  itl  Alas,  we  know  not,  and  shall 
never  know.  Certain  only  that  Count  Ales- 
sandro  is  a  master-mason;  that  having  once 
crossed  the  threshold,  his  plastic  genius  will  not 
stop  there.  Behold,  accordingly,  he  has  bought 
from  a  "  Bookseller"  certain  manuscripts  be- 
longing to  "one  George  Cofton,  a  man  abso- 
lutely unknown  to  him"  (and  to  us,)  which 
treat  of  the  "Egyptian  Masonry!"  In  other 
words,  Count  Alessandro  will  blow  with  his 
new  five-guinea  bellows;  having  always  occa- 
sion to  raise  the  wind. 

With  regard  specially  to  that  huge  soap- 
bubble  of  an  Egyptian  Masonry  which  he 
blew,  and  as  conjuror  caught  many  flies  with, 
it  is  our  painful  duty  to  say  a  little ;  not  much. 


The  Inquisition  Biographer,  with  deadly  fear 
of  heretical  and  democratical  and  black-magi- 
cal Freemasons  before  his  eyes,  has  gone  into 
the  matter  to  boundless  depths:  commenting, 
elucidating,  even  confuting :  a  certain  expo- 
sitory masonic  Order-Book  of  Cagliostro's, 
which  he  has  laid  hand  on,  opens  the  whole 
mystery  to  him.  The  ideas  he  declai'es  to  be 
Cagliostro's;  the  composition  all  a  Disciple's, 
for  the  Count  had  no  gift  that  way.  What 
then  does  the  Disciple  set  forth  1  or,  at  lowest, 
the  Inquisition  Biographer  say  that  he  sets 
forth  1     Much,  much  that  is  not  to  the  point. 

Understand,  however,  tiiat  once  inspired,  by 
the  absolutely  unknown  George  Cofton,  with 
the  notion  of  Egyptian  Masonry,  wherein  as 
yet  lay  much  "magic  and  superstition,"  Count 
Alessandro  resolves  to  free  it  of  these  impious 
ingredients,  and  make  it  a  kind  of  Last  Evan- 
gile,  or  Renovator  of  the  Universe, — which  so 
needed  renovation,  "As  he  did  not  believe 
any  thing  in  matter  of  Faith,"  says  our  wooden 
Familiar,  "nothing  could  arrest  him,"  True 
enough :  how  did  he  move  along  then  1  to 
what  length  did  he  go'! 

"  In  his  system  he  promises  his  followers 
to  conduct  them  to  perfection,  by  means  of  a 
physical  and  moral  regenera/ion ;  to  enable  them 
by  the  former  (or  physical)  to  find  the  prime 
matter,  or  Philosopher's  Stone,  and  the  acacia 
which  consolidates  in  man  the  forces  of  the 
most  vigorous  youth  and  renders  him  immor- 
tal ;  and  by  the  latter  (or  moral)  to  procure 
them  a  Pentagon,  which  shall  restore  man  to 
his  primitive  state  of  innocence,  lostby  original 
sin.  The  Founder  supposes  that  this  Egyp- 
tian Masonry  was  instituted  by  Enoch  and 
Elias,  who  propagated  it  in  different  parts  of 
the  world :  however,  in  time,  it  lost  much  of 
its  purity  and  splendour.  And  so,  by  degrees, 
the  Masonry  of  men  had  been  reduced  to  pure 
buffoonery;  and  that  of  women  been  almost 
entirely  destroyed,  having  now  for  most  part 
no  place  in  common  Masonry.  Till  at  last,  the 
zeal  of  the  Grand  Cophta  (so  are  the  High- 
priests  of  Egypt  named)  had  signalized  itself 
by  restoring  the  Masonry  of  both  sexes  to  its 
pristine  lustre," 

With  regard  to  the  great  question  of  con- 
structing this  invaluable  Pentagon,  M^hich  is 
to  abolish  Original  Sin :  how  you  have  to 
choose  a  solitary  mountain,  and  call  it  Sinai; 
and  build  a  Pavilion  on  it  to  be  named  Sion, 
with  twelve  sides,  in  every  side  a  window,  and 
three  stories,  one  of  which  is  named  Ararat; 
and  with  Twelve  Masters,  each  at  a  window, 
yourself  in  the  middle  of  them,  go  through  un- 
speakable formalities,  vigils,  removals,  fasts, 
toils,  distresses,  and  hardly  get  your  Pentagon 
after  all, — we  shall  say  nothing.  As  little 
concerning  the  still  grander  and  painfuller 
process  of  Physical  Regeneration,  or  growing 
young  again  ;  a  thing  not  to  be  accomplished 
without  a  forty-days'  course  of  medicine,  pur- 
gations, sweating-baths,  fainting-fiis,  root-diet, 
phlebotomy,  starvation,  and  desperation,  more 
perhaps  than  it  is  all  worth.  Leaving  these 
interior  solemnities,  and  many  high  moral  pre- 
cepts of  union,  virtue,  wisdom,  and  doctrines 
of  Immortality  and  what  not,  will  the  reader 
care  to  cast  au  indifferent  glance  on  certain 


COUNT  CAGLlOSTRO. 


439 


esoteric  ceremonial  parts  of  this  Egyptian 
Masonry, — as  the  Inquisition  Jiiographer,  if 
we  miscellaneously  cull  from  him,  may  en- 
able usi 

"In  all  these  ceremonial  parts,"  huskily 
avers  the  wooden  Biographer,  "  you  find  as 
much  sacrilege,  profanation,  superstition,  and 
idolatry,  as  in  common  Masonry  :  invocations 
of  the  holy  Name,  prosternations,  adorations 
lavished  on  the  Venerable,  or  head  of  the  Lodge ; 
aspirations,  insufflations,  incense-burnings,  fu- 
migations, exorcisms  of  the  Candidates  and  the 
garments  they  are  to  take ;  emblems  of  the 
sacro-sanct  Triad,  of  the  Moon,  of  the  Sun,  of 
the  Compass,  Square,  and  a  thousand  thousand 
other  iniquities  andineptitudes,  which  are  now 
well  known  in  the  world." 

"  We  above  made  mention  of  the  Grand 
Cophta.  By  this  title  has  been  designated  the 
founder  or  restorer  of  Egyptian  Masonry. 
Cagliostro  made  no  difficulty  in  admitting"  (to 
me  the  Inquisitor)  "  that  under  such  name  he 
was  himself  meant:  now  in  this  system  the 
Grand  Cophta  is  compared  to  the  Highest :  the 
most  solemn  acts  of  worship  are  paid  him  ; 
he  has  authority  over  the  Angels ;  he  is  in- 
voked on  all  occasions ;  every  thing  is  done 
in  virtue  of  his  power :  which  you  are  assured 
he  derives  immediately  from  God.  Nay  more: 
among  the  various  rites  observed  in  this  exer- 
cise of  Masonry,  you  are  ordered  to  recite  the 
Veni  Creator  spiri'us,  the  Te  Denm,  and  some 
Psalms  of  David:  to  such  an  excess  is  impu- 
dence and  audacity  carried,  that  in  the  Psalm, 
JMemevio,  JJomine,  David  et  omnis  mansuetudinis 
ejus,  every  time  the  name  David  occurs,  that  of 
the  Grand  Cophta  is  to  be  substituted. 

"No  Religion  is  excluded  from  the  Egyptian 
Society:  the  Jew,  the  Calvinist,  the  Lutheran, 
can  be  admitted  equally  well  with  the  Catholic, 
if  so  be  they  admit  the  existence  of  God  and  the 
immortality  of  the  soul."  "The  men  elevated 
to  the  rank  of  master  take  the  names  of  the  an- 
cient Prophets ;  the  women  thos»  of  the  Sibyls." 
*  *  "  Then  the  Grand  Mistress  blows  on  the 
face  of  the  female  Recip!endary,all  along  from 
brow  to  chin,  and  says :  "  I  give  you  this  breath, 
to  cause  to  germinate  and  become  alive  in  your 
heart  the  Truth  which  we  possess;  to  fortify- 
in  you  the,"  &c.,  &c. — "Guardian  of  the  new 
Knowledge  which  we  prepare  to  make  you 
partake  of,  by  the  sacred  names  oi  Helios,  Mene, 
Teiragromma'.on.^^ 

"  In  the  Essai  sur  les  Illumines,  printed  at  Paris 
in  1789,  I  read  that  these  latter  words  were  sug- 
gested to  Cagliostro  as  Arabic  or  Sacred  ones  by 
a  Sleight-of-hand  Man,  who  said  that  he  was  as- 
sisted by  a  spirit,  and  added  that  this  spirit  was 
the  Soul  of  a  Cabalist  Jew,  who  by  art-magic 
had  killed  his  pig  before  the  Christian  Advent." 

*  *  "They  take  a  young  lad,  or  a  girl  who 
is  in  the  state  of  innocence  :  such  they  call  the 
Pupil  or  the  Columb  ;  the  Venerable  communi- 
cates to  him  the  power  he  would  have  had  be- 
fore the  Fall  of  Man ;  which  power  consists 
mainly  in  commanding  the  pure  Spirits  ;  these 
Spirits  are  to  the  number  of  Seven:  if  is  said 
they  surround  the  Throne;  and  that  they  go- 
vern the  seven  Planets  :  their  names  are  Anael, 
Michael,  Raphael,  Gabriel,  Uriel,  Zobiachel, 
Anachiel." 


Or  would  the  reader  wish  to  see  this  Columb 
in  action]  She  can  act  in  two  ways  ;  either 
behind  a  curtain,  behind  a  hieroglyphically- 
painted  Screen  with  "  table  and  three  candles  ;" 
or  as  here  "before  the  Caraffe,"  and  showing 
face.  If  the  miracle  fail,  it  can  only  be  be- 
cause she  is  not"  in  the  state  of  innocence," — 
an  accidoiit  much  to  be  guarded  against.  This 
Scene  is  at  Mittau ; — we  find,  indeed,  that  it  is 
a  Pvpil  atlair,  not  a  Columb  one ;  but  for  the 
rest  that  is  perfectly  indifferent : 

"  Cagliostro  accordingly  (it  is  his  own  story 
still)  brought  a  little  Boy  into  the  Lodge ;  son 
of  a  nobleman  there.  He  placed  him  on  his 
knees  before  a  table,  whereon  stood  a  Bottle  of 
pure  water,  and  behind  this  some  lighted  can- 
dles :  he  made  an  exorcism  round  the  Boy,  put 
his  hand  on  his  head  ;  and  both,  in  this  attitude, 
addressed  their  prayers  to  God  for  the  happy 
accomplishment  of" the  work.  Having  then 
bid  the  child  look  into  the  Bottle,  directly  the 
child  cried  that  he  saw  a  garden.  Knowing 
hereby  that  Heaven  assisted  him,  Cagliostro 
took  Courage,  and  bade  the  child  ask  of  God 
the  grace  to  see  the  Angel  Michael.  At  first  the 
child  said :  '  I  see  something  white  ;  I  know  not 
what  it  is.'  Then  he  began  jumping,  stamp- 
ing like  a  possessed  creature,  and  cried: 
*  There  now  !  I  see  a  child,  like  myself,  that 
seems  to  have  something  angelical.'  All  the 
assembly,  and  Cagliostro  himself,  remained 
speechless  with  emotion.  *  *  *  The  child  being 
anew  exorcised,  with  the  hands  of  the  Venera- 
ble on  his  head,  and  the  customary  prayers 
addressed  to  Heaven,  he  looked  into  the  Bottle, 
and  said,  he  saw  his  sister  at  that  moment 
coming  down  stairs,  and  embracing  one  of  her 
brothers.  That  appeared  impossible,  the  bro- 
ther in  questicm  being  then  hundreds  of  miles 
off:  however,  Cagliostro  felt  not  disconcerted  ; 
said  they  might  send  to  the  country-house 
(where  the  sister  was)  and  see."* 

Wonderful  enough.  Here,  however,  a  fact 
rather  sudden  transpires,  which  (as  the  Inqui- 
sition Biographer  well  urges)  must  serve  to 
undeceive  all  believers  in  Cagliostro;  at  least, 
call  a  blush  into  their  cheeks.  It  seems  :  "The 
Grand  cophta,  the  restorer,  the  propagator 
of  Egyptian  Masonry,  Count  Cagliostro  him- 
self, testifies,  in  most  part  of  his  System,  the 
profoundest  respect  for  the  Patriarch  Moses : 
and  yet  this  same  Cagliostro  affirmed  before  his 
judges  that  he  had  always  felt  the  iusurmount- 
ablest  antipathy  to  Moses ;  and  attributes  this 
hatred  to  his  constant  opinion,  that  Moses  was 
a  thief  for  having  carried  off  the  Egyptian 
vessels;  which  opinion,  in  spite  of  all  the  lu- 
minous arguments  that  were  opposed  to  him 
to  show  how  erroneous  it  was,  he  has  conti- 
nued to  hold  with  an  invincible  obstinacy!" 
How  reconcile  these  two  inconsistencies  1  Aye, 
how] 

But  to  finish  off  this  Egyptian  Masonic  busi- 
ness, and  bring  it  all  lo  a  focus,  we  shall  now, 
for  the  first  and  for  the  last  time,  peep  one 
moment  through  the  spyglass  of  Monsieur  de 
Luchet,  in  that  Essai  sur  les  Illumines  of  his.  The 
whole  matter  being  so  much  of  a  chimera,  how 


*  F'ie  de  Joseph  Balsamo ;  traduite  d'apris  I'original 
lUUun.     (Paris,  1791.)  Ch.  u.  iu. 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


can  it  be  painted  otherwise  than  chimerically  ? 
Of  the  following  passage  one  thing  is  true,  that 
A  creature  of  the  seed  of  Adam  believed  it  to 
be  true.    List,  list,  then;  O  list! 

"The  Recipiendary  is  led  by  a  darksome 
path,  into  an  immense  hall,  the  ceiling,  the 
walls,  the  floor  of  which  are  covered  by  a  black 
cloth,  sprinkled  over  with  red  flames  and  me- 
nacing serpents:  three  sepulchral  lamps  emit, 
from  time  to  time,  a  dying  glimmer;  and  the 
eye  half  distinguishes,  in  this  lugubrious  den, 
certain  wrecks  of  mortality  suspended  by 
funereal  crapes :  aheap  of  skeletons  forms  in 
the  centre  a  sort  of  altar ;  on  both  sides  of  it 
are  piled  books ;  some  contain  menaces  against 
the  perjured;  others  the  deadly  narrative  of 
the  vengeances  which  the  Invisible  Spirit  has 
exacted  ;  of  the  infernal  evocations  for  a  long 
time  pronounced  in  vain. 

"  Eight  hours  elapse.  Then  Phantoms,  trail- 
ing mortuary  veils,  slowly  cross  the  hall,  and 
sink  in  caverns,  without  audible  noise  of  trap- 
doors or  of  falling.  You  notice  only  that  they 
are  gone,  by  a  fetid  odour  exhaled  from  them. 

"The  Novice  remains  four-and-twenty  hours 
in  this  gloomy  abode,  in  the  midst  of  a  freezing 
silence.  A  rigorous  fast  has  already  weakened 
his  thinking  faculties.  .  Liquors,  prepared  for 
the  purpose,  first  weary,  and  at  length  wear 
out  his  senses.  At  his  feet  are  placed  three 
cups,  filled  with  a  drink  of  greenish  colour. 
Necessity  lifts  them  towards  his  lips ;  invo- 
luntarily fear  repels  them. 

"  At  last  appears  two  men  ;  looked  upon  as 
the  ministers  of  death.  These  gird  the  pale  brow 
of  the  Recipiendary  with  an  auroral-coloured  ri- 
band, dipt  in  blood,  and  full  of  silvered  charac- 
ters mixed  with  the  figure  of  Our  Lady  of  Loretto. 
He  receives  a  copper  crucifix,  of  two  inches 
length;  to  his  neck  are  hung  a  sort  of  amulets, 
wrapped  in  violet  cloth.  He  is  stript  of  his 
clothes;  which  two  ministering  brethren  de- 
posit on  a  funeral  pile,  erected  at  the  other  end 
of  the  hall.  With  blood,  on  his  naked  body,  are 
traced  crosses.  In  this  state  of  suffering  and 
humiliation,  he  sees  approaching  with  large 
strides  five  Phantoms,  armed  with  swords,  and 
clad  in  garments  dropping  blood.  Their  faces 
are  veiled  :  they  spread  a  velvet  carpet  on  the 
floor;  kneel  there;  pray;  and  remain  with  out- 
stretched hands  crossed  on  their  breasts,  and 
face  fixed  on  the  ground,  in  deep  silence.  An 
hour  passes  in  this  painful  attitude.  After 
which  fatiguing  trial,  plaintive  cries  are  heard; 
the  funeral  pile  takes  fire,  yet  casts  only  a  pale 
light;  the  garments  are  thrown  on  it  and  burnt. 
A  colossal  and  almost  transparent  Figure  rises 
from  the  very  bosom  of  the  pile.  At  sight  of 
it,  the  five  prostrated  men  fall  into  convulsions 
insupportable  to  look  on:  the  too  faithful  image 
of  those  foaming  struggles  wherein  a  mortal  at 
handgrips  with  a  sudden  pain  ends  by  sinking 
under  it. 

"  Then  a  trembling  voice  pierces  the  vault, 
and  articulates  the  formula  of  those  execrable 
oaths  that  are  to  be  sworn  :  my  pen  falters  ;  I 
think  myself  almost  guilty  to  retrace  them." 

O  Luchet,  what  a  taking!  Is  there  no  hope 
left,  thinkest  thou  1  Thy  brain  is  all  gone  to 
addled  albumen;  help  seems  none,  if  not  in 
that  last  mother's-bosom  of  all  the  ruined: 


Brandy-and-water ! — An  unfeeling  world  may 
laugh  ;  but  ought  to  recollect  that,  forty  years 
ago,  these  things  were  sad  realities, — in  the 
heads  of  many  men. 

As  to  the  execrable  oaths,  this  seems  the 
main  one :  "  Honour  and  respect  jlqua  To/- 
fana,  as  a  sure,  prompt,  and  necessary  means 
of  purging  the  Globe,  by  the  death  or  the 
hebetation  of  such  as  endeavour  to  debase 
the  Truth,  or  snatch  it  from  our  hands."  And 
so  the  catastrophe  ends  by  bathing  our  poor 
half-dead  Recipiendary  first  in  blood,  then, 
after  some  genuflections,  in  water ;  and  "serv- 
ing him  a  repast  composed  of  roots, — we 
grieve  to  say,  mere  potatoes-and-point. 

Figure  now  all  this  boundless  cunningly 
devised  Agglomerate  of  royal-arches,  death's- 
heads,  hieroglyphically  painted  screens,  Co- 
lumbs" in  the  state  of  innocence;"  with  spa- 
cious masonic  halls,  dark,  or  in  the  favour- 
ablest  theatrical  light-and-dark  ;  Kircher's 
magic-lantern,  Belshazzar  hand-writings,  (of 
phosphorus ;)  "plaintive  tones,"  gong-beatings ; 
hoary  beard  of  a  supernatural  Grand  Cophta 
emerging  from  the  gloom ; — and  how  it  acts 
not  only  indirectly  through  the  foolish  senses 
of  men,  but  directly  on  their  Imagination ; 
connecting  itself  with  Enoch  and  Elias,  with 
Philanthropy,  Immortality,  Eleutheromania, 
and  Adam  Weisshaupt's  Illuminati,  and  so 
downwards  to  the  infinite  Deep :  figure  all 
this ;  and  in  the  centre  of  it,  sitting  eager  and 
alert,  the  skilfullest  Panourgos,  working  the 
mighty  chaos,  into  a  creation — of  ready  mo- 
ney. In  such  a  wide  plastic  ocean  of  sham 
and  foam  had  the  Archquack  now  happily  be- 
gun to  envelope  himself. 

Accordingly  he  goes  forth  prospering  and 
to  prosper.  Arrived  in  any  City,  he  has  but 
by  masonic  grip  to  accredit  himself  with  the 
Venerable  of  the  place;  and,  not  by  degrees 
as  formerly,  but  in  a  single  night,  is  introduced 
in  Grand  Lodge  to  all  that  is  fattest  and  fool- 
ishest  far  or  near ;  and  in  the  fittest  arena,  a 
gilt-pasteboard  Masonic  hall.  There  between 
the  two  pillars  of  Jachin  and  Boaz,  can  the 
great  Sheepstealer  see  his  whole  flock  (of 
Dupeables)  assembled  in  one  penfold;  affec- 
tionately blatant,  licking  the  hand  they  are  to 
bleed  by.  Victorious  Acharat-Beppo !  The 
genius  of  Amazement,  moreover,  has  now 
shed  her  glory  round  him  ;  he  is  radiant-head- 
ed, a  supernatural  by  his  very  gait.  Behold 
him  everywhere  welcomed  with  vivats,  or  in 
awe-struck  silence :  gilt-pasteboard  Freema- 
sons receive  him  under  the  Steel-Arch  (of 
crossed  sabres  ;)  he  mounts  to  the  Seat  of  the 
Venerable;  holds  high  discourse  hours  long 
on  Masonry,  Morality,  Universal  Science,  Di- 
vinity, and  Things  in  general,  with  "a  sub- 
limity, an  emphasis,  and  unction,"  proceeding, 
it  appears,  "from  the  special  inspiration  of 
the  Holy  Ghost."  Then  there  are  Egyptian 
Lodges  to  be  founded,  corresponded  with  (a 
thing  involving  expense;)  elementary  frac- 
tions of  many  a  priceless  arcanum  (nay,  if 
the  place  will  stand  it,  of  the  Pentagon  itself) 
can  be  given  to  the  purified  in  life :  how 
gladly  would  he  give  them,  but  they  have  to  be 
brought  from  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  world, 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


441 


and  cost  money.  Now,  too,  with  what  ten- 
fold impetuosity  do  all  the  old  trades  of  Egyp- 
tian Drops,  Beauty-waters,  Secret-favours,  ex- 
pand themselves,  and  rise  in  price !  Life- 
weary,  moneyed  Donothing,  this  seraphic 
Countess  is  Grand  Priestess  of  the  Eg)'ptian 
Female  Lodges  ;  has  a  touch  of  the  supra- 
mundane  Undine  in  her:  among  all  thy  in- 
trigues, hadst  thou  ever  yet  Endymion-like  an 
intrigue  with  the  lunar  Diana, — called  also 
Hecate  1  And  thou,  O  antique,  much-loving 
faded  ^Dowager,  this  Squire-of-dames  can  (it 
appears  probable)  command  the  Seven  Angels, 
Uriel,  Anachiel  and  Company ;  at  lowest,  has 
the  eyes  of  all  Europe  fixed  on  him ! — The 
dog  pockets  money  enough,  and  can  seem  to 
despise  money. 

To  us,  much  meditating  on  the  matter,  it 
seemed  perhaps  strangest  of  all,  how  Count 
Cagliostro,  received  under  the  Steel  Arch, 
could  hold  Discourses,  of  from  one  to  three 
hours  long,  on  Universal  Science,  of  such 
unction,  we  do  not  say  as  to  seem  inspired  by 
the  Holy  Spirit,  but  as  not  to  get  him  lugged 
out  of  doors,  (after  his  first  head  of  method,) 
and  drowned  in  whole  oceans  of  salt-and- 
water.  The  man  could  not  speak  ;  only  bab- 
ble in  long-winded  diffusions,  chaotic  circum- 
volutions tending  nowhither.  He  had  no 
thought  for  speaking  with  ;  he  had  not  even  a 
language.  His  Sicilian-Italian,  and  Laquais- 
de-Place  French,  garnished  with  shreds  from 
all  European  dialects,  was  wholly  intelligible 
to  no  mortal ;  a  Tower-of-Babel  jargon,  which 
made  many  think  him  a  kind  of  Jew.  But 
indeed,  with  the  language  of  Greeks,  or  of 
Angels,  what  better  were  it?  The  man  once 
for  all  has  no  articulate  utterance;  that  tongue 
of  his  emits  noises  enough,  but  no  speech. 
Let  him  begin  the  plainest  story,  his  stream 
stagnates  at  the  first  stage;  chafes  ("ahem! 
ahem!");  loses  itself  in  the  earth  ;  or,  burst- 
ing over,  flies  abroad  without  bank  or  chan- 
nel,— into  separate  plashes.  Not  a  stream, 
but  a  lake,  a  wide-spread  indefinite  marsh. 
His  whole  thought  is  confused,  inextricable; 
what  thought,  what  resemblance  of  thought 
he  has,  cannot  deliver  itself,  except  in  gasps, 
blustering  gushes,  spasmodic  refluences,  which 
made  bad  worse.  Bubble,  bubble,  toil  and 
trouble:  how  thou  bubblest,  foolish  "Bubbly- 
jock  !"  Hear  him  once,  (and  on  a  dead-lift 
occasion,)  as  the  Inquisition  Gurney  reports  it : 

"'I  mean,  and  I  wish  to  mean,  that  even  as 
those  who  honour  their  father  and  mother,  and 
respect  the  sovereign  Pontift",  are  blessed  of 
God ;  even  so  all  that  I  did,  I  did  it  by  the  or- 
der of  God,  with  the  power  which  he  vouch- 
safed me,  and  to  the  advantage  of  God  and  of 
Holy  Church  ;  and  I  mean  to  give  the  proofs 
of  all  that  I  have  done  and  said,  not  only  phy- 
sically but  morally,  by  showing  that  as  I  have 
served  God  for  God  and  by  the  power  of  God, 
he  has  given  me  at  last  the  counterpoison  to 
confound  and  combat  Hell ;  for  I  Icnow  no 
other  enemies  than  those  that  are  in  Hell,  and 
if  I  am  wrong  the  Holy  Father  will  punish 
me  ;  if  I  am  right  he  will  reward  me,  and  if 
the  Holy  Father  could  get  into  his  hands  to- 
night these  answers  of  mine,  I  predict  to  all 
brethren,  believers  and  unbelievers,  that  I 
56 


should  be  at  liberty  to-morrow  morning.'  Be- 
ing desired  to  give  these  proofs  then,  he  an- 
swered :  '  To  prove  that  I  have  been  chosea 
of  God  as  an  apostle  to  defend  and  propagate 
religion,  I  say  that  as  the  Holy  Church  has 
instituted  pastors  to  demonstrate  in  face  of 
the  world  that  she  is  the  true  Catholic  faith, 
even  so,  having  operated  with  approbation  and 
by  the  counsel  of  pastors  of  the  Holy  Church, 
I  am,  as  I  said,  fully  justified  in  regard  to  all 
my  operations  ;  and  these  pastors  have  as- 
sured me  that  my  Egyptian  Order  was  divine, 
and  deserved  to  be  formed  into  an  Order  sanc- 
tioned by  the  Holy  Father,  as  I  said  in  an- 
other interrogatory.'" 

How  then,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  said  we, 
could  such  a  babbling,  bubbling  Turkey-cock 
speak  "  with  unction  V 

Two  things  here  are  to  be  taken  into  account. 
First,  the  diflference  between  speaking  and 
public  speaking;  a  difference  altogether  ge- 
neric. Secondly,  the  wonderful  power  of  a 
certain  audacity,  (often  named  impudence.) 
Was  it  never  thy  hard  fortune,  good  Reader, 
to  attend  any  Meeting  convened  for  Public 
purposes ;  any  Bible  Society,  Reform,  Con- 
servative, Thatched-Tavern,  Hogg-Dinner,  or 
other  such  Meeting?  Thou  hast  seen  some 
full-fed  Long-ear,  by  free  determination,  or  on 
sweet  constraint,  start  to  his  legs  and  give 
voice.  Well  aware  wert  thou  that  there  was 
not,  had  not  been,  could  not  be,  in  that  entire 
ass-cranium  of  his  any  fraction  of  an  idea: 
nevertheless  mark  him.  If  at  first  an  omi- 
nous haze  flit  round,  and  nothing,  not  even  non- 
sense, dwell  in  his  recollection, — heed  it  not; 
let  him  but  plunge  desperately  on,  the  spell  is 
broken.  Common-places  enough  are  at  hand; 
"  labour  of  love,''  "  rights  of  suffering  mil- 
lions," "throne  and  altar,"  "divine  gift  of 
song,"  or  what  else  it  may  be :  the  Meeting,  by 
its  very  name,  has  environed  itself  in  a  given 
element  of  Common-place.  But  anon,  behold 
how  his  talking-organs  gets  heated,  and  the 
friction  vanishes ;  cheers,  applauses  (with  the 
previous  dinner  and  strong  drink)  raise  him 
to  the  height  of  noblest  temper.  And  now  (as 
for  your  vociferous  Dullard  is  easiest  of  all) 
let  him  keep  on  the  sofl,  safe  parallel  course, 
(parallel  to  the  Truth,  or  nearly  so;  for  Hea- 
ven's sake,  not  in  contact  with  it,)  no  obstacle 
will  meet  him;  on  the  favouring  "  given  ele- 
ment of  Common-place"  he  triumphantly  ca- 
reers. He  is  as  the  ass,  whom  you  took  and 
cast  headlong  into  the  water :  the  water  at 
first  threatens  to  swallow  him  ;  but  he  finds, 
to  his  astonishment,  that  he  can  sivim  therein, 
that  it  is  buoyant  and  bears  him  along.  One 
sole  condition  is  indispensable:  audacity,  (vul- 
garly called  impudence.)  Our  ass  must 
commit  himself  to  his  watery  "element;"  in 
free  daring,  strike  forth  his  four  limbs  from 
him:  then  shall  he  not  drown  and  sink,  but 
shoot  gloriously  forward,  and  swim,  to  the 
admiration  of  bystanders.  The  ass,  safe 
landed  on  the  other  bank,  shakes  his  rough 
hide,  wonderstruck  himself  at  the  faculty  that 
lay  in  him,  and  waves  joyfully  his  long  ears : 
so  too  the  public  speaker.  Cagliostro,  as  we 
know  him  of  old,  is  not  without  a  certain 
blubbery  oiliness,  (of  soul  as  of  body,)  with 


ms> 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


vehemence  lying  under  it;  has  the  volublest, 
noisiest  tongue;  and  in  the  audacity  vulgarly 
called  impudence  is  without  a  fellow.  The 
Common-places  of  such  Steel-Arch  Meetings 
are  soon  at  his  finger  ends:  that  same  blub- 
bery  oiliness  and  vehemence  lying  under  it 
(once  give  them  ^n  element  and  stimulus)  are 
the  very  gift  of  a  fluent  public  speaker — to 
Dupeables. 

Here  too  let  us  mention  a  circumstance,  not 
insignificant,  if  true,  which  it  may  readily 
enough  be.  In  younger  years,  Beppo  Balsamo 
once,  it  is  recorded,  took  some  pains  to  pro- 
cure, "  from  a  country  vicar,"  under  quite  false 
pretences, "  a  bit  of  cotton  steeped  in  holy  oils." 
What  could  such  bit  of  cotton  steeped  in  holy 
oils  do  for  himi  An  Unbeliever  from  any 
basis  of  conviction  the  unbelieving  Beppo 
could  never  be ;  but  solely  from  stupidity  and 
bad  morals.  Might  there  not  lie  in  that  chaotic 
blubbery  nature  of  his,  at  the  bottom  of  all,  a 
certain  musk-grain  of  real  Superstitious  Be- 
lief? How  wonderfully  such  a  musk-grain  of 
Belief  will  flavour,  and  impregnate  with  seduc- 
tive odour,  a  whole  inward  world  of  Quackery, 
so  that  every  fibre  thereof  shall  smell  nmsk,  is 
well  known.  No  Quack  can  persuade  like 
him  who  has  himself  some  persuasion.  Nay, 
so  wondrous  is  the  act  of  Believing,  Deception 
and  Self-deception  must,  rigorously  speaking, 
coexist  in  all  Quacks ;  and  he  perhaps  were 
definable  as  the  best  Quack,  in  whom  the 
smallest  musk-grain  of  the  latter  would  suf- 
ficiently flavour  the  largest  mass  of  the  former. 

But  indeed,  as  we  know  otherwise,  was 
there  not  in  Cagliostro  a  certain  pinchbeck 
counterfeit  of  all  that  is  golden  and  good  in 
man,  of  somewhat  even  that  is  best  1  Cheers, 
and  illuminated  hieroglyphs,  and  the  ravish- 
ment of  thronging  audiences,  can  make  him 
maudlin;  his  very  wickedness  of  practice  will 
render  him  louder  in  eloquence  of  theory; 
and  "philanthropy,"  "divine  science,"  "depth 
of  unknown  worlds,"  "  finer  feelings  of  the 
heart,"  and  such  like  shall  draw  tears  from 
most  asses  of  sensibility.  Neither,  indeed,  is 
it  of  moment  how/at?  his  elementary  Common- 
places are,  how  empty  his  head  is,  so  he  but 
agitate  it  well;  thus  a  lead  drop  or  two,  put 
into  the  emptiest  dry-bladder,  and  jingled  to 
and  fro,  will  make  noise  enough ;  and  even 
(if  skilfully  jingled)  a  kind  of  martial  music. 

Such  is  the  Cagliostric  palver,  that  bewitches 
all  manner  of  believing  souls.  If  the  ancient 
Father  was  named  Chrysostom,  or  Mouth-of- 
Gold,  be  the  modern  Quack  named  Pinch- 
becko-stom,  or  Mouth-of-Pinchbeck;  in  an 
Age  of  Bronze  such  metal  finds  elective  aflini- 
ties.  On  the  whole,  too,  it  is  worth  consider- 
ing what  element  your  Quack  specially  works 
in:  the  element  of  Wonder !  The  Genuine,  be 
he  artist  or  artisan,  works  in  the  finitude  of 
the  Known  ;  the  Quack  in  the  infinitude  of  the 
Unknown.  And  then  how,  in  rapidest  pro- 
gression, he  grows  and  advances,  once  start 
him !  "  Your  name  is  up,"  says  the  adage, 
"you  may  lie  in  bed."  A  nimbus  of  Renown 
and  preternatural  Astonishment  envelopes 
Cagliostro;  enchants  the  general  eye.  The 
few  reasoning  mortals,  scattered  here  and  there, 
that  see  through  him,  deafened  in  the  univer- 


sal hubbub,  shut  their  lips  in  sorrowful  dis- 
dain ;  confident  in  the  grand  remedy,  Time. 
The  Enchanter  meanwhile  rolls  on  his  way; 
what  boundless  materials  of  Deceptibility 
(which  are  two  mainly:  first, Ignorance, espe- 
cially Brute-mindedness,  the  natural  fruit  of 
religious  Unbelief;  then  Greediness)  exist  over 
Europe,  in  this  the  most  deceivable  of  modern 
ages,  are  stirred  up,  fermenting  in  his  behoof. 
He  careers  onward  as  a  Comet;  his  nucleus 
(of  paying  and  praising  Dupes)  embraces,  in 
long  radius,  what  city  and  province  he  rests 
over;  his  thinner  tail  (of  wondering  and 
curious  Dupes)  stretches  into  remotest  lands. 
Good  Lavater,  from  amid  his  Swiss  Mountains, 
could  say  of  him  :  "  Cagliostro,  a  man;  and  a 
man  such  as  few  are  ;  in  whom,  however,  I 
am  not  a  believer.  O  that  he  were  simple  of 
heart  and  humble,  like  a  child;  that  he  had 
,  feeling  for  the  simplicity  of  the  Gospel,  and 
the  majesty  of  the  Lord  (Hoheit  des  Hcrrn!) 
Who  were  so  great  as  he  ]  Cagliostro  often 
tells  what  is  not  true,  and  promises  what  he 
does  not  perform.  Yet  do  I  nowise  hold  his 
operations  as  deception,  though  they  are  not 
what  he  calls  them."*  If  good  Lavater  could 
so  say  of  him,  what  must  others  have  been 
saying ! 

Comet-wise,  progressing  with  loud  flourish 
of  kettledrums,  everywhere  under  the  Steel 
Arch,  evoking  spirits,  transmuting  metals  (to 
such  as  could  stand  it,)  the  Archquack  has 
traversed  Saxony ;  at  Leipsic  has  run  athwart 
the  hawser  of  a  brother  quack  (poor  SchrGpier, 
here  scarcely  recognisable  as  "  Sciefferi,'^)  and 
wrecked  him.  Through  Eastern  Germany, 
Prussian  Poland,  he  progresses;  and  so  now 
at  length  (in  the  spring  of  1780)  has  arrived 
at  Petersburgh.  His  pavilion  is  erected  here, 
his  flag  prosperously  hoisted:  Mason-lodges 
have  long  ears ;  he  is  distributing  (as  has  now 
become  his  wont)  Spagiric  Food,  medicine  for 
the  poor;  a  train-oil  Prince  Potemkin  (or 
something  like  him,  for  accounts  are  dubious) 
feels  his  chops  water  over  a  seraphic  Sera- 
phina :  all  goes  merry,  and  promises  the 
best.  But  in  those  despotic  countries  the  Police 
is  so  arbitrary !  Cagliostro's  thaumaturgy 
must  be  overhauled  by  the  Empress's  Physi- 
cian (Rogerson,  a  hard  Annandale  Scot ;)  is 
found  naught,  the  Spagiric  Food  unfit  for  a 
dog:  and  so,  the  whole  particulars  of  his  Lord- 
ship's conduct  being  put  together,  the  result  is 
that  he  must  leave  Petersburgh,  in  a  given 
brief  term  of  hours.  Happy  for  him  that  it  was 
so  brief:  scarcely  is  he  gone,  till  the  Prussian 
Ambassador  appears  with  a  complaint,  that  he 
has  falsely  assumed  the  Prussian  uniform  at 
Rome;  the  Spanish  Ambassador  with  a  still 
graver  complaint,  that  he  has  forged  bills  at 
Cadiz.  However,  he  is  safe  over  the  marches  ; 
let  them  complain  their  fill. 

In  Courland  and  in  Poland  great  things 
await  him  ;  yet  not  unalloyed  by  two  small  re- 
verses. The  famed  Countess  von  der  Recke, 
(a  born  Fair  Saint,  what  the  Germans  call 
Schone  Seek,)  as  yet  quite  young  in  heart  and 
experience,  but  broken  down  with  grief  for  de- 


*Lettre  du  Comte  Mirabeau  sur  Cagliostro  et  Lavater 
(Berlin,  1~S6     P.  42.) 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


44^ 


parted  friends,  seeks  to  question  the  world- 
famous  Spirit-summoner  on  the  secrets  of 
the  Invisible  Kingdoms;  whither,  with  fond, 
strained  eyes,  she  is  incessantly  looking.  The 
galimathias  of  Pinchbecko-stom  cannot  impose 
on  this  pure-minded  simple  woman:  she  re- 
cognises the  Quack  in  him,  (and  in  a  printed 
Book  makes  known  the  same :)  Mephisto's 
mortifying  experience  with  Margaret,  as  above 
foretold,  renews  itself  for  Cagliostro.*  At 
Warsaw  too,  though  he  discourses  on  Egyptian 
Masonry,  on  Medical  Philosophy,  and  the  igno- 
rance of  Doctors,  and  performs  successfully 
with  Pupil  and  Columb,  a  certain  "  Count  M." 
cherishes  more  than  doubt ;  which  ends  in 
certainty,  in  a  written  Cagliostro  Unmasked. 
The  Archquack,  triumphant,  sumptuously 
feasted  in  the  city,  has  retired  with  a  chosen 
set  of  believers,  with  whom,  however,  was  this 
unbelieving  "  M.,"  into  the  country,  to  transmute 
metals,  to  prepare  perhaps  the  Pentagon  itself. 
All  that  night,  before  leaving  Warsaw,  "our 
dear  Master"  had  spent  conversing  with  spirits. 
Spirits!  cries  "M.:"  Not  he;  but  melting 
ducats:  he  has  melted  a  mass  of  them  in  this 
crucible,  which  now,  by  sleight  of  hand,  he 
would  fain  substitute  for  that  other,  filled  as 
you  all  saw,  with  red-lead,  carefully  luted  down, 
smelted,  set  to  cool,  smuggled  from  among 
our  hands,  and  now  (look  at  it,  ye  asses!) 
— found  broken  and  hidden  among  these 
bushes  !  Neither  does  the  Pentagon,  or  Elixir 
of  Life,  or  whatever  it  was,  prosper  better. 
"  Our  sweet  Master  enters  into  expostulation  ;" 
"swears  by  his  great  God,  and  his  honour, 
that  he  will  finish  the  work  and  make  us  happy. 
He  carries  his  modesty  so  far  as  to  propose 
that  he  shall  work  with  chains  on  his  feet; 
and  consents  to  lose  his  life,  by  the  hands  of 
his  disciples,  if  before  the  end  of  the  fourth 
passage,  his  word  be  not  made  good.  He  lays 
his  hand  on  the  ground,  and  kisses  it;  holds 
it  up  to  Heaven,  and  again  takes  God  to  wit- 
ness that  he  speaks  true ;  calls  on  him  to  ex- 
terminate him  if  he  lies."  A  vision  of  the 
hoary-bearded  Grand  Cophta  himself  makes 
night  solemn.  In  vain !  The  sherds  of  that 
broken  red-lead  crucible  (which  pretends  to 
stand  here  unbroken  half-full  of  silver)  lie 
there,  before  your  eyes  :  that  "resemblance  of  a 
sleeping  child,"  grown  visible  in  the  magic 
cooking  of  our  Elixir,  proves  to  be  an  inserted 
rosemary-leaf:  the  Grand  Cophta  cannot  be 
gone  too  soon. 

Count  "  M."  balancing  towards  the  opposite 
extreme,  even  thinks  him  inadequate  as  a 
Quack. 

"Far  from  being  modest,"  says  this  Un- 
masker,  "he  brags  beyond  expression,  in  any- 
body's presence,  especially  in  women's,  of  the 
grand  faculties  he  possesses.  Every  word  is 
an  exaggeration,  or  a  statement  you  feel  to  be 
improbable.  The  smallest  contradiction  puts 
him  in  fury:  his  vanity  breaks  through  on  all 
sides ;  he  lets  you  give  him  a  festival  that  sets 
the  whole  city  a-talking.  Most  impostors  are 
supple,  and  endeavour  to  gain  friends.  This 
one,  you  might  say,  studies  to  appear  arrogant, 
to  make  all  men  enemies,  by  his  rude  injurious 


♦  Zeitjrenossen,  No.  XV.  {  Frau  von  der  Ruk$. 


speeches,  by  the  squabbles  and  grudges  he  in- 
troduces among  friends."  "He  quarrels  with 
his  coadjutors  for  trifles  ;  fancies  that  a  simple 
giving  of  the  lie  will  persuade  the  public  that 
they  are  liars."  "Schropfer  at  Leipsic  was 
far  cleverer."  "  He  should  get  some  ventrilo- 
quist for  assistant :  should  read  some  Books 
of  Chemistry ;  study  the  tricks  of  Philadelphia 
and  Comus."* 

Fair  advices,  good  "  M. ;"  but  do  not  yon 
yourself  admit  that  he  has  a  "natural  genius 
for  deception ;"  above  all  things,  "  a  forehead 
of  brass,  (front  d'airain,)  which  nothing  can  dis- 
concert?" To  such  a  genius,  and  such  a  brow, 
Comus  and  Philadelphia,  and  all  the  ventrilo- 
quists in  Nature,  can  add  little.  Give  the 
Archquack  his  due.  These  arrogancies  of 
his  prove  only  that  he  is  mounted  on  his  high 
horse,  and  has  now  the  world  under  him. 

Such  reverses  (occurring  in  the  lot  of  every 
man)  are,  for  our  Cagliostro,  but  as  specks  in 
the  blaze  of  the  meridian  Sun.  With  undim- 
med  lustre  he  is,  as  heretofore,  handed  over 
from  this  "Prince  P."  to  that  "Prince  Q." 
among  which  high  believing  potentates,  what 
is  an  incredulous  "Count  M."?"  His  pockets 
are  distended  with  ducats  and  diamonds:  he 
is  off  to  Vienna,  to  Frankfort,  to  Strasburg,  by 
extra  post;  and  there  also  will  work  miracles. 
"  The  train  he  commonly  took  with  him,"  says 
the  Inquisition  Biographer,  "  corresponded  to 
the  rest ;  he  always  travelled  post,  with  a  con- 
siderable suite:  couriers,  lackeys,  body-ser- 
vants, domestics  of  all  sorts,  sumptuously 
dressed,  gave  an  air  of  reality  to  the  high  birth 
he  vaunted.  The  very  liveries  he  got  made 
at  Paris  cost  twenty  Louis  each.  Apartments 
furnished  in  the  height  of  the  mode;  a  magni- 
ficent table,  open  to  numerous  guests;  rich 
dresses  for  himself  and  his  wife,  corresponded 
to  this  luxurious  way  of  life.  His  feigned 
generosity  likewise  made  a  great  noise.  Often 
he  gratuitously  doctored  the  poor,  and  even 
gave  them  alms."f 

In  the  inside  of  all  this  splendid  travelling 
and  lodging  economy,  are  to  be  seen,  as  we 
know,  two  suspicious-looking  rouged  or  un- 
rouged  figures,  of  a  Count  and  a  Countess ; 
lolling  on  their  cushions  there,  with  a  jaded, 
haggard  kind  of  aspect,  they  eye  one  another 
sullenly,  in  silence,  with  a  scarce-suppressed 
indignation ;  for  each  thinks  the  other  does 
not  work  enough  and  eats  too  much.  Whether 
Dame  Lorenza  followed  her  peculiar  side  of 
the  business  with  reluctance  or  with  free 
alacrity,  is  a  moot-point  among  Biographers: 
not  so,  that,  with  her  choleric  adipose  Arch- 
quack, she  had  a  sour  life  of  it,  and  brawl- 
ing abounded.  If  we  look  still  further  in- 
wards, and  try  to  penetrate  the  inmost  self- 
consciousness  (what  in  another  man  would  be 
called  the  conscience)  of  the  Archquack  him- 
self, the  view  gets  most  uncertain  ;  little  or 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  a  thick  fallacious  haze. 
Which  indeed  »ms  the  main  thing  extant  there. 
Much  in  the  Count  Front-d'airain  remains 
dubious;  yet  hardly  this:  his  want  of  clear 
insight  into  any  thing,  most  of  all  into  his  own 

*  Cagliostro  Mmasqu6  it  Varsttvie,  en  1780.     (Paris, 
1786.)     P.  35  et  seq. 
t  Fie  de  Joseph  Balsamo,  p.  41. 


444 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


inner  man.  Cunning  in  the  supreme  degree 
he  has ;  intellect  next  to  none.  Nay,  is  not 
cunning  (couple  it  with  an  esurient  character) 
the  natural  consequence  of  defective  intellect. 
It  is  properly  the  vehement  exercise  of  a  short, 
poor  vision;  of  an  intellect  sunk,  bemired ; 
which  can  attain  to  no  free  vision,  otherwise 
it  would  lead  the  esurient  man  to  be  honest. 

Meanwhile  gleams  of  muddy  light  will  occa- 
sionally visit  all  mortals ;  every  living  creature 
(according  to  Milton,  the  very  Devil)  has  some 
more  or  less  faint  resemblance  of  a  Con- 
science; must  make  inwardly  certain  auricular 
confessions,  absolutions,  professions  of  faith, 
— were  it  only  that  he  does  not  yet  quite 
loathe,  and  so  proceed  to  hang  himself.  What 
such  a  Porcus  as  Cagliostro  might  specially 
feel,  affd  think,  and  be,  were  difficult  in  any 
case  to  say;  much  more  when  contradiction 
and  mystification,  designed  and  unavoidable, 
so  involve  the  matter.  One  of  the  most 
authentic  documents  preserved  of  him  is  the 
Picture  of  his  Visage.  An  Effigies  once  uni- 
versally diffused ;  in  oil-paint,  aquatint,  marble, 
stucco,  and  perhaps  gingerbread,  decorating 
millions  of  apartments  :  of  which  remarkable 
Effigies  one  copy,  engraved  in  the  line-manner, 
happily  still  lies  here.  Fittest  of  visages; 
worthy  to  be  worn  by  the  Quack  of  Quacks  ! 
A  most  portentous  face  of  scoundrelism:  a  fat, 
snub,  abominable  face  ;  dew-lapped,  flat-nosed, 
greasy,  full  of  greediness,  sensuality,  oxlike 
obstinacy;  a  forehead  impudent,  refusing  to 
be  ashamed ;  and  then  two  eyes  turned  up 
seraphically  languishing,  as  in  divine  con- 
templation and  adoration;  a  touch  of  quiz 
too:  on  the  whole,  perhaps  the  most  perfect 
quack-face  produced  by  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. There  he  sits,  and  seraphically  lan- 
guishes, with  this  epigraph: 

De  VAmi  des  Humains  reconaissez  les  traits  : 

Tous  ses  jours  sont  marquis  par  de  nouveaux  biertfaits, 

Jl  prolong-e  la  vie,  il  secourt  Vindigence  ; 

Le  plaisir  d'dtre  utile  est  seul  sa  recompense. 

A  probable  conjecture  were  that  this  same 
Theosophy,  Theophilanthropy,  Solacement  of 
the  Poor,  to  which  our  Archquack  now  more 
and  more  betook  himself,  might  serve  not  only 
as  bird-lime  for  external  game,  but  also  half- 
unconsciously  as  salve  for  assuaging  his  own 
spiritual  sores.  Am  not  I  a  charitable  man  1 
could  the  Archquack  say :  if  I  have  erred 
myself,  have  I  not,  by  theosophic  unctuous 
discourses,  removed  much  cause  of  error? 
The  lying,  the  quackery,  what  are  these  but 
the  method  of  accommodating  yourself  to  the 
temper  of  men  ;  of  getting  their  ear,  their  dull 
long  ear,  which  Honesty  had  no  chance  to 
catch?  Nay,  at  worst,  is  not  this  an  unjust 
world;  full  of  nothing  but  beasts  of  prey,  four- 
footed  or  two-footed  ]  Nature  has  commanded, 
saying:  Man,  help  thyself.  Ought  not  the 
man  of  my  genius,  since  he  was  not  born  a 
Prince,  since  in  these  scandalous  times  he  has 
not  been  elected  a  Prince,  to  make  himself 
one  1  If  not  by  open  violence,  (for  which  he 
wants  military  force  ;)  then  surely  by  superior 
science,— exercised  in  a  private  way.  Heal 
the  diseases  of  the  Poor,  the  far  deeper  dis- 
eases of  the  ignorant:  in  a  word,  found 
Egyptian  Lodges,  and  get  the  means  of  found- 


ing them. — By  such  soliloquies  can  Count 
Front-of-brass  Pinchbecko-stom,  in  rare  atra- 
biliar  hours  of  self-questioning,  compose  him- 
self. For  the  rest,  such  hours  are  rare :  the 
Count  is  a  man  of  action  and  digestion,  not  of 
self-questioning;  usually  the  day  brings  its 
abundant  task;  there  is  no  time  for  abstrac- 
tions,— of  the  metaphysical  sort. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Count  has  arrived  at 
Strasburg;  is  working  higher  wonders  than 
ever.  At  Strasburg,  indeed,  (in  the  year  1783,) 
occurs  his  apotheosis :  what  we  can  call  the 
culmination  and  Fourth  Act  of  his  Life-drama. 
He  was  here  for  a  number  of  months  ;  in  full 
blossom  and  radiance,  the  envy  and  admira- 
tion of  the  world.  In  large  hired  hospitals, 
he  with  open  drug-box,  (containing  "Extract 
of  Saturn,")  and  even  with  open  purse,  re- 
lieves the  suffering  poor;  unfolds  himself 
lamblike,  angelic  to  a  believing  few,  of  the 
rich  classes  ;  turns  a  silent  minatory  lion-face 
to  unbelievers,  were  they  of  the  richest.  Medi- 
cal miracles  have  in  all  times  been  common: 
but  what  miracle  is  this  of  an  Oriental  or  Oc- 
cidental Serene-Excellence  that,  "  regardless 
of  expense,"  employs  himself  not  in  preserving 
game,  but  in  curing  sickness,  in  illuminating 
ignorance  1  Behold  how  he  dives,  at  noon- 
day, into  the  infectious  hovels  of  the  mean; 
and  on  the  equipages,  haughtinesses,  and  even 
dinner-invitations,  turns  only  his  negatory 
front-of-brass  !  The  Prince  Cardinal  de  Rohan, 
Archbishop  of  Strasburg,  first-class  Peer  of 
France,  of  the  Blood-royal  of  Brittany,  inti- 
mates a  wish  to  see  him ;  he  answers :  "  If 
Monseigneur  the  Cardinal  is  sick,  let  him 
come,  and  I  will  cure  him :  if  he  is  well,  he 
has  no  need  of  me,  I  none  of  him."*  Heaven, 
meanwhile,  has  sent  him  a  few  disciples;  by  a 
nice  tact,  he  knows  his  man  ;  to  one  speaks 
only  of  Spagiric  Medicine,  Downfal  of  tyranny, 
and  the  Egyptian  Lodge ;  to  another,  of  quite 
high  matters,  beyond  this  diurnal  sphere  ;  of 
visits  from  the  Angel  of  Light,  visits  from  him 
of  Darkness ;  passing  a  Statue  of  Christ,  he 
will  pause  with  a  wondrously  accented  plain- 
tive "  Ha  !"  as  of  recognition,  as  of  thousand- 
years  remembrance ;  and  when  questioned, 
sink  into  mysterious  silence.  Is  he  the  Wan- 
dering Jew,  then  1  Heaven  knows  !  At  Stras- 
burg, in  a  word.  Fortune  not  only  smiles  but 
laughs  upon  him :  as  crowning  favour,  he 
finds  here  the  richest,  inflammablest,  most 
open-handed  Dupe  ever  yet  vouchsafed  him ; 
no  other  than  this  same  many-titled  Louis  de 
Rohan  ;  strong  in  whose  favour,  he  can  laugh 
again  at  Fortune. 

Let  the  curious  reader  look  at  him,  for  an 
instant  or  two,  through  the  eyes  of  two  eye- 
witnesses ;  the  Abbe  Georgel,  (Prince  Louis's 
diplomatic  Factotum,)  and  Herr  Meiners,  the 
Giittingen  Professor : 

"  Admitted  at  length,"  says  our  too-prosing 
Jesuit  Abbe,  to  the  sanctuary  of  this  -^scula- 
pius.  Prince  Louis  saw,  according  to  his  own 
account,  in  the  incommunicative  man's  phy- 
siognomy, something  so  dignified,  so  imposing, 
that  he  felt  penetrated  with  a  religious  awe, 
and   reverence   dictated   his  address.     Their 


♦  Mimoires  de  VAbb^  Oeorgel,  ii.  48. 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


449 


interview,  which  was  brief,  excited  more  keenly 
than  ever  his  desire  of  farther  acquaintance. 
He  attained  it  at  length :  and  the  crafty  em- 
piric graduated  so  cunningly  his  words  and 
procedure,  that  he  gained,  without  appearing 
to  court  it,  the  Cardinal's  entire  confidence, 
and  the  greatest  ascendency  over  his  will. 
'  Your  soul,'  said  he  one  day  to  the  Prince,  'is 
worthy  of  mine  ;  you  deserve  to  be  made  par- 
ticipator of  all  my  secrets.'  Such  an  avowal 
captivated  the  whole  faculties,  intellectual  and 
moral,  of  a  man  who  at  all  times  had  hunted 
after  secrets  of  alchemy  and  botany.  From 
this  moment  their  union  became  intimate  and 
public :  Cagliostro  went  and  established  him- 
self at  Saverne,  while  his  Eminence  was  re- 
siding there ;  their  solitary  interviews  were 
long  and  frequent."  *  ♦  «  I  remember  once, 
having  learnt,  by  a  sure  way,  that  Baron  de 
Planta  (his  Eminence's  man  of  aflairs)  had 
frequent,  most  expensive  orgies,  in  the  Archi- 
episcopal  Palace,  where  Tokay  wine  ran  like 
water,  to  regale  Cagliostro  and  his  pretended 
wife,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  inform  the  Cardi- 
nal; his  answer  was,  'I  know  it;  I  have  even 
authorized  him  to  commit  abuses,  if  he  judge 
fit.'"  *  *  "He  came  at  last  to  have  no 
other  will  than  Cagliostro's :  and  to  such  a 
length  had  it  gone,  that  this  sham  Egyptian, 
finding  it  good  to  quit  Strasburg  for  a  time,  and 
retire  into  Switzerland,  the  Cardinal,  apprized 
thereof,  despatched  his  Secretary  as  well  to 
attend  him,  as  to  obtain  Predictions  from  him; 
such  were  transmitted  in  cipher  to  the  Cardi- 
nal on  every  point  he  needed  to  consult  of."* — 

"  Before  ever  I  arrived  in  Strasburg,"  (hear 
now  the  as  prosing  Protestant  Professor,)  "  I 
knew  almost  to  a  certainty  that  I  should  not 
see  Count  Cagliostro :  at  least,  not  get  to 
speak  with  him.  From  many  persons  I  had 
heard  that  he,  on  no  account,  received  visits 
from  curious  Travellers,  in  a  state  of  health ; 
that  such  as,  without  being  sick,  appeared  in 
his  audiences  were  sure  to  be  treated  by  him, 
in  the  brutalest  way,  as  spies."  *  *  "Never- 
theless, though  I  saw  not  this  new  god  of 
Physic  near  at  hand  and  deliberately,  but  only 
for  a  moment  as  he  rolled  on  in  a  rapid  car- 
riage, I  fancy  myself  to  be  better  acquainted 
with  him  than  many  who  have  lived  in  his  so- 
ciety for  months."  "  My  unavoidable  convic- 
tion is,  that  Count  Cagliostro,  from  of  old,  has 
been  more  of  a  cheat  than  an  enthusiast ;  and 
also  that  he  continues  a  cheat  to  this  day. 

"As  to  his  country,  I  have  ascertained  no- 
thing. Some  make  him  a  Spaniard,  others  a 
Jew,  or  an  Italian,  or  a  Ragusan  ;  or  even  an 
Arab,  who  had  persuaded  some  Asiatic  Prince 
to  send  his  son  to  travel  in  Europe,  and  then 
murdered  the  youth,  and  taken  possession  of 
his  treasures.  As  the  self-styled  Count  speaks 
badly  all  the  languages  you  hear  from  him,  and 
has  most  likely  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  under  feigned  names  far  from  home,  it  is 
probable  enough  no  sure  trace  of  his  origin 
may  ever  be  discovered. 

"  On  his  first  appearance  in  Strasburg  he 
connected  himself  with  the  Freemasons  ;  but 

*  Georgcl,  ubi  supra. 


only  till  he  felt  strong  enough  to  stand  by  him- 
self: he  soon  gained  the  favour  of  the  Praetor 
and  the  Cardinal ;  and  through  these  the  favour 
of  the  Court,  to  such  a  degree  that  his  adver- 
saries cannot  so  much  as  think  of  overthrow- 
ing him.  With  the  Praetor  and  Cardinal  he  is 
said  to  demean  himself  as  with  persons  who 
were  under  boundless  obligation  to  him,  to 
whom  he  was  under  none :  the  equipage  of 
the  Cardinal  he  seems  to  use  as  freely  as  his 
own.  He  pretends  that  he  can  recognise  Athe- 
ists or  Blasphemers  by  the  smell ;  ihat  the  va- 
pour from  such  throws  him  into  epileptic  fits  ; 
into  which  sacred  disorder  he,  like  a  true  jug- 
gler, has  the  art  of  falling  when  he  likes.  In 
public  he  no  longer  vaunts  of  rule  over  spi- 
rits, or  other  magical  arts ;  but  I  know,  even 
as  certainly,  that  he  still  pretends  to  evoke 
spirits,  and  by  their  help  and  apparition  to  heal 
diseases,  as  I  know  this  other  fact,  that  he  un- 
derstands no  more  of  the  human  system,  or 
the  nature  of  its  diseases,  or  the  use  of  the 
commonest  therapeutic  methods,  than  any 
other  quack. 

"According  to  the  crediblest  accounts  of 
persons  who  have  long  observed  him,  he  is  a 
man  to  an  inconceivable  degree  choleric,  (hef- 
tig,)  heedless,  inconstant;  and  therefore  doubt- 
less it  was  the  happiest  idea  he  ever  in  his 
whole  life  came  upon,  this  of  making  himself 
inaccessible;  of  raising  the  most  obstinate  re- 
serve as  a  bulwark  round  him  ;  without  which 
precaution  he  must  long  ago  have  been  caught 
at  fault. 

"  For  his  own  labour  he  takes  neither  pay- 
ment nor  present ;  when  presents  are  made 
him  of  such  sort  as  cannot  without  oflfence  be 
refused,  he  forthwith  returns  some  counter- 
present,  of  equal  or  still  higher  value.  Nay 
he  not  only  takes  nothing  from  his  patients, 
but  frequently  admits  them,  months  long,  to 
his  house  and  his  table,  and  will  not  consent 
to  the  smallest  recompense.  With  all  this  dis- 
interestedness, (conspicuous  enough,  as  you 
may  suppose,)  he  lives  in  an  expensive  way, 
plays  deep,  loses  almost  constantly  to  ladies  ; 
so  that,  according  to  the  very  lowest  estimate, 
he  must  require  at  least  20,000  livres  a  year. 
The  darkness  which  Caligostro  has,  on  pur- 
pose, spread  over  the  sources  of  his  income 
and  outlay,  contributes  even  more  than  his 
munificence  and  miraculous  cures  to  the  no- 
tion that  he  is  a  divine  extraordinary  man, 
who  has  watched  Nature  in  her  deepest  opera- 
tions, and  among  other  secrets  stolen  that  of 
Gold-making  from  her."  *  *  "With  a  mix- 
ture of  sorrow  and  indignation  over  our  age, 
I  have  to  record  that  this  man  has  found  ac- 
ceptance, not  only  among  the  great,  who  from 
of  old  have  been  the  easiest  bewitched  by  such, 
but  also  with  many  of  the  learned,  and  even 
physicians  and  naturalists."* 

Halcyon  days ;  only  too  good  to  continue ! 
All  glory  runs  its  course;  has  its  culmina- 
tion, and  then  its  often  precipitous  decline. 
Eminence  Rohan,  with  fervid  temper  and  small 
instruction,  perhaps  of  dissolute,  certainly  of 
dishonest  manners,  in  whom  the  faculty  of 
Wonder  had  attained  such  prodigious  develop- 


*  Meiners :  Briefe  uber  die  Sehweiz,  (as  quoted  in  JV^ 
rabeau.) 

2P 


446 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ment,  -was  indeed  the  very  stranded  whale  for 
jackals  to  feed  on :  unhappily,  however,  no 
one  jackal  could  long  be  left  in  solitary  pos- 
session of  him.  A  sharper-toothed  she-jackal 
now  strikes  in ;  bites  infinitely  deeper ;  strand- 
ed whale  and  he-jackal  both  are  like  to  be- 
come her  prey.  A  young  French  Mantua- 
maker,  "Countess  de  La  Motte-Valoise,  de- 
scended from  Henry  II.  by  the  bastard  line," 
without  Extract  of  Saturn,  Egyptian  Masonry, 
or  any  (verbal)  conference  with  Dark  Angels, 
— has  genius  enough  to  get  her  finger  in  the 
Archquack's  rich  Hermetic  Projection,  appro- 
priate the  golden  proceeds,  and  even  finall)'- 
break  the  crucible.  Prince  Cardinal  Louis  de 
Rohan  is  off"  to  Paris,  under  her  guidance,  to 
see  the  long-invisible  Queen,  (or  Queen's  Ap- 
parition ;)  to  pick  up  the  Rose  in  the  Garden 
of  Trianon,  dropt  by  her  fair  sham-royal  hand ; 
and  then — descend  rapidly  to  the  Devil,  and 
drag  Cagliostro  along  with  him. 

The  intelligent  reader  observes,  we  have 
now  arrived  at  that  stupendous  business  of  the 
Diamond  Necklace:  into  the  dark  complexities 
of  which  we  need  not  here  do  more  than 
glance:  who  knows  but,  next  month,  our  His- 
torical Chapter,  written  specially  on  this  sub- 
ject, may  itself  see  the  light?  Enough,  for 
the  present,  if  we  fancy  vividly  the  poor  whale 
Cardinal,  so  deep  in  the  adventure  thatGrand- 
Cophtic  "predictions  transmitted  in  cipher" 
will  no  longer  illuminate  him;  but  the  Grand 
Cophta  must  leave  all  masonic  or  other  busi- 
ness, happily  begun  in  Naples,  Bourdeaux, 
Lyons,  and  come  personally  to  Paris  with  pre- 
dictions at  first  hand.  "The  new  Calchas," 
says  poor  Abbe  Georgel,  "must  have  read  the 
entrails  of  his  victim  ill ;  for,  on  issuing  from 
these  communications  with  the  Angel  of  Light 
and  of  Darkness,  he  prophesied  to  the  Cardi- 
nal that  this  happy  correspondence"  (with  the 
Queen's  Similitude)  "  would  place  him  at  the 
highest  point  of  favour;  that  his  influence  in 
the  Government  would  soon  become  para- 
mount ;  that  he  would  use  it  for  the  propagation 
of  good  principles,  the  glory  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  and  the  happiness  of  Frenchmen."  The 
new  Calchas  was  indeed  at  fault:  but  how 
could  he  be  otherwise"?  Let  these  high  Queen's 
favours,  and  all  terrestrial  shiftings  of  the 
wind,  turn  as  they  will,  his  reign,  he  can  well 
see,  is  appointed  to  be  temporary:  in  the  mean 
while,  Tokay  flows  like  water;  prophecies  of 
good,  not  of  evil,  are  the  method  to  keep  it 
flowing.  Thus  if,  for  Circe  de  La  Motte-Valoise, 
the  Egyptian  Masonry  is  but  a  foolish  enchanted 
cup  to  turn  her  fat  Cardinal  into  a  quadruped 
withal,  she  herself  converse-wise,  for  the 
Grand  Cophta,  is  one  who  must  ever  fodder 
said  quadruped  (with  Court  Hopes,)  and  stall- 
feed  him  fatter  and  falter, — it  is  expected  for 
the  knife  of  both  parties.  They  are  mutually 
useful ;  live  in  peace,  and  Tokay  festivity, 
though  mutually  suspicious,  mutually  con- 
temptuous. So  stand  matters,  through  the 
spring  and  summer  months  of  the  year  1785. 

But  fancy  next  that, — while  Tokay  is  flow- 
ing within  doors,  and  abroad  Egyptian  Lodges 
are  getting  founded,  and  gold  and  glory,  from 
Paris  as  from  other  cities,  supernaturally 
coming  in, — the  latter  end  of  August  has  ar- 


rived, and  with  it  Commissary  Chesnon,  to 
lodge  the  whole  unholy  Brotherhood,  from  Car- 
dinal down  to  Sham-queen,  in  separate  cells  of 
the  Bastille  !  There,  for  nine  long  months, 
let  them  howl  and  wail  (in  bass  or  treble  ;) 
and  emit  the  falsest  of  false  Memoires ;  among 
which  that  Memoire  pour  le  Comle  de  Cagliostro, 
e:i  presence  dcs  autres  Co-Jlccuses,  with  its  Trebi- 
sond  Acharats,  Scherifs  of  Mecca,  and  Na- 
ture's unfortunate  Child,  all  gravely  printed 
with  French  types  in  the  year  1786,  may  well 
bear  the  palm.  Fancy  that  Necklace  or  Dia- 
monds will  nowhere  unearth  themselves;  that 
the  Tuileries  Palace  sits  struck  with  astonish- 
ment, and  speechless  chagrin;  that  Paris,  that 
all  Europe,  is  ringing  M'ith  the  wonder.  That 
Count  Front-of-brass  Pinchbecko-stom,  con- 
fronted, at  the  judgment  bar,  with  a  shrill,  glib 
Circe  de  La  Motte,  has  need  of  all  his  elo- 
quence ;  that  nevertheless  the  Front-of-brass 
prevails,  and  exasperated  Circe  "  throws  a 
candlestick  at  him."  Finally,  that  on  the  31st 
of  May,  1786,  the  assembled  Parliament  of 
Paris,  "at  nine  in  the  evening,  after  a  sitting 
of  eighteen  hours,"  has  solemnly  pronounced 
judgment:  and  now  that  Cardinal  Louis  is 
gone  "  to  his  estates;"  Countess  de  La  Motte 
is  shaven  on  the  head,  branded  with  red-hot- 
iron,  "V"  (Voleuse)  on  both  shoulders,  and 
confined  for  life  to  the  Salpetriere;  her  Count 
wandering  uncertain,  with  diamonds  for  sale, 
over  the  British  Empire;  the  Sieur  de  Viliette 
(for  handling  a  queen's  pen)  banished  for 
ever;  the  too  queenlike  Demoiselle  Gay  d'Oli- 
va  (with  her  unfathered  infant)  "  put  out  of 
Court ;" — and  Grand  Cophta  Cagliostro  libera- 
ted, indeed,  but  pillaged,  and  ordered  forthwith 
to  take  himself  away.  His  disciples  illuminate 
their  windows ;  but  what  does  that  avail  1 
Commissary  Chesnon,  Bastille-Governor  Lau- 
nay  cannot  recollect  the  least  particular  of 
those  priceless  effects,  those  gold-rouleaus,  re- 
peating watches  of  his:  he  must  even  retire 
to  Passy  that  very  night;  and  two  days  after- 
wards, sees  nothing  for  it  but  Boulogne  and 
England.  Thus  does  the  miserable  pickle- 
herring  tragedy  of  the  Diamond  Necklace  wind 
itself  up,  and  wind  Cagliostro  once  more  to  in- 
hospitable shores. 

A  rri ved  here,  and  lodged  tolerably  in  "  Sloane 
Street,  Knightsbridge,"  by  the  aid  of  Mr.  (Broken 
Wine-merchant  Apothecary)  Swinton,  to  whom 
he  carries  introductions,  he  can  drive  a  small 
trade  in  Egyptian  pills,  (sold  in  Paris  at  thirty 
shillings  the  dram  ;)  in  unctuously  discoursing 
to  Egyptian  Lodges ;  in  "  giving  public  audi- 
ences as  at  Strasburg," — if  so  be  any  one  will 
bite.  At  all  events,  he  can, by  the  aid  of  ama- 
nuensis-disciples, compose  and  publish  his 
Lettre  au  Peuple  Anglais;  setting  forth  his  un- 
heard-of generosities,  unheard-of  injustices  suf- 
fered (in  a  world  not  worthy  of  him)  at  the  hands 
of  English  Lawyers,  Bastille  Governors,  French 
Counts,  and  others  ;  his  Lettre  anx  Frangais, 
singing  to  the  same  tune,  predicting  too  (what 
many  inspired  Editors  had  already  boded)  that 
"the  Bastille  would  be  destroyed"  and  "a 
King  would  come  who  should  govern  by 
States-General."  But,  alas,  the  shafts  of  Criti- 
cism are  busy  with  him;  so  many  hostile  eyes 
look  towards  him:  the  world,  in  short,  is  get- 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


447 


ting  too  hot  for  him.  Mark,  nevertheless,  how 
the  brow  of  brass  quails  not ;  nay  a  touch  of 
his  old  poetic  Humour,  even  in  this  sad  crisis, 
unexpectedly  unfolds  itself.  One  Morande, 
Editor  of  a  Courier  de  V Europe  published  here 
at  that  period,  has  for  some  time  made  it  his 
distinction  to  be  the  foremost  of  Cagliostro's 
enemies.  Cagliostro  (enduring  much  in  si- 
lence) happens  once,  in  some  "  public  audi- 
ence," to  mention  a  practice  he  had  witnessed 
in  Arabia  the  Stony:  the  people  there,  it  seems, 
are  in  the  habit  of  fattening  a  few  pigs  annual- 
ly, on  provender  mixed  with  arsenic ;  where- 
by the  whole  pig-carcase  by  and  by  becomes, 
so  to  speak,  arsenical;  the  arsenical  pigs  are 
then  let  loose  into  the  woods  ;  eaten  by  lions, 
leopards,  and  other  ferocious  creatures;  which 
latter  naturally  all  die  in  consequence,  and  so 
the  woods  are  cleared  of  them.  This  adroit 
practice  the  Sieur  Morande  thought  a  proper 
subject  for  banter;  and  accordingly,  in  his 
Seventeenth  and  two  following  Numbers,  made 
merry  enough  with  it.  Whereupon  CountFront> 
of-brass,  whose  patience  has  limits,  writes  as 
Advertisement  (still  to  be  read  in  old  files  of 
the  Public  Advertiser,  under  date  September  3, 
1786)  a  French  Letter,  not  without  causticity 
and  aristocratic  disdain ;  challenging  the  witty 
Sieur  to  breakfast  with  him,  for  the  9th  of 
November  next,  in  the  face  of  the  world,  on  an 
actual  Sucking  Pig,  fattened  by  Cagliostro, 
but  cooked,  carved,  and  selected  from  by  the 
Sieur  Morande, — under  bet  of  Five  Thousand 
Guineas  sterling  that  next  morning  thereafter, 
he  the  Sieur  Morande  shall  be  dead,  and  Count 
Cagliostro  be  alive  !  The  poor  Sieur  durst  not 
cry,  Done  ;  and  backed  out  of  the  transaction, 
making  wry  faces.  Thus  does  a  kind  of  red 
coppery  splendour  encircle  our  Archquack's 
decline  ;  thus  with  brow  of  brass,  grim  smiling, 
does  he  meet  his  destiny. 

But  suppose  we  should  now,  from  these 
foreign  scenes,  turn  homewards,  for  a  moment, 
into  the  native  alley  in  Palermo!  Palermo, 
with  its  dinginess,  its  mud  or  dust;  the  old 
black  Balsamo  House,  the  very  beds  and  chairs, 
all  are  still  standing  there :  and  Beppo  has 
altered  so  strangely,  has  wandered  so  far  away. 
Let  us  look ;  for  happily  we  have  the  fairest 
opportunity. 

In  April,  1787,  Palermo  contained  a  Travel- 
ler of  a  thousand ;  no  other  than  the  great 
Goethe  from  Weimar.  At  his  Table-d'hote  he 
heard  much  of  Cagliostro  ;  at  length  also  of  a 
certain  Palermo  Lawyer,  who  had  been  engaged 
by  the  French  Government  to  draw  up  an  au- 
thentic genealogy  and  memoir  of  him.  This 
Lawyer,  and  even  the  rude  draught  of  his 
Memoir,  he  with  little  dithculty  gels  to  see; 
inquires  next  whether  it  were  not  possible  to 
see  the  actual  Balsamo  Family,  whereof  it  ap- 
pears the  mother  and  a  widowed  sister  still 
survive.  For  this  matter,  however,  the  Lawyer 
can  do  nothing;  only  refer  him  to  his  Clerk; 
who  again  starts  difficulties  :  To  get  at  those 
genealogic  Documents  he  has  been  obliged 
to  invent  some  story  of  a  Government  Pension 
being  in  the  wind  for  those  poor  Balsamos ; 
and  now  that  the  whole  matter  is  finished,  and 
the  Paper  sent  off  to  France,  has  nothing  so 
much  at  heart  as  to  keep  out  of  their  way : 


"So  said  the  Clerk.  However,  as  I  could 
not  abandon  my  purpose,  we  after  some  study 
concerted  that  I  should  give  myself  out  for  an 
Englishman,  and  bring  the  family  news  of 
Cagliostro,  who  had  lately  got  out  of  the  Bas- 
tille, and  gone  to  London. 

"  At  the  appointed  hour,  it  might  be  three  in 
the  afternoon,  we  set  forth.  The  house  lay  in 
the  corner  of  an  Alley,  not  far  from  the  main- 
street  named  II  Casuro.  We  ascended  a  mise- 
rable stair,  and  came  straight  into  the  kitchen. 
A  woman  of  middle  stature,  broad  and  stout, 
yet  not  corpulent,  stood  busy  washing  the 
kitchen  dishes.  She  was  decently  dressed ; 
and,  on  our  entrance,  turned  up  the  one  end 
of  her  apron,  to  hide  the  soiled  side  from  us. 
She  joyfully  recognised  ray  conductor,  and 
said :  '  Signor  Giovanni,  do  you  bring  us 
good  news  1     Have  you  made  out  any  thing  ]' 

"  He  answered:  'In  our  affair,  nothing  yet: 
but  here  is  a  Stranger  that  brings  a  salutation 
from  your  Brother,  and  can  tell  you  how  he  is 
at  present.' 

"  The  salutation  I  was  to  bring  stood  not  in 
our  agreement:  meanwhile,  one  way  or  other, 
the  introduction  was  accomplished.  *  You 
know  my  Brother  V  inquired  she. — ♦  All  Europe 
knows  him,'  answered  I;  'and  I  fancied  it 
would  gratify  you  to  hear  that  he  is  now  in 
safety  and  well ;  as,  of  late,  no  doubt  you  have 
been  anxious  about  him.' — '  Step  in,'  said  she, 
*I  will  follow  you  directly;' and  with  the  Clerk 
I  entered  the  room. 

"  It  was  large  and  high;  and  might,  with  us, 
have  passed  for  a  saloon ;  it  seemed,  indeed, 
to  be  almost  the  sole  lodging  of  the  family.  A 
single  window  lighted  the  large  walls,  which 
had  once  had  colour;  and  on  which  were  black 
pictures  of  saints,  in  gilt  frames,  hanging 
round.  Two  large  beds,  without  curtains,  stood 
at  one  wall;  a  brown  press,  in  the  form  of  a 
writing-desk,  at  the  other.  Old  rush-bottomed 
chairs,  the  backs  of  which  had  once  been  gilt, 
stood  by;  and  the  tiles  of  the  floor  were  in 
many  places  worn  deep  into  hollows.  For  the 
rest,  all  was  cleanly;  and  we  approached  the 
family,  which  sat  assembled  at  the  one  win- 
dow, in  the  other  end  of  the  apartment. 

"  Whilst  my  guide  was  explaining,  to  the 
old  Widow  Balsamo,  the  purpose  of  our  visit, 
and  by  reason  of  her  deafness  must  repeat  his 
words  several  limes  aloud,  I  had  time  to  ob- 
serve the  chamber  and  the  other  persons  in  it. 
A  girl  of  about  sixteen,  well  formed,  whose 
features  had  become  uncertain  by  small-pox, 
stood  at  the  window  ;  beside  her  a  young  man, 
whose  disagreeable  look,  deformed  by  the  same 
disease,  also  struck  me.  In  an  easy-chair, 
right  before  the  window,  sat  or  rather  lay  a 
sick,  much  disshapen  person,  who  appeared  to 
labour  under  a  sort  of  lethargy. 

"  My  guide  having  made  himself  understood, 
we  were  invited  to  take  seats.  The  old  woman 
put  some  questions  to  me  ;  which,  however,  I 
had  to  get  interpreted  before  I  could  answer 
them,  the  Sicilian  dialect  not  being  quite  at  my 
command. 

"Meanwhile  I  looked  at  the  aged  widow 
with  satisfaction.  She  was  of  middle  stature, 
but  well-shaped;  over  her  regular  features, 
which  age  had  not  deformed,  lay  that  sort  of 


448 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


peace  usual  with  people  that  have  lost  their 
hearing ;  the  tone  of  her  voice  was  soft  and 
agreeable. 

"  I  answered  her  questions ;  and  my  an- 
swers also  had  again  to  be  interpreted  for 
her. 

"  The  slowness  of  our  conversation  gave  me 
leisure  to  measure  my  words.  I  told  her  that 
her  son  had  been  acquitted  in  France,  and 
was  at  present  in  England,  where  he  met  with 
good  reception.  Her  joy,  which  she  testified 
at  these  tidings,  was  mixed  with  expressions 
of  a  heartfelt  piety ;  and  as  she  now  spoke  a 
little  louder  and  slower,  I  could  the  better 
understand  her. 

"  In  the  mean  time,  the  daughter  had  en- 
tered, and  taken  her  seat  beside  my  conductor, 
who  repeated  to  her  faithfully  what  I  had  been 
narrating.  She  had  put  on  a  clean  apron  ;  had 
set  her  hair  in  order  under  the  net-cap.  The 
more  I  looked  at  her,  and  compared  her  with 
her  mother,  the  more  striking  became  the  dif- 
ference of  the  two  figures.  A  vivacious,  healthy 
Sensualism  (Sinnlichkeit)  beamed  forth  from 
the  whole  structure  of  the  daughter :  she  might 
be  a  woman  of  about  forty.  With  brisk  blue 
eyes,  she  looked  sharply  round;  yet  in  her 
look  I  could  trace  no  suspicion.  When  she 
sat,  her  figure  promised  more  height  than  it 
showed  when  she  rose :  her  posture  was  de- 
terminate, she  sat  with  her  body  leaned  for- 
wards, the  hands  resting  on  the  knees.  For 
the  rest,  her  physiognomy,  more  of  the  snubby 
than  the  sharp  son,  reminded  me  of  her  Bro- 
ther's Portrait,  familiar  to  us  in  engravings. 
She  asked  me  several  things  about  my  journey, 
my  purpose  to  see  Sicily  ;  and  was  convinced 
I  would  come  back,  and  celebrate  the  Feast  of 
Saint  Rosalia  with  them. 

"  As  the  grandmother,  meanwhile,  had  again 
put  some  questions  to  me,  and  I  was  busy 
answering  her,  the  daughter  kept  speaking  to 
my  companion  half-aloud,  yet  so  that  I  could 
take  occasion  to  ask  what  it  was.  He  an- 
swered :  Signora  Capitummino  was  telling 
him  that  her  Brother  owed  her  fourteen  gold 
Ounces ;  on  his  sudden  departure  from  Palermo, 
she  had  redeemed  several  things  for  him  that 
were  in  pawn;  but  never  since  that  day  had 
either  heard  from  him,  or  got  money  or  any 
other  help,  though  it  was  said  he  had  great 
riches,  and  made  a  princely  outlay.  Now 
would  not  I  perhaps  undertake,  on  my  return, 
to  remind  him,  in  a  handsome  way,  of  the 
debt,  and  procure  some  assistance  for  her; 
nay,  would  I  not  carry  a  Letter  with  me,  or  at 
all  events  get  it  carried  1  I  offered  to  do  so. 
She  asked  where  I  lodged,  whither  she  must 
send  the  Letter  to  me  1  I  avoided  naming  my 
abode,  and  offered  to  call  next  day  towards 
night,  and  receive  the  letter  myself. 

"  She  thereupon  described  to  me  her  unto- 
ward situation :  how  she  was  a  widow  with 
three  children,  of  whom  the  one  girl  was  get- 
ting educated  in  a  convent,  the  other  was  here 
present,  and  her  son  just  gone  out  to  his  les- 
son. How,  beside  these  three  children,  she 
had  her  mother  to  maintain ;  and  moreover 
out  of  Christian  love  had  taken  the  unhappy 
sick  person  there  to  her  house,  whereby  the 
burden  was  heavier :    how  all  her  industry 


would  scarcely  suffice  to  get  necessaries  for 
herself  and  hers.  She  knew  indeed  that  God 
did  not  leave  good  works  unrewarded ;  yet 
must  sigh  very  sore  under  the  load  she  had 
long  borne. 

"  The  young  people  mixed  in  the  dialogue, 
and  our  conversation  grew  livelier.  While 
speaking  with  the  others,  I  could  hear  the  good 
old  widow  ask  her  daughter:  If  I  belonged, 
then,  to  their  holy  Religion  1  I  remarked  also 
that  the  daughter  strove,  in  a  prudent  way,  to 
avoid  an  answer;  signifying  to  her  mother,  so 
far  as  I  could  take  it  up :  that  the  Stranger 
seemed  to  have  a  kind  feeling  towards  them; 
and  that  it  was  not  well-bred  to  question  any 
one  straightway  on  that  point. 

"As  they  heard  that  I  was  soon  to  leave 
Palermo,  they  became  more  pressing,  and  im- 
portuned me  to  come  back;  especially  vaunt- 
ing the  paradisaic  days  of  the  Rosalia  Festival, 
the  like  of  which  was  not  to  be  seen  and  tasted 
in  all  the  world. 

"  My  attendant,  who  had  long  been  anxious 
to  get  off,  at  last  put  an  end  to  the  interview 
by  his  gestures;  and  I  promised  to  return  on 
the  morrow  evening,  and  take  the  letter. 
My  attendant  expressed  his  joy  that  all  had 
gone  off  so  well,  and  we  parted  mutually  con- 
tent. 

"  You  may  fancy  the  impression  this  poor 
and  pious,  well-dispositioned  family  had  made 
on  me.  My  curiosity  was  satisfied  ;  but  their 
natural  and  worthy  bearing  had  raised  an 
interest  in  me,  which  reflection  did  but  in- 
crease. 

"  Forthwith,  however,  there  arose  from  me 
anxieties  about  the  following  day.  It  was 
natural  that  this  appearance  of  mine,  which  at 
the  first  moment  had  taken  them  by  surprise, 
should,  after  my  departure,  awaken  many  re- 
flections. By  the  Genealogy  I  knew  that 
several  others  of  the  family  were  in  life :  it 
was  natural  that  they  should  call  their  friends 
together,  and  in  the  presence  of  all,  get  these 
things  repeated  which,  the  day  before,  they 
had  heard  from  me  with  admiration.  My  ob- 
ject was  attained ;  there  remained  nothing 
more  than,  in  some  good  fashion,  to  end  the 
adventure.  I  accordingly  repaired  next  day, 
directly  after  dinner,  alone  to  their  house. 
They  expressed  surprise  as  I  entered.  The 
Letter  was  not  ready  yet,  they  said;  and  some 
of  their  relations  wished  to  make  my  acquaint- 
ance, who  towards  night  would  be  there. 

"  I  answered  that  having  to  set  off"  to-morrow 
morning,  and  visits  still  to  pay,  and  packing 
to  transact,  I  had  thought  it  better  to  come 
early  than  not  at  all. 

"  Meanwhile  the  son  entered,  whom  yester- 
day I  had  not  seen.  He  resembled  his  sister 
in  size  and  figure.  He  brought  the  Letter  they 
were  to  give  me ;  he  had,  as  is  common  in 
those  parts,  got  it  written  out  of  doors,  by  one 
of  their  Notaries  that  sit  publicly  to  do  such 
things.  The  young  man  had  a  still,  melan- 
choly, and  modest  aspect;  inquired  after  his 
Uncle,  asked  about  his  riches  and  outlays,  and 
added  sorrowfully.  Why  had  he  so  forgotten 
his  kindred  1  *  It  were  our  greatest  fortune,' 
continued  he, 'should  he  once  return  hither, 
and  take  notice  of  us;  but,'  continued  he,  'how 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


443 


came  he  to  let  you  know  that  he  had  relatives 
in  Palermo?  It  is  said,  he  everywhere  denies 
us,  and  gives  himself  out  for  a  man  of  great 
birih.*  I  answered  this  question,  which  had 
now  arisen  by  the  imprudence  of  my  Guide  at 
our  first  entrance,  in  such  sort  as  to  make  it 
seem  that  the  Uncle,  though  he  might  have 
reasons  for  concealing  his  birth  from  the 
public,  did  yet,  towards  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintance, keep  it  no  secret. 

"  The  sister,  who  had  come  up  during  this 
dialogue,  and  by  the  presence  of  her  brother, 
perhaps  also  by  the  absence  of  her  yesterday's 
friend,  had  got  more  courage,  began  also  to 
speak  with  much  grace  and  liveliness.  They 
begged  me  earnestly  to  recommend  them  to 
their  Uncle,  if  I  wrote  to  him ;  and  not  less 
earnestly,  when  once  I  should  have  made  this 
journey  through  the  Island,  to  come  back  and 
pass  the  Rosalia  Festival  with  them. 

"The  mother  spoke  in  accordance  with  her 
children.  'Sir,'  said  she,  *  though  it  is  not 
seemly,  as  I  have  a  grown  daughter,  to  see 
stranger  gentlemen  in  my  house,  and  one  has 
cause  to  guard  against  both  danger  and  evil- 
speaking,  yet  shall  you  ever  be  welcome  to  us, 
when  you  return  to  this  city.' 

"'O  yes,'  answered  the  young  ones,  *  we 
will  lead  the  Gentleman  all  round  the  Festival : 
we  will  show  him  every  thing,  get  a  place  on 
the  scaffolds,  where  the  grand  sights  are  seen 
best.  What  will  he  say  to  the  great  Chariot, 
and  more  than  all,  to  the  glorious  Illumina- 
tion !' 

"  Meanwhile  the  Grandmother  had  read  the 
letter  and  again  read  it.  Hearing  that  I  was 
iabout  to  take  leave,  she  arose,  and  gave  me 
the  folded  sheet.  'Tell  my  son,'  began  she 
with  a  noble  vivacity,  nay,  with  a  sort  of  in- 
spiration, '  Tell  ray  son  how  happy  the  news 
have  made  me,  which  you  brought  from  him  ! 
Tell  him  that  I  clasp  him  to  my  heart' — here 
she  stretched  out  her  arms  asunder,  and  press- 
ed them  again  together  on  her  breast — '  that  I 
daily  beseech  God  and  our  Holy  Virgin  for  him 
in  prayer ;  that  I  give  him  and  his  wife  my 
blessing ;  and  that  I  wish  before  my  end  to  see 
him  again,  with  these  eyes,  which  have  shed 
so  many  tears  for  him.' 

"  The  peculiar  grace  of  the  Italian  tongue 
favoured  the  choice  and  noble  arrangement  of 
these  words,  which  moreover  were  accom- 
panied with  lively  gestures,  wherewith  that 
nation  can  add  such  a  charm  to  spoken 
words. 

"  I  took  my  leave,  not  without  emotion. 
They  all  gave  me  their  hands ;  the  children 
showed  me  out;  and  as  I  went  down  stairs, 
they  jumped  to  the  balcony  of  the  kitchen 
window,  which  projected  over  the  street; 
called  after  me,  threw  me  salutes,  and  repeat- 
ed, that  I  must  in  no  wise  forget  to  come  back. 
I  saw  them  still  on  the  balcony,  when  I  turned 
the  corner."* 

Poor  old  Felicita,  and  must  thy  pious  pray- 
ers, thy  motherly  blessings,  and  so  many  tears 
shed  by  those  old  eyes,  he  all  in  vain  !  To 
thyself,  in  any  case,  they  were  blessed. — As 
for  the  Signora  Capituijimino,  with  her  three 

*  Quetbe'a  H'erke,  {Italianische  Reise,)  xxviii.  146. 
67 


fatherless  children,  we  can  believe  at  least, 
that  the  fourteen  gold  Ounces  were  paid,  by  a 
sure  hand,  and  so  her  heavy  burden,  for  some 
space,  lightened  a  little. 

Count  Cagliostro,  all  this  while,  is  rapidly 
proceeding  with  his  Fifth  Act;  the  red  cop- 
pery splendour  darkens  more  and  more  into 
final  gloom.  Some  boiling  muddle-heads  of  a 
dupeable  sort  there  still  are  in  England: 
Popish-Riot  Lord  George,  for  instance,  will 
walk  with  him  to  Count  Barthelemy's,  or 
d'Adhemar's;  and,  in  bad  French  and  worse 
rhetoric,  abuse  the  Queen  of  France  :  but  what 
does  it  profit  1  Lord  George  must  one  day 
(after  noise  enough)  revisit  Newgate  for  it; 
and  in  the  meanwhile,  hard  words  pay  no 
scores.  Apothecary  Swinton  begins  to  get 
wearisome  ;  French  spies  look  ominously  in; 
Egyptian  Pills  are  slack  of  sale ;  the  old  vul- 
turous Attorney-host  anew  scents  carrion,  is 
bestirring  itself  anew:  Count  Cagliostro,  in 
the  May  of  1787,  must  once  more  leave  Eng- 
land. But  whither?  Ah,  whither!  At  Bale, 
at  Bienne,  over  Switzerland,  the  game  is  up. 
At  Aix  in  Savoy,  there  are  baths,  but  no  gud- 
geons in  them  :  at  Turin,  his  Majesty  of  Sar- 
dinia meets  you  with  an  Order  to  begone  on 
the  instant.  A  like  fate  from  the  Emperor 
Joseph  at  Roveredo ; — before  the  Liber  memori- 
alis  de  Caleostro  dum  essct  Roboretti  could  extend 
to  many  pages !  Count  Front-of-brass  begins 
confessing  himself  to  priests:  yet  "at  Trent 
paints  a  new  hieroglyphic  Screen," — touching 
last  flicker  of  a  light  that  once  burnt  so  high  ! 
He  pawns  diamond  buckles ;  wanders  neces- 
sitous hither  and  thither  ;  repents,  unrepents ; 
knows  not  what  to  do.  For  Destiny  has  her 
nets  round  him  ;  they  are  straitening,  straiten- 
ing; too  soon  he  will  be  ginned! 

Driven  out  from  Trent,  what  shall  he  make 
of  the  new  hieroglyphic  Screen,  what  of  him- 
self] The  way-worn  Grand-Cophtess  has  begun 
to  blab  family  secrets ;  she  longs  to  be  in  Rome, 
by  her  mother's  hearth,  by  her  mother's  grave ; 
in  any  nook,  where  so  much  as  the  shadow  of 
refuge  waits  her.  To  the  desperate  Count 
Front-of-brass  all  places  are  nearly  alike: 
urged  by  a  female  babble,  he  will  go  to  Rome 
then;  why  not?  On  a  May-day,  of  the  year 
1789,  (when  such  glorious  work  had  just  begun 
in  France,  to  him  all  forbidden  !)  he  enters  the 
Eternal  City:  it  was  his  doom-summons  that 
called  him  thither.  On  the  29th  of  next  De- 
cember, the  Holy  Inquisition,  long  watchful 
enough,  detects  him  founding  some  feeble 
(moneyless)  ghost  of  an  Egyptian  Lodge ; 
"picks  him  off,"  (as  the  military  say,)  and 
locks  him  hard  and  fast  in  the  Castle  of  St. 
Angelo : 

yoi  ch'  intrate  lasciat'  ogni  speranza  I 

Count  Cagliostro  did  not  lose  all  hope: 
nevertheless  a  few  words  will  now  suffice  for 
him.  In  vain,  with  his  mouth  of  pinchbeck  and 
his  front  of  brass,  does  he  heap  chimera  on  chi- 
mera; demand  religious  Books,  (which  are 
freely  given  him  :)  demand  clean  Linen,  and  an 
interview  with  his  Wife,  (which  are  refused 
him ;)  assert  now  that  the  Egyptian  Masonry 
is  a  divine  system,  accommodated  to  erring  and 
gullible  men,  which  the  Holy  Father,  when  he 
2  p  3 


460 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


knows  it,  will  patronize ;  anon  that  there  are 
some  four  millions  of  Freemasons,  spread  over 
Europe,  all  sworn  to  exterminate  Priest  and 
King,  wherever  met  with  :  in  vain  !  they  will 
not  acquit  him,  as  misunderstood  Theophilan- 
thropist ;  will  not  emit  him,  in  Pope's  pay,  as 
renegade  Masonic  Spy :  "  he  can't  get  out." 
Donna  Lorenza  languishes,  invisible  to  him,  in 
a  neighbouring  cell ;  begins  at  length  to  con- 
fess! Whereupon  he  too,  in  torrents,  will 
emit  confessions  and  forestall  her :  these  the 
Inquisition  pocket  and  sift  (whence  this  Life 
of  Balsamo)  ;  but  will  not  let  him  out.  In  fine, 
after  some  eighteen  months  of  the  weariest 
hounding,  doubling,  worrying,  and  standing  at 
ba}^  His  Holiness  gives  sentence  :  The  Manu- 
script of  Egyptian  Masonry  is  to  be  burnt  by 
hand  of  the  common  Hangman,  and  all  that  in- 
termeddle with  such  Masonry  are  accursed ; 
Giuseppe  Balsamo,  justly  forfeited  of  life,  (for 
being  a  Freemason,)  shall  nevertheless  in 
mercy  be  forgiven;  instructed  in  the  duties 
of  penitence,  and  even  kept  safe  thenceforth 
and  till  death, — in  ward  of  Holy  Church.  Ill- 
starred  Acharat,  must  it  so  end  with  thee! 
This  was  in  April,  1791. 

He  addressed  (how  vainly !)  an  appeal  to 
the  French  Constituent  Assembly.  As  was 
said,  in  Heaven,  in  Earth,  or  in  Hell  there  was 
no  Assembly  that  could  well  take  his  part. 
For  four  years  more,  spent  one  knows  not 
how, — most  probably  in  the  furor  of  edacity, 
with  insufficient  cookery,  and  the  stupor  of  in- 
digestion,— the  curtain  lazily  falls.  There 
rotted  and  gave  way  the  cordage  of  a  tough 
heart.  One  summer  morning  of  the  year  1795, 
the  Body  of  Cagliostro  is  still  found  in  the 
prison  at  St.  Leo  •,  but  Cagliostro's  Self  has 
escaped, — whither  no  man  yet  knows.  The 
brow  of  brass,  behold  how  it  has  got  all  un- 
lackered ;  these  pinchbeck  lips  can  lie  no 
more  i  Cagliostro's  work  is  ended,  and  now 
only  his  account  to  present.  As  the  Scherif  of 
Mecca  said,  "Nature's  unfortunate  child, 
adieu !" 

Such,  according  to  our  comprehension  there- 
of, is  the  rise,  progress,  grandeur,  and  deca- 
dence of  the  Quack  of  Quacks.  Does  the  reader 
ask.  What  good  was  in  it.  Why  occupy  his 
time  and  hours  with  the  biography  of  such  a 
miscreant  1  We  answer,  It  was  stated  on  the 
very  threshold  of  this  matter,  in  the  loftiest 
terms,  by  Herr  Sauerteig,  that  the  Lives  of  all 
Eminent  Persons  (miscreant  or  creant)  ought 
to  be  written.  Thus  has  not  the  very  Devil 
his  Life,  deservedly  written  not  by  Daniel  De- 
foe only,  but  by  quite  other  hands  than  Da- 


niel's 1  For  the  rest,  the  Thing  represented 
on  these  pages  is  no  sham,  but  a  Reality ;  thou 
hast  it,  O  reader,  as  we  have  it:  Nature  was 
pleased  to  produce  even  such  a  man,  even  so, 
not  otherwise;  and  the  Editor  of  this  Maga- 
zine is  here  mainly  to  record  (in  an  adequate 
manner)  what  she,  of  her  thousandfold  myste- 
rious richness  and  greatness,  produces. 

But  the  moral  lesson?  Where  is  the  moral 
lesson  ]  Foolish  reader,  in  every  Reality,  nay 
in  every  genuine  Shadow  of  a  Reality,  (what 
we  call  Poem,)  there  lie  a  hundred  such,  or  a 
million  such,  according  as  thou  hast  the  eye  to 
read  them  !  Of  which  hundred  or  million 
lying  here  (in  the  present  Reality,)  couldst  not 
thou,  for  example,  be  advised  to  take  this  one, 
to  thee,  worth  all  the  rest:  Behold,  I  too  have 
attained  that  immeasurable,  mysterious  glory 
of  being  alive;  to  me  also  a  Capability  has 
been  intrusted:  shall  I  strive  to  work  it  out 
(manlike)  into  Faithfulness,  and  Doing;  or 
(quacklike)into  Eatableness,  and  Similitude  of 
Doing  1  Or  why  not  rather  (gigman-like,  and 
following  the  *'  respectable,"  countless  multi- 
tude)— into  both?  The  decision  is  of  quite  in- 
finite moment;    see  thou  make  it  aright. 

But  in  fine,  look  at  this  matter  of  Cagliostro 
(as  at  all  matters)  with  thy  heart,  with  thy 
whole  mind;  no  longer  merely  squint  at  it  with 
the  poor  side-glance  of  thy  calculative  faculty 
Look  at  it  not  logically  only,  but  mystically. 
Thou  shall  in  sober  truth  see  it  (as  Sauerteig 
asserted)  to  be  a  "Pasquillant  verse,"  of  most 
inspired  writing  in  its  kind,  in  that  same 
"  Grand  Bible  of  Universal  History ;"  won- 
drously  and  even  indispensably  connected  with 
the  " Heroic"  portions  that  stand  there;  even 
as  the  all-showing  Light  is  with  the  Darkness 
wherein  nothing  can  be  seen ;  as  the  hideous 
taloned  roots  are  with  the  fair  boughs,  and  their 
leaves  and  flowers  and  fruit;  both  of  which, 
and  not  one  of  which,  make  the  Tree.  Think 
also  whether  thou  hast  known  no  Public 
Quacks,  on  far  higher  scale  than  this,  whom  a 
Castle  of  St.  Angelo  never  could  get  hold  of; 
and  how,  as  Emperors,  Chancellors,  (having 
found  much  fitter  machinery,)  they  could  run 
their  Quack-career ;  and  make  whole  kingdoms, 
whole  continents,  into  one  huge  Egyptian 
Lodge,  and  squeeze  supplies,  of  money  or 
blood,  from  it,  at  discretion?  Also,  whether 
thou  even  now  knowest  not  Private  Quacks, 
innumerable  as  the  sea-sands,  toiling  half-Ca.g- 
liostrically,  of  whom  Cagliostro  is  as  the 
ideal  type-specimen  ]  Such  is  the  world.  Un- 
derstand it,  despise  it,  love  it;  cheerfully  hold 
on  thy  way  through  it,  with  thy  eye  on  higher 
loadstars ! 


DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  EDWARD  IRVING. 


4U 


DEATH  OF  THE  REV,  EDWARD  IRVING. 


[Fraser's  Magazine,  1835.] 


Edward  Irving's  warfare  has  closed  ;  if  not 
in  victory,  yet  in  invincibility,  and  faithful  en- 
durance to  the  end.  The  Spirit  of  the  Time, 
which  could  not  enlist  him  as  its  soldier,  must 
needs,  in  all  ways,  fight  against  him  as  its  ene- 
my: it  has  done  its  part,  and  he  has  done  his. 
One  of  the  noblest  natures — a  man  of  antique 
heroic  nature,  in  questionable  modern  garni- 
ture, which  he  could  not  wear!  Around  him 
a  distracted  society,  vacant,  prurient;  heat 
and  darkness,  and  what  these  two  may  breed  : 
mad  extremes  of  flattery,  followed  by  madder 
contumely, by  indifference  and  neglect! — these 
were  the  conflicting  elements ;  this  is  the  re- 
sult they  have  made  out  among  them.  The 
voice  of  our  "  son  of  thunder,"  with  its  deep 
tone  of  wisdom,  (that  belonged  to  all  articulate- 
speaking  ages,)  never  inaudible  amid  wildest 
dissonances,  (that  belonged  to  this  inarticulate 
age,  which  slumbers  and  somnambulates, 
which  cannot  speak,  but  only  screech  and  gib- 
ber,) has  gone  silent  so  soon.  Closed  are 
those  lips.  The  large  heart,  with  its  large 
bounty,  where  wretchedness  found  solacement, 
and  they  that  were  wandering  in  darkness  the 
light  as  of  a  home,  has  paused.  The  strong 
man  can  no  more:  beaten  on  from  without, 
undermined  from  within,  he  must  sink  over- 
wearied, as  at  nightfall,  when  it  was  yet  but 
the  mid-season  of  day.  Irving  was  forty-two 
years  and  some  months  old  :  Scotland  sent  him 
forth  a  Herculean  man ;  our  mad  Babylon 
wore  him  and  wasted  him,  with  all  her  en- 
gines ;  and  it  took  her  twelve  years.  He 
sleeps  with  his  fathers,  in  that  loved  birth- 
land  :  Babylon  with  its  deafening  inanity  rages 
on ;  but  to  him  henceforth  innocuous,  unheed- 
ed— for  ever. 

Reader,  thou  hast  seen  and  heard  the  man 
(as  who  has  notl)  with  wise  or  unwise  won- 
der; thou  shalt  not  see  or  hear  him  again. 
The  work,  be  what  it  might,  is  done ;  dark  cur- 
tains sink  over  it,  enclose  it  ever  deeper  into 
the  unchangeable  Past. — Think  (if  thou  be  one 
of  a  thousand,  and  worthy  to  do  it)  that  here 
once  more  was  a  genuine  man  sent  into  this 
our  Mwgenuine  phantasmagory  of  a  world, 
which  would  go  to  ruin  without  such;  that 
here  once  more,  under  thy  own  eyes,  in  this 
last  decade,  was  enacted  the  old  Tragedy  (and 
has  had  its  fifth-act  now)  of  The  Messenger  of 
Truth  in  the  Age  of  Shams, — and  what  relation 
thou  thyself  mayest  have  to  that.  Whether 
anyl  Beyond  question,  thou  thyself  art  Acre; 
either  a  dreamer  or  awake;  and  one  day  shalt 
cease  to  dream. 

This  man  was  appointed  a  Christian  Priest; 
and  strove  with  the  whole  force  that  was  in 
him  to  be  it.  To  be  it :  in  a  time  of  Tithe  Con- 
troversy, Encyclopedism,  Catholic  Rent,  Phi- 


lanthropisra,  and  the  Revolution  of  Three 
Days  !  He  might  have  been  so  many  things  ; 
not  a  speaker  only,  but  a  doer;  the  leader  of 
hosts  of  men.  For  his  head  (when  the  Fog- 
Babylon  had  not  yet  obscured  it)  was  of 
strong  far-searching  insight ;  his  very  enthu- 
siasm was  sanguine,  not  atrabiliar;  he  was  so 
loving,  full  of  hope,  so  simple-hearted,  and 
made  all  that  approached  him  his.  A  giant 
force  of  activity  was  in  the  man  ;  speculation 
was  accident,  not  nature.  Chivalry,  adven- 
turous field-life  of  the  old  Border  (and  a  far 
nobler  sort)  ran  in  his  blood.  There  was  in 
him  a  courage  dauntless,  not  pugnacious ; 
hardly  fierce,  by  no  possibility  ferocious :  as 
of  the  generous  war-horse,  gentle  in  its 
strength,  yet  that  laughs  at  the  shaking  of  the 
spear. — But,  above  all,  be  what  he  might,  to 
be  a  reality  was  indispensable  for  him.  In  his 
simple  Scottish  circle,  the  highest  form  of 
manhood  attainable  or  known  was  that  of 
Christian ;  the  highest  Christian  was  the 
Teacher  of  such.  Irving's  lot  was  cast.  For 
the  foray-spears  were  all  rusted  into  earth 
there ;  Annan  Castle  had  become  a  Town-hall ; 
and  Prophetic  Knox  had  sent  tidings  thither: 
Prophetic  Knox — and,  alas,  also  Skeptic 
Hume, — and  (as  the  natural  consequence) 
Diplomatic  Dundas.  In  such  mixed  incon- 
grous  element  had  the  young  soul  to  grow. 

Grow  nevertheless  he  did  (with  that  strong 
vitality  of  his)  ;  grow  and  ripen.  What  the 
Scottish  uncelebrated  Irving  was,  they  that 
have  only  seen  the  London  celebrated  (and 
distorted)  one  can  never  know.  Bodily  and 
spiritually,  perhaps  there  was  not  (in  that  No- 
vember, 1822,)  a  man  more  full  of  genial 
energetic  life  in  all  these  Islands. 

By  a  fatal  chance.  Fashion  cast  her  eye  on 
him,  as  on  some  impersonation  of  Novel- 
Cameronianism,  some  wild  product  of  Nature 
from  the  wild  mountains;  Fashion  crowded 
round  him,  with  her  meteor  lights,  and  Bac- 
chic dances;  breathed  her  foul  incense  on 
him  ;  intoxicating,  poisoning.  One  may  say, 
it  was  his  own  nobleness  that  forwarded  such 
ruin :  the  excess  of  his  sociability  and  sym- 
pathy, of  his  value  for  the  suffrages  and  sym- 
pathies of  meru  Syren  songs,  as  of  a  new 
Moral  Reformation,  (sons  of  Mammon,  and 
high  sons  of  Belial  and  Beelzebub,  to  become 
sons  of  God,  and  the  gumflowers  of  Almack's 
to  be  made  living  roses  in  a  new  Eden,)  sound 
in  the  inexperienced  ear  and  heart.  Most  se- 
ductive, most  delusive !  Fashion  went  her 
idle  way,  to  gaze  on  Egyptian  Crocodiles,  Iro- 
quois Hunters,  or  what  else  there  might  be; 
forgot  this  man, — who  unhappily  could  not  in 
his  turn  forget.  The  intoxicating  poison  had 
been  swallowed;  no  force  of  natural  health 
could  cast  it  out.    Unconsciously,  for  most 


462 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


part  in  deep  unconsciousness,  there  was  now 
the  impossibility  to  live  neglected  ;  to  walk  on 
the  quiet  paths,  where  alone  it  is  well  with  us. 
Singularity  must  henceforth  succeed  Singu- 
larity. O  foulest  Circean  draught,  thou  poison 
of  Popular  Applause!  madness  is  in  thee, 
and  death  ;  thy  end  is  Bedlam  and  the  Grave. 
For  the  last  seven  years,  Irving,  forsaken  by 
the  world,  strove  either  to  recall  it,  or  to  for- 
sake it;  shut  himself  up  in  a  lesser  world  of 
ideas  and  persons,  and  lived  isolated  there. 
Neither  in  this  was  there  health :  for  this  man 
such  isolation  was  not  fit;  such  ideas,  such 
persons. 

One  light  still  shone  on  him;  alas,  through 
a  medium  more  and  more  turbid :  the  light  from 
Heaven.  His  Bible  was  there,  wherein  must 
lie  healing  for  all  sorrows.  To  the  Bible  he 
more  and  more  exclusively  addressed  himself. 
If  it  is  the  written  Word  of  God,  shall  it  not 
be  the  acted  Word  too  ]  Is  it  mere  sound, 
then;  black  printer's-ink  on  white  rag-paper? 
A  half-man  could  have  passed  on  without  an- 
swering; a  whole  man  must  answer.  Hence 
Prophecies  of  Millenniums,  Gifts  of  Tongues, — 
whereat  Orthodoxy  prims  herself  into  decent 
wonder,  and  waves  her  Avaunt !  Irving  clave 
to  his  Belief,  as  to  his  soul's  soul ;  followed  it 
whithersoever,  through  earth  or  air,  it  might 
lead  him ;  toiling  as  never  man  toiled  to  spread 
it,  to  gain  the  world's  ear  for  it, — in  vain. 
Ev^r  wilder  waxed  the  confusion  without  and 


within.  The  misguided  noble-minded  had 
now  nothing  left  to  do  but  die.  He  died  the 
death  of  the  true  and  brave.  His  last  words, 
they  say,  were :  "  In  life  and  in  death,  I  am  the 
Lord's." — Amen  !  Amen  ! 

One  who  knew  him  well,  and  may  with 
good  cause  love  him,  has  said  :  "  But  for  Irving, 
I  had  never  known  what  the  communion  of 
man  with  man  means.  His  was  the  freest, 
brotherliest,  bravest  human  soul  mine  ever 
came  in  contact  with  :  I  call  him,  on  the  whole, 
the  best  man  I  have  ever  (after  trial  enough) 
found  in  this  world,  or  now  hope  to  find. 

"  The  first  time  I  saw  Irving  was  six-and- 
twenty  years  ago,  in  his  native  town,  Annan. 
He  was  fresh  from  Edinburgh,  with  College 
prizes,  high  character,  and  promise :  he  had 
come  to  see  our  Schoolmaster,  who  had  also 
been  his.  We  heard  of  famed  Professors,  of 
high  matters  classical,  mathematical,  a  whole 
Wonderland  of  Knowledge :  nothing  but  joy, 
health,  hopefulness  without  end,  looked  out 
from  the  blooming  young  man.  The  last  time 
I  saw  him  was  three  months  ago,  in  London. 
Friendliness  still  beamed  in  his  eyes,  but  now 
from  amid  unquiet  fire ;  his  face  was  flaccid, 
wasted,  unsound;  hoary  as  with  extreme 
age :  he  was  trembling  over  the  brink  of  the 
grave.  Adieu,  thou  first  Friend ;  adieu,  while 
this  confused  Twilight  of  Existence  lasts! 
Might  we  meet  where  Twilight  has  become 
Day !" 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 

[Fraser's  Magazine,  1837.] 


CHAPTER  L 

AGE    OP     ROMAIfCE. 

The  age  of  Romance  has  not  ceased  ;  it 
never  ceases;  it  does  not,  if  we  will  think  of 
it,  so  much  as  very  sensibly  decline.  "  The 
passions  are  repressed  by  social  forms  ;  great 
passions  no  longer  show  themselves  1"  Why, 
there  are  passions  still  great  enough  to  re- 
plenish Bedlam,  for  it  never  wants  tenants; 
to  suspend  men  from  bed-posts,  from  improved- 
drops  at  the  west  end  of  Newgate.  A  passion 
that  explosively  shivers  asunder  the  Life  it 
took  rise  in  ought  to  be  regarded  as  consider- 
able :  more,  no  passion,  in  the  highest  hey-day 
of  Romance,  yet  did.  The  passions,  by  grace  of 
the  Supernal  and  also  of  the  Infernal  Powers, 
(for  both  have  a  hand  in  it,)  can  never  fail  us. 

And  then  as  to  "  social  forms,"  be  it  granted 
that  they  are  of  the  most  buckram  quality,  and 
bind  men  up  into  the  pitifuUest,  straitlaced, 
common-place  Existence, — you  ask.  Where  is 
the  Romance'?  In  the  Scotch  way  one  an- 
swers, Where  is  it  not?  That  very  spectacle 
of  an  Immortal  Nature,  with  faculties  and 
destiny  extending  through  Eterniiy,  hampered 
and  bandaged  up,  by  nurses,  pedagogues,  pos- 


ture-masters, and  the  tongues  of  innumerable 
old  women,  (named  "  force  of  public  opi- 
nion ;")  by  prejudice,  custom,  want  of  know- 
ledge, want  of  money,  want  of  strength,  into, 
say,  the  meager  Pattern-Figure  that,  in  these 
days,  meets  you  in  all  thoroughfares  ;  a  "  god- 
created  Man,"  all  but  abnegating  the  character 
of  Man  ;  forced  to  exist,  automatized,  mummy- 
wise,  (scarcely  in  rare  moments  audible  or 
visible  from  amid  his  wrappages  and  cere- 
ments,) as  Gentleman  or  Gigman  ;*  and  so 
selling  his  birthright  of  Eternity,  for  the  three 
daily  meals,  poor  at  best,  which  time  yields  : 
— is  not  this  spectacle  itself  highly  romantic, 
tragical, — if  we  had  eyes  to  look  at  it?  The 
high-born  (highest-born,  for  he  came  out  of 
Heaven)  lies  drowning  in  the  despicablest 
puddles ;  the  priceless  gift  of  Life,  which  he 
can  have  but  once,  for  he  waited  a  whole  Eter- 
nity to  be  born,  and  now  has  a  whole  Eternity 
waiting  to  see  what  he  will  do  when  born, — 
this  priceless  gift  we  see  strangled  slowly  out 
of  him  by  innumerable  packthreads;  and  there 


*  "I  always  considered  him  a  respectable  man. — 
What  do  vou  mean  by  respectable  7  He  kept  a  Gig."— 
ThurleWa  Trial. 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


453 


remains  of  the  glorious  Possibility,  which  we 
fondly  named  Man,  nothing  but  an  inanimate 
mass  of  foul  loss  and  disappointment,  which 
we  wrap  in  shrouds  and  bury  underground, — 
surely  with  well-merited  tears.  To  the  Thinker 
here  lies  Tragedy  enough ;  the  epitome  and 
marrow  of  all  Tragedy  whatsoever. 

But  so  few  are  Thinkers  1  Aye,  Reader,  so 
few  think  ;  there  is  the  rub  !  Not  one  in  the 
thousand  has  the  smallest  turn  for  thinking; 
only  for  passive  dreaming  and  hearsaying, 
and  active  babbling  by  rote.  Of  the  eyes  that 
men  do  glare  withal  so  few  can  see.  Thus  is 
the  world  become  such  a  fearful  confused 
Treadmill ;  and  each  man's  task  has  got  en- 
tangled in  his  neighbour's  and  pulls  it  awry; 
and  the  Spirit  of  Blindness,  Falsehood,  and 
Distraction  (justly  named  the  Devil)  continu- 
ally maintains  himself  among  us ;  and  even 
hopes  (were  it  not  for  the  Opposition,  which 
by  God's  Grace  will  also  maintain  itself)  to 
become  supreme.  Thus,  too,  among  other 
things,  has  the  Romance  of  Life  gone  wholly 
out  of  sight:  and  all  History,  degenerating 
into  empty  invoice-lists  of  Pitched  Battles  and 
Changes  of  Ministry;  or,  still  worse,  into 
"  Constitutional  History,"  or  "  Philosophy  of 
History,  or  "  Philosophy  teaching  by  Experi- 
ence," is  become  dead,  as  the  Almanacs  of 
other  years, — to  which  species  of  composition, 
indeed,  it  bears,  in  several  points  of  view,  no 
inconsiderable  affinity. 

"  Of  all  blinds  that  shut  up  men's  vision," 
says  one,  "  the  worst  is  self."  How  true  !  How 
doubly  true,  if  self,  assuming  her  cunningest, 
yet  miserablest  disguise,  come  on  us  in  never- 
ceasing,  all-obscuring  reflexes  from  the  innu- 
merable selves  of  others ;  not  as  Pride,  not 
even  as  real  Hunger,  but  only  as  Vanity,  and 
the  shadow  of  an  imaginary  Hunger,  (for  Ap- 
plause ;)  under  the  name  of  what  we  call  "  Re- 
spectability !"  Alas  now  for  our  Historian  :  to 
his  other  spiritual  deadness  (which,  however, 
so  long  as  he  physically  breathes  cannot  be 
complete)  this  sad  new  magic  influence  is 
added!  Henceforth  his  Histories  must  all  be 
screwed  up  into  the  *' dignity  of  History," 
Instead  of  looking  fixedly  at  the  Thing,  and 
first  of  all,  and  beyond  all,  endeavouring  to 
see  it,  and  fashion  a  living  Picture  of  it,  (not  a 
wretched  politico-metaphysical  Abstraction  of 
it,)  he  has  now  quite  other  matters  to  look  to. 
The  thing  lies  shrouded,  invisible,  in  thousand- 
fold hallucinations,  and  foreign  air-images  : 
what  did  the  Whigs  say  of  iti  What  did 
the  Tories?  The  Priests]  The  Freethink- 
ers ]  Above  all,  what  will  my  own  listening 
circle  say  of  mc  for  what  I  say  of  it]  And 
then  his  Respectability  in  general,  as  a  literary 
gentleman ;  his  not  despicable  talent  for  phi- 
losophy !  Thus  is  our  poor  Historian's  faculty 
directed  mainly  on  two  objects ;  the  Writing 
and  the  Writer,  both  of  which  are  quite  extra- 
neous;  and  the  thing  written  of  fares  as  we 
see.  Can  it  be  wonderful  that  Histories 
(wherein  open  lying  is  not  permitted)  are  un- 
romantic]  Nay,  our  very  Biographies,  how 
stiff"-starched,  foisonless,  hollow !  They  stand 
there  respectable;  and  what  more]  Dumb 
idols ;  with  a  skin  of  delusively  painted  wax- 
work; and  inwardly  empty,  or  full  of  rags  and 


bran.  In  our  England  especially,  which  in 
these  days  is  become  the  chosen  land  of  Re- 
spectability, Life-writing  has  dwindled  to  the 
sorrowfullest  condition  ;  it  requires  a  man  to 
be  some  disrespectable,  ridiculous  Boswell 
before  he  can  write  a  tolerable  Life.  Thus, 
too,  strangely  enough,  the  only  Lives  worth 
reading  are  those  of  Players,  emptiest  and 
poorest  of  the  sons  of  Adam ;  who  neverthe- 
less were  sons  of  his,  and  brothers  of  ours ; 
and  by  the  nature  of  the  case,  had  already 
bidden  Respectability  good-day.  Such  boun- 
ties, in  this,  as  in  infinitely  deeper  matters, 
does  Respectability  shower  down  on  us.  Sad 
are  thy  doings,  0  Crig ;  sadder  than  those  of 
Juggernaut's  Car:  that,  with  huge  wheel,  sud- 
denly crushes  asunder  the  bodies  of  men ; 
thou,  in  thy  light-bobbing  Long-Acre  springs, 
gradually  winnowest  away  their  souls  ! 

Depend  upon  it,  for  one  thing,  good  Reader, 
no  age  ever  seemed  the  Age  of  Romance  to 
itself.  Charlemagne,  let  the  Poets  talk  as  they 
will,  had  his  own  provocations  in  the  world: 
what  with  selling  of  his  poultry  and  potherbs, 
what  with  wanton  daughters  carrying  secreta- 
ries through  the  snow ;  and,  for  instance,  that 
hanging  of  the  Saxons  over  the  Weser-bridge, 
(thirty  thousand  of  them,  they  say,  at  one  bout,) 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  Great  Charles  had  his 
temper  ruffled  at  times.  Roland  of  Ronces- 
valles,  too,  we  see  well  in  thinking  of  it,  found 
rainy  weather  as  well  as  sunny  ;  knew  what  it 
was  to  have  hose  need  darning ;  got  tough  beef 
to  chew,  or  even  went  dinnerless  ;  was  saddle- 
sick,  calumniated,  constipated,  (as  his  madness, 
too  clearly  indicates  ;)  and  oftenest  felt,  I  doubt 
not,  that  this  was  a  very  Devil's  world,  and  he 
(Roland)  himself  one  of  the  sorriest  caitiflJs 
there.  Only  in  long  subsequent  days,  when  the 
tough  beef,  the  constipation,  and  the  calumny, 
had  clean  vanished,  did  it  all  begin  to  seem 
Romantic,  and  your  Turpins  and  Ariostos 
found  music  in  it.  So,  I  say,  is  it  ever  !  And 
the  more,  as  your  true  hero,  your  true  Roland, 
is  ever  unconscious  that  he  is  a  hero :  this  is  a 
condition  of  all  true  greatness. 

In  our  own  poor  Nineteenth  Centuiy,  the 
writer  of  these  lines  has  been  fortunate  enough 
to  see  not  a  few  glimpses  of  Romance;  he 
imagines  this  Nineteenth  is  hardly  a  whit  less 
romantic  than  that  Ninth,  or  any  other,  since 
centuries  began.  Apart  from  Napoleon,  and 
the  Dantons,  and  Mirabeaus,  whose  fire-words 
(of  public  speaking)  and  fire-whirlwinds,  (of 
cannon  and  musquetry,)  which  for  a  season 
darkened  the  air,  are,  perhaps,  at  bottom  but 
superficial  phenomena,  he  has  witnessed,  in 
remotest  places,  much  that  could  be  called  ro- 
mantic, even  miraculous.  He  has  witnessed 
overhead  the  infinite  Deep,  with  greater  and 
lesser  lights,  bright-rolling,  silent-beaming, 
hurled  forth  by  the  Hand  of  God;  around  him, 
and  under  his  feet,  the  wonderfuUest  Earth, 
with  her  winter  snow-storms  and  her  summer 
spice-airs,  and  (unaccountablest  of  all)  himself 
standing  there.  He  stood  in  the  lapse  of  Time; 
he  saw  Eternity  behind  him  and  before  him.  The 
all-encircling  mysterious  tide  of  Force,  thou- 
sandfold, (for  from  force  of  Thought  to  force 
of  Gravitation  what  an  interval !)  billowed 
shoreless  on  ;  bore  him  too  along  with  it, — he 


454 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


too  was  part  of  it.  From  its  bosom  rose  and 
vanished,  in  perpetual*  change,  the  lordliest 
Real-Phantasmagory,  (which  was  Being  ;)  and 
ever  anew  rose  and  vanished;  and  ever  that 
lordliest  many-coloured  scene  was  full,  another 
yet  the  same.  Oak-trees  fell,  young  acorns 
sprang:  Men  too,  new-sent  from  the  Unknown, 
he  met,  of  tiniest  size,  who  waxed  into  stature, 
into  strength  of  sinew,  passionate  fire  and 
light:  in  other  Men  the  light  was  growing  dim, 
the  sinews  all  feeble ;  they  sank,  motionless, 
into  ashes,  into  invisibility;  returned  back  to 
the  Unknown,  beckoning  him  their  mute  fare- 
well. He  wanders  still  by  the  parting-spot; 
cannot  hear  them  ;  they  are  far,  how  far ! — It 
was  a  sight  for  angels,  and  archangels  ;  for, 
indeed,  God  himself  had  made  it  wholly.  One 
many-glancing  asbestos-thread  in  the  Web  of 
Universal-History,  spirit-woven,  it  rustled 
there,  as  with  the  howl  of  mighty  winds, 
through  that  "  wild  roaring  Loom  of  Time." 
Generation  after  generation,  (hundreds  of  them, 
or  thousands  of  them,  from  the  unknown  Be- 
ginning,) so  loud,  so  stormful  busy,  rushed 
torrent-wise,  thundering  down,  down  ;  and  fell 
all  silent  (only  some  feeble  re-echo,  which 
grew  ever  feebler,  struggling  up,)  and  Obli- 
vion swallowed  them  aV.  Thousands  more,  to 
the  unknown  Ending,  will  follow :  and  thou 
here  (of  this  present  one)  hangest  as  a  drop, 
still  sungilt,  on  the  giddy  edge;  one  moment, 
while  the  Darkness  has  not  yet  engulphed 
thee.  O  Brother !  is  that  what  thou  callest 
prosaic ;  of  small  interest  ?  Of  small  interest,  and 
for  thee  ?  Awake,  poor  troubled  sleeper :  shake  off 
thy  torpid  nightmare-dream  ;  look,  see,  behold 
it,  the  Flame-image ;  splendours  high  as  Hea- 
ven, terrors  deep  as  Hell :  this  is  God's  Creation  ; 
this  is  Man's  Life  ! — Such  things  has  the  wri- 
ter of  these  lines  witnessed,  in  this  poor  Nine- 
teenth Century  of  ours  ;  and  what  are  all  such 
to  the  things  he  yet  hopes  to  witness  1  Hopes, 
with  truest  assurance.  "  I  have  painted  so 
much,"  said  the  good  Jean  Paul,  in  his  old 
days,  "  and  I  have  never  seen  the  Ocean  ;  the 
Ocean  of  Eternity  I  shall  not  fail  to  see !" 

Such  being  the  intrinsic  quality  of  this  Time, 
and  of  all  Time  whatsoever,  might  not  the 
Poet  who  chanced  to  walk  through  it  find  ob- 
jects enough  to  paint?  What  object  soever 
he  fixed  on,  were  it  the  meanest  of  the  mean, 
let  him  but  paint  it  in  its  actual  truth,  as  it 
swims  there,  in  such  environment;  world-old, 
yet  new,  and  never  ending ;  an  indestructible 
portion  of  the  miraculous  All, — his  picture  of 
it  were  a  Poem.  How  much  more  if  the  ob- 
ject fixed  on  were  not  mean,  but  one  already 
wonderful;  the  (mystic)  "actual  truth"  oif 
which,  if  it  lay  not  on  the  surface,  yet  shone 
through  the  surface,  and  invited  even  Prosa- 
ists to  search  for  it ! 

The  present  writer,  who  unhappily  belongs 
to  that  class,  has,  nevertheless,  a  firmer  and 
firmer  persuasion  of  two  things  :  first,  as  was 
seen,  that  Romance  exists  ;  secondly,  that  now, 
and  formerly,  and  ever  more  it  exists,  strictly 
speaking,  in  Reality  alone.  The  thing  that  is, 
what  can  be  so  wonderful ;  what,  especially  to 
us  that  are,  can  have  such  significance!  Study 
Reality,  he  is  ever  and  anon  saying  to  himself; 
search  out  deeper  and  deeper  its  quite  endless 


mystery:  see  it,  know  it;  then,  whether  thou 
wouldst  learn  from  it,  and  again  teach ;  or 
weep  over  it,  or  laugh  over  it,  or  love  it,  or 
despise  it  or  in  any  way  relate  thyself  to  it, 
thou  hast  the  firmest  enduring  basis  :  that  hie- 
roglyphic page  is  one  thou  canst  read  on  for 
ever,  find  new  meaning  in  for  ever. 

Finally,  and  in  a  word,  do  not  the  critics 
teach  us  :  "In  whatsoever  thing  thou  hast  thy- 
self felt  interest,  in  that  or  in  nothing  hope  to 
inspire  others  with  interest  ?" — In  partial  obe- 
dience to  all  which,  and  to  many  other  princi- 
ples, shall  the  following  small  Romance  of  the 
Diamond  Necklace  begin  to  come  together.  A 
small  Romance,  let  the  reader  again  and  again 
assure  himself,  which  is  no  brainweb  of  mine, 
or  of  any  other  foolish  man's;  but  a  fraction 
of  that  mystic  "  spirit-woven  web,"  from  the 
"  Loom  of  Time,"  spoken  of  above.  It  is  an 
actual  Transaction  that  happened  in  this  Earth 
of  ours.  Wherewith  our  whole  business,  as 
already  urged,  is  to  paint  it  truly. 

For  the  rest,  an  earnest  inspection,  faithful 
endeavour  has  not  been  wanting,  on  our  part; 
nor  (singular  as  it  may  seem)  the  strictest  re- 
gard to  chronology,  geography,  (or  rather  in 
this  case,  topography,)  documentary  evidence, 
and  what  else  true  historical  research  would 
yield.  Were  there  but  on  the  reader's  part  a 
kindred  openness,  a  kindred  spirit  of  endea- 
vour! Beshone  strongly,  on  both  sides,  by 
such  united  twofold  Philosophy,  this  poor 
opaque  Intrigue  of  the  Diamofid  Necklace  be- 
came quite  translucent  between  us ;  transfi- 
gured, lifted  up  into  the  serene  of  Universal 
History;  and  might  hang  there  like  a  smallest 
Diamond  Constellation,  visible  without  tele- 
scope,— so  long  as  it  could. 


CHAPTER  H. 

THE    NECKLACE    IS    MADE. 

Herr,  or  as  he  is  now  called  Monsieur, 
Boehmer,  to  all  appearance  wanted  not  that 
last  infirmity  of  noble  and  ignoble  minds — a 
love  of  fame ;  he  was  destined  also  to  be 
famous  more  than  enough.  His  outlooks  into 
the  world  were  rather  of  a  smiling  character: 
he  has  long  since  exchanged  his  guttural 
speech,  as  far  as  possible,  for  a  nasal  one ; 
his  rustic  Saxon  fatherland  for  a  polished  city 
of  Paris,  and  thriven  there.  United  in  part- 
nership with  worthy  Monsieur  Bassange,  a 
sound  practical  man,  skilled  in  the  valuation 
of  all  precious  stones,  in  the  management  of 
workmen,  in  the  judgment  of  their  work,  he 
already  sees  himself  among  the  highest  of 
his  guild  :  nay,  rather  the  very  highest, — for 
he  has  secured  (by  purchase  and  hard  money 
paid)  the  title  of  King's  Jeweller  ;  and  can  en- 
ter the  Court  itself,  leaving  all  other  Jewellers, 
and  even  innumerable  Gentlemen,  Gigmen, 
and  small  Nobility,  to  languish  in  the  vesti- 
bule. With  the  costliest  ornaments  in  his 
pocket,  or  borne  after  him  by  assiduous  shop- 
boys,  the  happy  Boehmer  sees  high  drawing- 
rooms  and  sacred  ruelles  fly  open,  as  with  talis- 
manic  Sesame,-  and  the  brightest  eyes  of  the 
whole  world  grow  brighter:  to  him  alone  of 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


4fi6 


men  the  Unapproachable  reveals  herself  in 
mysterious  negligde ;  taking  and  giving  coun- 
sel. Do  not,  on  all  gala-days  and  gala-nights, 
his  works  praise  him  1  On  the  gorgeous 
robes  of  State,  on  Court-dresses  and  Lords' 
stars,  on  the  diadem  of  Royalty  ;  better  still, 
on  the  swan-neck  of  Beauty,  and  her  queenly 
garniture  from  plume-bearing  aigrette  to  shoe- 
buckle  on  fairy-slipper, — that  blinding  play  of 
colours  is  Boehmer's  doing :  he  i-^.  Jouaillier- 
Bijoutier  de  la  Reine. 

Could  the  man  but  have  been  content  with 
it !  He  could  not :  Icarus-like,  he  must  mount 
too  high ;  have  his  wax-wings  melted,  and 
descend  prostrate, — amid  a  cloud  of  vain 
goose-quills.  One  day,  a  fatal  day  (of  some 
year,  probably,  among  the  Seventies  of  last 
Century,)*  it  struck  Boehmer:  Why  should 
not  I,  who,  as  Most  Christian  King's  Jeweller, 
am  properly  first  Jeweller  of  the  Universe, — 
malfe  a  Jewel  which  the  Universe  has  not 
matched  1  Nothing  can  prevent  thee,  Boeh- 
mer, if  thou  have  the  skill  to  do  it.  Skill  or  no 
skill,  answers  he,  I  have  the  ambition  :  my 
Jewel,  if  not  the  beautifuUest,  shall  be  the  dear- 
est. Thus  was  the  Diamond  Necklace  deter- 
mined on. 

Did  worthy  Bassange  give  a  willing  or  a 
reluctant  consent?  In  any  case  he  consents; 
and  co-operates.  Plans  are  sketched,  con- 
sultations held,  stucco  models  made;  by  mo- 
ney or  credit  the  costliest  diamonds  come  in; 
cunning  craftsmen  cut  them,  set  them:  proud 
Boehmer  sees  the  work  go  prosperously  on. 
Proud  man  !  Behold  him  on  a  morning  after 
breakfast:  he  has  stepped  down  to  the  inner- 
most workshop,  before  sallying  out;  stands 
there  with  his  laced  three-cornered  hat,  cane 
under  arm;  drawing  on  his  gloves:  with  nod, 
with  nasal-guttural  word,  he  gives  judicious 
confirmation,  judicious  abnegation,  censure, 
and  approval.  A  still  joy  is  dawning  over 
that  bland,  blond  face  of  his ;  he  can  think 
(while  in  many  a  sacred  boudoir  he  visits  the 
Unapproachable)  that  an  opus  magnum,  of 
wnich  the  world  wotteth  not,  is  progressing. 
At  length  comes  a  morning  when  care  has 
terminated,  and  joy  cannot  only  dawn  but 
shine ;  the  Necklace,  that  shall  be  famous  and 
world-famous,  is  made. 

3Iade  we  call  it,  in  conformity  with  common 
speech:  but  properly  it  was  not  made;  only, 
with  more  or  less  spirit  of  method,  arranged 
and  agglomerated.  What  "spirit  of  method" 
lay  in  it,  might  be  made ;  nothing  more.  But 
to  tell  the  various  Histories  of  those  various 
Diamonds,  from  the  first  making  of  them;  or 
even  (omitting  all  the  rest)  from  the  first  dig- 
ging of  them  in  the  far  Indian  mines!  How 
they  lay,  for  uncounted  ages  and  Kons  (under 
the  uproar  and  splashing  of  such  Deucalion 
Deluges,  and  Hutton  Explosions.,  with  steam 
enough,  and  Werner  Submersions)  silently 
imbedded  in  the  rock;  nevertheless  (when 
their  hour  came)  emerged  from  it,  and  first 
beheld  the  glorious  Sun  smile  on  ihem,  and 


♦  Except  that  Madame  Canipan  (Memoires,  tome  i\.) 
says  the  Necklace  "was  intended  for  Dii  Barry,"  one 
cannot  discover,  within  many  years,  the  date  of  its 
niannfactnre.  Dii  Barry  went  ''into  half-pay  "  on  the 
10th  of  May,  1774,— the  day  when  her  king  died. 


with  their  many-coloured  glances  smiled  back 
on  him.  How  they  served  next  (let  us  say) 
as  eyes  of  Heathen  Idols,  and  received  wor- 
ship. How  they  had  then,  by  fortune  of  war 
or  theft,  been  knocked  out ;  and  exchanged 
among  camp-suttlers  for  a  little  spirituous 
liquor,  and  bought  by  Jews,  and  worn  as  sig- 
nets on  the  fingers  of  tawny  or  white  Majes- 
ties ;  and  again  been  lost,  with  the  fingers 
too,  and  perhaps  life,  (as  by  Charles  the  Rash, 
among  the  mud-ditches  of  Nancy,)  in  old-for- 
gotten glorious  victories:  and  so,  through  in- 
numerable varieties  of  fortune, — had  come  at 
last  to  the  cutting-wheel  of  Boehmer ;  to  be 
united  in  strange  fellowship,  with  comrades 
also  blown  together  from  all  ends  of  the  Earth, 
each  with  a  History  of  its  own !  Could  these 
aged  stones  (the  youngest  of  them  Six  Thou- 
sand years  of  age,  and  upwards)  but  have 
spoken, — there  were  an  Experience  for  Philo- 
sophy to  teach  by.  But  now,  as  was  said,  by- 
little  caps  of  gold  (which  gold  also  has  a  his- 
tory,) and  daintiest  rings  of  the  same,  they 
are  all,  being  so  to  speak,  enlisted  under  Boeh- 
rner's  flag, — made  to  take  rank  and  file,  in 
new  order;  no  Jewel  asking  his  neighbour 
whence  he  came ;  and  parade  there  for  a  sea- 
son. For  a  season  only;  and  then — to  dis- 
perse, and  enlist  anew  ad  ivjinitum.  In  such 
inexplicable  wise  are  Jewels,  and  Men  also, 
and  indeed  all  earthly  things,  jumbled  together 
and  asunder,  and  shovelled  and  wafted  to  and 
fro,  in  our  inexplicable  chaos  of  a  World. 
This  was  what  Boehmer  called  making  his 
Necklace. 

So,  in  fact,  do  other  men  speak,  and  with 
even  less  reason.  How  many  men,  for  exam- 
ple, hast  thou  heard  talk  of  making  money: 
of  making  say  a  million  and  a  half  of  money  1 
Of  which  million  and  a  half,  how  much,  if 
one  were  to  look  into  it,  had  they  made?  The 
accurate  value  of  their  Industry:  not  a  six- 
pence more.  Their  making,  then,  was  but, 
like  Boehmer's,  a  clutching  and  heaping  to- 
gether ; — by-and-by  to  be  followed  also  by  a 
dispersion.  Made  1  Thou  too  vain  indivi- 
dual!  were  these  towered  ashlar  edifices; 
were  these  fair  bounteous  leas,  with  their 
bosky  umbrages  and  yellow  harvests;  and  the 
sunshine  that  lights  them  from  above,  and  the 
granite  rocks  and  fire-reservoirs  that  support 
them  from  below,  made  by  thee  ?  I  think,  by 
another.  The  very  shilling  that  thou  hast 
was  dug  (by  man's  force)  in  Carinthia  and 
Paraguay;  smelted  sufficiently;  and  stamped, 
as  would  seem,  not  without  the  advice  of  our 
late  Defender  of  the  Faith,  his  Majesty  George 
the  Fourth.  Thou  hast  it,  and  boldest  it;  but 
whether,  or  in  what  sense,  thou  hast  made  any 
farthing  of  it,  thyself  canst  not  say.  If  the 
courteous  reader  ask,  What  things,  then,  are 
made  by  man  ?  I  will  answer  him.  Very  few 
indeed.  A  Heroism,  a  Wisdom  (a  god-givea 
Volition  that  has  realized  itself)  is  made  now 
and  then  :  for  example,  some  five  or  six  Books 
(since  the  Creation)  have  been  made.  Strange 
,  that  there  are  not  more  ;  for  surely  every  en- 
I  couragement  is  held  out.  Could  I,  or  thou, 
I  happy  reader,  but  make  one,  the  world  would 
i  let  us  keep  it  (unstolen)  for  Fourteen  whole 
I  years,— and  take  what  we  could  get  for  it. 


456 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


But  in  a  word,  Monsieur  Boehmer  has  made 
his  Neclclace,  what  he  calls  made  it :  happy 
man  is  he.  From  a  Drawing  as  large  as 
reality,  kindly  furnished  by"Taunay,  Print- 
seller,  of  the  Rue  d'Enfer;*  and  again,  in  late 
years,  by  the  Abbe  Georgel,  in  the  Second 
Volume  of  his  Memoires,  curious  readers  can 
still  fancy  to  themselves  what  a  princely  Orna- 
ment it  was.  A  row  of  seventeen  glorious 
diamonds,  as  large  almost  as  filberts,  encircle, 
not  too  tightly,  the  neck,  a  first  time.  Looser, 
gracefully  fastened  thrice  to  these,  a  three- 
wreathed  festoon,  and  pendants  enough  (simple 
pear-shaped,  multiple  star-shaped,  or  cluster- 
ing amorphous)  encircle  it,  enwreath  it,  a 
second  time.  Loosest  of  all,  softly  flowing 
round  from  behind,  in  priceless  catenary,  rush 
down  two  broad  threefold  rows  ;  seem  to  knot 
themselves  (round  a  very  Queen  of  Diamonds,) 
on  the  bosom ;  then  rush  on,  again  separated, 
as  if  there  were  length  in  plenty;  the  very 
tassels  of  them  were  a  fortune  for  some  men. 
And  now,  lastly,  two  other  inexpressible  three- 
fold rows,  also  with  their  tassels,  unite  them- 
selves (when  the  Necklace  is  on  at  rest)  and 
into  a  doubly  inexpressible  sixfold  row;  stream 
down  (together  or  asunder)  over  the  hind- 
neck, — we  may  fancy,  like  lambent  Zodiacal 
or  Aurora-Borealis  fire. 

All  these  on  a  neck  of  snow  slight-tinged 
■with  rose-bloom,  and  within  it  royal  Life: 
amidst  the  blaze  of  lustres;  in  sylphish  move- 
ments, espiegleries,  coquetteries,  and  minuet- 


*  Frontispiece  of  the  ^^Jlffairedu  Collier,  Paris  1785;" 
where  froin  Georgel's  Editor  has  copied  it.  This  "  Jiff  aire 
du  Collier,  Paris,  1785,"  is  not,  properly  a  Boole:  but  a 
bound  Collection  of  such  Law  Papers  (Memoires  pour, 
&.C.)  as  were  printed  and  emitted  by  the  various  parties 
in  that  famed  "Necklace  Trial."  These  Law-Papers, 
bound  into  Two  Volumes  quarto:  with  Portraits,  such 
as  the  Printshops  yielded  them  at  the  time  ;  likewise 
with  patches  of  MS.,  containing  Notes,  Pasq\iinade- 
songs,  and  the  like,  of  the  most  unspeakable  character 
occasionally, — constitute  this  " Jlffnire  du  Collier;" 
which  the  Paris  Dealers  in  Old  Honks  cati  still  procure 
there.  It  is  one  of  the  largest  collections  of  Falsehoods 
that  exist  in  print;  and,  unfortunately,  still,  after  all 
the  narrating  and  history  there  has  been  on  the  subject, 
forms  our  chief  means  of  getting  at  the  truth  of  that 
Transaction.  The  First  Volume  contains  some  Twenty- 
one  Memoires  pour:  not,  of  course.  Historical  state- 
ments of  truth;  but  Culprits'  and  Lawyers'  statements 
of  what  they  wished  to  be  believed  ;  each  party  lyiiin- 
according  to  his  ability  to  lie.  To  reach  the  truth,  or 
even  any  honest  guess  at  the  truth,  the  immensities  of 
rubbish  must  be  sifted,  contrasted,  rejected  :  what  grain 
of  historical  evidence  may  lie  at  the  bottom  is  then  at- 
tainable. Thus,  as  this  Transaction  of  the  Diamond 
Necklace  has  been  called  the  "  Largest  Lie  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century,"  so  it  comes  to  us  i)orne,  not  unfitly, 
on  a  whole  illimitable  dim  Chaos  of  Lies! 

Nay,  the  Second  Volume,  entitled  Suite  del' Affaire  du 
Collier,  is  still  slrancer.  It  relates  to  the  Intrigue  and 
Trial  of  one  Hette  d'Etienville,  who  represents  himself 
as  a  poor  lad  that  had  been  kidnapped,  blindfolded,  in- 
troduced to  beautiful  Ladies,  and  engaged  to  get  hus- 
bands for  them  ;  as  setting  nut  on  this  task,  and  gradually 
getting  quite  bewitched  and  bewildered  ; — most  indubi- 
tably, going  on  to  bewitch  and  bewilder  other  people  on 
all  hands  of  him :  tiie  whole  iti  consequence  of  this 
"  Necklace  Trial,"  and  the  noise  it  was  making!  Very 
curious.  The  Lawyers  did  verily  busy  themselves  witji 
this  affair  of  Bette's  ;  there  are  scarecrow  Portraits 
given,  that  stood  in  the  Printshops,  and  no  man  can 
know  whether  the  Originals  ever  so  much  as  existed. 
It  is  like  the  Dream  of  a  Dream.  The  human  mind 
stands  stupent;  ejaculates  the  wish  that  such  Gulph 
of  Falsehood  would  close  itself,— before  general  De- 
lirium supervene,  and  the  Speech  of  Man  become  mere 
incredible,  meaningless  jargon,  like  that  of  chougbs  and 
daws.  Even  from  Bette.  however,  by  assiduous  sifting, 
one  gathers  a  particle  of  truth  here  and  there. 


mazes;  with  every  movement  a  flash  of  star- 
rainbow  colours,  bright  almost  as  the  move- 
ments of  the  fair  young  soul  it  emblems  !  A 
glorious  ornament;  fit  only  for  the  Sultana  of 
the  World.  Indeed,  only  attainable  by  such; 
for  it  is  valued  at  1,800,000  livres ;  say  in 
round  nutnbers,  and  sterling  money,  between 
eighty  and  ninety  thousand  pounds. 


CHAPTER  in. 

THE    XKCKLACK    CANNOT    BE    SOtD. 

Miscalculating  Boehmer!  The  Sultana  of 
the  Earth  shall  never  wear  that  Necklace  of 
thine ;  no  neck,  either  royal  or  vassal,  shall 
ever  be  the  lovelier  for  it.  In  the  present  dis- 
tressed state  of  our  finances,  (with  the  Ameri- 
can War  raging  round  us,)  where  thinkest 
thou  are  eighty  thousand  pounds  to  be  raised 
for  such  a  thingi  In  this  hungry  world,  thou 
fool,  these  five  hundred  and  odd  Diamonds, 
good  only  for  looking  at,  are  intrinsically 
worth  less  to  us  than  a  string  of  as  many  dry 
Irish  potatoes,  on  which  a  famishing  Sanscu- 
lotte might  fill  his  belly.  Little  knowest  thou, 
laughing  Jouaillier-Bijoutier,  great  in  thy  pride 
of  place,  in  thy  pride  of  savoir-faire,  what  the 
world  has  in  store  for  thee.  Thou  laughest 
there  ;  by-and-by  thou  wilt  laugh  on  the  wrong 
side  of  thy  face  mainly. 

While  the  Necklace  lay  in  stucco  effigy,  and 
the  stones  of  it  were  still  "circulating  in  Com- 
merce," Du  Barry's  was  the  neck  it  was  meant 
for.  Unhappily,  as  all  dogs  (male  and  female) 
have  but  their  day,  her  day  is  gone;  and  now 
(so  busy  has  Death  been)  she  sits  retired,  on 
mere  half-pay,  without  prospects,  at  Saint-Cyr. 
A  generous  France  will  buy  no  more  neck- 
ornaments  for  her: — O  Heaven!  the  Guillotine- 
axe  is  already  forging  (North,  in  Swedish  Dale- 
carlia,  by  sledge-hammers  and  fire;  South, 
too,  by  taxes  and  taillea)  that  will  sheer  her 
neck  in  twain ! 

But,  indeed,  what  of  Du  Barry!  A  foul 
worm ;  hatched  by  royal  heat,  on  foul  composts, 
into  a  flaunting  butterfly;  now  diswinged, 
and  again  a  worm!  Are  there  not  Kings' 
Daughters  and  Kings'  Consorts:  is  not  Decora- 
tion the  first  wish  of  a  female  heart, — often 
also  (if  the  heart  is  empty)  the  last  ]  The  Por- 
tuguese Ambassador  is  here,  and  his  rigorous 
Pombal  is  no  longer  Minister:  there  is  an  In- 
fanta in  Portugal,  purposing  by  Heaven's  bless- 
ing to  wed. — Singular!  the  Portuguese  Am- 
bassador, though  without  fear  of  Pombal 
praises,  but  will  not  purchase. 

Or  why  not  our  own  loveliest  Marie-An- 
toinette, once  Dauphiness  only;  now  every 
inch  a  Queen:  what  neck  in  the  whole  Earth 
would  it  beseem  better?  It  is  fit  only  for  her. 
— Alas,  Boehmer!  King  Louis  has  an  eye  for 
diamonds;  but,  he  too,  is  without  overplus  of 
money:  his  high  Queen  herself  answers  queen- 
like, "We  have  more  need  of  Seventy-fours 
than  of  Necklaces."  Laudatur  ct  als^cL ! — Not 
without  a  qualmish  feeling,  Ave  apply  next  to 
the  Queen  and  King  of  the  Two  Sicilies.*     In 

*  Hcti  Memnres  de  Campan,  ii.  1 — 2C, 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


457 


•frain,  O  Boehmer!  In  crowned  heads  there  is 
no  hope  for  thee.  Not  a  crowned  head  of  them 
can  spare  the  eighty  thousand  pounds.  The 
age  of  Chivalry  is  gone,  and  that  of  Bank- 
ruptcy is  come.  A  dull,  deep,  pressing  move- 
ment rocks  all  thrones :  Bankruptcy  is  beating 
down  the  gate,  and  no  Chancellor  can  longer 
barricade  her  out.  She  will  enter;  and  the 
shoreless  fire-lava  of  Demochacy  is  at  her 
back !  Well  may  Kings,  a  second  time,  "  sit 
still  with  awful  eye,"  and  think  of  far  other 
things  than  Necklaces. 

Thus  for  poor  Boehmer  are  the  mournfullest 
days  and  nights  appointed;  and  this  high- 
promising  year  (1780,  as  we  laboriously  guess 
and  gather)  stands  blacker  than  all  others  in 
his  calendar.  In  vain  shall  he,  on  his  sleep- 
less pillow,  more  and  more  desperately  revolve 
the  problem;  it  is  a  problem  of  the  insoluble 
sort,  a  true  "  irreducible  case  of  Cardan:"  the 
Diamond  Necklace  will  not  sell. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
affinities:  the  two  fixed-ideas. 

Nevertheless,  a  man's  little  Work  lies  not 
isolated,  stranded;  a  whole  busy  World  (a 
whole  native-element  of  mysterious,  never- 
resting  Force)  environs  it;  will  catch  it  up; 
will  carry  it  forward,  or  else  backward: 
always,  infallibly,  either  as  living  growth,  or 
at  worst  as  well-rotted  manure,  the  Thing  Done 
will  come  to  use.  Often,  accordingly,  for  a 
man  that  had  finished  any  little  work,  this 
were  the  most  interesting  question :  In  such  a 
boundless  whirl  of  a  world,  what  hook  will  it 
be,  and  what  hooks,  that  shall  catch  up  this 
little  work  of  mine ;  and  whirl  it  also, — through 
such  a  dance  ]  A  question,  we  need  not  say, 
which,  in  the  simplest  of  cases,  would  bring  the 
whole  Royal  Society  to  a  nonplus. — Good  Corsi- 
canLetitia!  while  thou  nursest  thy  little  Na- 
poleon, and  he  answers  thy  mother-smile  with 
those  deep  eyes  of  his,  a  world-famous  French 
Revolution,  with  Federations  of  the  Champ  dc 
Mars,  and  September  Massacres,  and  Bakers' 
Customers  m  qncuc,  is  getting  ready:  many  a 
Danton  and  Desmoulins;  prim-visas:ed,  Tar- 
tuffe-looking  Robespierre,  (as  yet  all  school- 
boys;) and  Marat  M'eeping  (and  cursing)  bit- 
ter rheum,  as  he  pounds  horse-drugs, — are 
preparing  the  fittest  arena  for  him  ! 

Thus,  too,  while  poor  Boehmer  is  busy  with 
those  Diamonds  of  his,  picking  them  "out  of 
Commerce,"  and  his  craftsmen  are  grinding 
and  setting  them;  a  certain  ecclesiastical  Co- 
adjutor and  Grand  Almoner,  and  prospective 
Commendator  and  Cardinal,  is  in  Austria, 
hunting  and  giving  suppers;  for  whom  main- 
ly it  is  that  Boehmer  and  his  craftsmen  so 
employ  themselves.  Strange  enough,  once 
more  !  The  foolish  Jeweller  at  Paris,  making 
foolish  trinkets;  the  foolish  Ambassador  at 
Vienna,  making  blunders  and  debancherie? : 
these  Two,  all  uncommunicating,  wide  asun- 
der as  the  Poles,  are  hourly  forging  for  each 
other  the  wonderfullest  hook-and-eye ;  that  will 
hook  them  together,  one  day, — into  artificial 
68 


Siamese-Twins,  for  the  astonishment  of  man- 
kind. 

Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  is  one  of  those  select 
mortals  born  to  honours,  as  the  sparks  fly 
upwards;  and,  alas,  also  (as  all  men  are)  to 
troubles  no  less.  Of  his  genesis  and  descent 
much  might  be  said,  by  the  curious  in  such 
matters  ;  yet,  perhaps,  if  we  weigh  it  well,  in- 
trinsically little.  He  can,  by  diligence  and 
faith,  be  traced  back  some  hand-breadth  or  two, 
(some  century  or  two ;)  but  after  that,  merges 
in  the  mere  "blood-royal  of  Brittany;"  long, 
long  on  this  side  of  the  Northern  Immigrations, 
he  is  not  so  much  as  to  be  sought  for; — and 
leaves  the  whole  space  onwards  from  that,  into 
the  bosom  of  Eternity,  a  blank,  marked  only 
by  one  point,  the  Fall  of  Man  !  However,  and 
what  alone  concerns  us,  his  kindred,  in  these 
quite  recent  times,  have  been  much  about  the 
Most  Christian  Majesty;  could  there  pickup 
what  was  going.  In  particular,  they  have  had 
a  turn  of  some  continuance  for  Cardinalship 
and  Commendatorship.  Safest  trades  these,  of 
the  calm,  do-nothing  sort:  in  the  do-something 
line,  in  Generalship,  or  such  like,  (witness  poor 
Cousin  Soubise,  at  Rossbach,*)  they  might 
fare  not  so  well.  In  any  case,  the  actual 
Prince  Louis,  Coadjutor  at  Strasburg,  while 
his  uncle,  the  Cardinal-Archbishop,  has  not 
yet  deceased,  and  left  him  his  dignities,  but 
only  fallen  sick,  already  takes  his  place  on 
one  grandest  occasion :  he,  thrice-happy  Co- 
adjutor, receives  the  fair,  young,  trembling 
Dauphiness,  Marie-Antoinette,  on  her  first  en- 
trance into  France;  and  can  there,  as  Cere- 
monial Fugleman,  with  fit  bearing  and  sem- 
blance, (being  a  tall  man,  of  six-and-thirty,)  do 
the  needful.  Of  his  other  performances  up  to 
this  date,  a  refined  History  had  rather  say 
nothing. 

In  fact,  if  the  tolerating  mind  will  meditate 
it  with  any  sympathy,  what  could  poor  Ro- 
han perform?  Performing  needs  light,  needs 
strength,  and  a  firm  clear  footing;  all  of  which 
had  been  denied  him.  Nourished,  from  birth, 
with  the  choicest  physical  spoon-meat,  indeed; 
yet,  also,  with  no  better  spiritual  Doctrine  and 
Evangel  of  Life  than  a  French  Court  of  Louis 
the  Well-beloved  could  yield ;  gifted,  more- 
over, (and  this,  too,  was  but  a  new  perplexity 
for  him,)  with  shrewdness  enough  to  see 
through  much,  with  vigour  enough  to  despise 
much;  unhappily,  not  with  vigour  enough  to 
spurn  it  from  him,  and  be  for  ever  enfran- 
chised of  it, — he  awakes,  at  man's  stature, 
with  man's  wild  desires,  in  a  World  of  the 
merest  incoherent  Lies  and  Delirium;  himself 
a  nameless  Mass  of  delirious  Incoherence, — 
covered  over,  at  most,  (and  held  in  a  little,)  by 

♦  Here  is  the  Epigram  they  made  against  him  on  oc- 
casion of  Rosshach,— in  that  "  Despotism  tempered  by 
Epigrams,"  which  France  was  then  said  to  be  : — 

"  Soubise  dit,  la  lanterne  &  la  main, 

J'  ai  beau  chercher,  ou  diable  est  mon  armde  t 

Elle  etait  li  pourtant  hier  matin  :^ 

Me  I'a-t-on  prise,  ou  I'aurais-je  esareel— 

Que  vois-je,  6  ciel '.  que  mon  &me  est  ravie! 

Trodige  heureux  I  la  voili,  la  voilJl! — 

Ah,  ventrebleul  qu'  est-ce  done  que  relal 

Je  me  trompuis,  c'est  l'arm<:e  ennemie  :" 

Lacbetelle,  ii.  206. 
2Q 


458 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


conventional  Politesse,  and  a  Cloak  of  pros- 
pective Cardinal's  Plush.  Are  not  Intrigues, 
might  Rohan  say,  the  industry  of  this  our 
Universe ;  nay,  is  not  the  Universe  itself,  at 
bottom,  properly  an  Intrigue  1  A  Most  Chris- 
tian Majesty,  in  the  Parc-aux-cerfs :  he,  thou 
seest,  is  the  god  of  this  lower  world ;  our  war- 
banner  (in  the  fight  of  Life)  and  celestial  En- 
touto-nika  is  a  Strumpet's  Petticoat:  these  are 
thy  gods,  O  France!— What,  in  such  singular 
circumstances,  could  poor  Rohan's  creed  and 
world-theory  be,  that  he  should  "perform" 
thereby  1  Atheism?  Alas,  no;  not  even  Athe- 
ism :  only  Machiavelism ;  and  the  indestruct- 
ible faith  that  "ginger  is  hot  in  the  mouth." 
Get  ever  new  and  better gtwg-cr,  therefore  ;  chew 
it  ever  the  more  diligently  :  't  is  all  thou  hast 
to  look  to,  and  that  only  for  a  day. 

Ginger  enough,  poor  Louis  de  Rohan :  too 
much  of  ginger!  Whatsoever  of  it,  for  the 
five  senses,  money,  or  money's  worth,  or  back- 
stairs diplomacy,  can  buy ;  nay,  for  the  sixth 
sense,  too,  the  far  spicier  ginger:  Antecedence 
of  thy  fellow-creatures, — merited,  at  least,  by 
infinitely  finer  housing  than  theirs.  Coadjutor 
of  Strasburg,  Archbishop  of  Strasburg,  Grand 
Almoner  of  France,  Commander  of  the  Order 
of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Cardinal,  Commendator  of 
St.  Wast  d'Arras  (one  of  the  fattest  benefices 
here  below) :  all  these  shall  be  housings  for 
Monseigneur:  to  all  these  shall  his  Jesuit 
Nursing-mother,  (our  vulpine  Abbe  Georgel,) 
through  fair  court-weather  and  through  foul, 
triumphantly  bear  him, — and  wrap  him  with 
them,  fat,  somnolent.  Nurseling  as  he  is. — By 
the  way,  a  most  assiduous,  ever-wakeful  Abbe 
is  this  Georgel;  and  wholly  Monseigneur's. 
He  has  scouts  dim-flying,  far  out,  in  the  great 
deep  of  the  world's  business ;  has  spider- 
threads  that  over-net  the  whole  world;  himself 
sits  in  the  centre  ready  to  run.  In  vain  shall 
King  and  Queen  combine  against  Monseigneur: 
"I  was  at  M.  de  Maurepas'  pillow  before  six," 
— persuasively  wagging  my  sleek  coif,  and  the 
sleek  reynard-head  under  it;  I  managed  it  all 
for  him.  Here,  too,  on  occasion  of  Reynard 
Georgel,  we  could  not  but  reflect  what  a  sin- 
gular species  of  creature  your  Jesuit  must 
have  been.  Outwardly,  you  would  say,  a 
man;  the  smooth  semblance  of  a  man:  in- 
wardly, to  the  centre,  filled  with  stone  !  Yet 
in  all  breathing  things,  even  in  stone  Jesuits, 
are  inscrutable  sympathies:  how  else  does  a 
Reynard  Abbe  so  loyally  give  himself,  soul 
and  body,  to  a  somnolent  Monseigneur; — how 
else  does  the  poor  Tit,  to  the  neglect  of  its 
own  eggs  and  interests,  nurse  up  a  huge  lum- 
bering Cuckoo;  and  think  its  pains  all  paid, 
if  the  soot-brown  Stupidity  will  merely  grow 
bigger  and  bigger! — Enough,  by  Jesuitic  or 
other  means.  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  shall  be 
passively  kneaded  and  baked  into  Commenda- 
tor of  St.  Wast  and  much  else ;  and  truly  such 
a  Commendator  as  hardly,  since  King  Thierri 
(first  of  the  Faineans)  founded  that  Establish- 
ment, has  played  his  part  there. 

Such,  however,  have  Nature  and  Art  com- 
bined together  to  make  Prince  Louis.  A  figure 
thrice-clothed  with  honours;  with  plush,  and 
civic,  and  ecclesiastic  garniture  of  all  kinds  ; 
but  in  itself  little  other  than  an  amorphous 


congeries  of  contradictions,  somnolence  and 
violence,  foul  passions,  and  foul  habits.  It  is 
by  his  plush  cloaks  and  wrappages  mainly,  as 
above  hinted,  that  such  a  figure  sticks  together 
(what  we  call,  "  coheres,")  in  any  measure ; 
were  it  not  for  these,  he  would  flow  out  bound- 
lessly on  all  sides.  Conceive  him  further, 
with  a  kind  of  radical  vigour  and  fire,  (for  he 
can  see  clearly  at  times,  and  speak  fiercely  ;) 
yet  left  in  this  way  to  stagnate  and  ferment, 
and  lie  overlaid  with  such  floods  of  fat  ma- 
terial,— have  Ave  not  a  true  image  of  the  shame- 
fullest  Mud-volcano,  gurgling  and  sluttishly 
simmering,  amid  continual  steamy  indistinct- 
ness, (except,  as  was  hinted,  in  wind-g-ws/s ;) 
with  occasional  terrifico-absurd  Mud-explo- 
sions ! 

This,  garnish  it  and  fringe  it  never  so  hand- 
somely, is.,  alas,  the  intrinsic  character  of 
Prince  Louis.  A  shameful  spectacle:  such, 
however,  as  the  world  has  beheld  many  times; 
as  it  were  to  be  wished  (but  is  not  yet  to  be 
hoped)  the  world  might  behold  no  more.  Nay, 
are  not  all  possible  delirious  incoherences, 
outward  and  inward,  summed  up,  for  poor 
Rohan,  in  this  one  incrediblest  incoherence, 
that  he,  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan,  is  named 
Priest,  Cardinal  of  the  Church  1  A  debauched, 
merely  libidinous  mortal,  lying  there  quite 
helpless,  rf/s-solute,  (as  we  well  say;)  whom 
to  see  Church  Cardinal  (that  is,  symbolical 
Hinge,  or  main  Corner,  of  the  Invisible  Holy 
in  this  World)  an  Inhabitant  of  Saturn  might 
split  with  laughing, — if  he  did  not  rather 
swoon  with  pity  and  horror! 

Prince  Louis,  as  ceremonial  fugleman  at 
Strasburg,  might  have  hoped  to  make  some 
way  with  the  fair  young  Dauphiness ;  but 
seems  not  to  have  made  any.  Perhaps,  in 
those  great  days,  so  trying  for  a  fifteen  years* 
Bride  and  Dauphiness,  the  fair  Antoinette  was 
too  preoccupied  :  perhaps,  in  the  very  face 
and  looks  of  Prospective-Cardinal  Prince 
Louis,  her  fair  young  soul  read,  all  uncon- 
sciously, an  incoherent  ixowe'-ism,  (bottomless 
Mud-volcano-ism,)  from  which  she  by  in- 
stinct rather  recoiled. 

However,  as  above  hinted,  he  is  now  gone, 
in  these  years,  on  Embassy  to  Vienna :  with 
"  four-and -twenty  pages,"  (if  our  remembrance 
of  Abbe  Georgel  serve)  "  of  noble  birth,"  all 
in  scarlet  breeches ;  and  such  a  retinue  and 
parade  as  drowns  even  his  fat  revenue  in  pe- 
rennial debt.  Above  all  things,  his  Jesuit 
Familiar  is  with  him.  For  so  everywhere 
they  must  manage:  Eminence  Rohan  is  the 
cloak,  Jesuit  Georgel  the  man  or  automaton 
within  it.  Rohan,  indeed,  sees  Poland  a-par- 
titioning ;  or  rather  Georgel,  with  his  "  masked 
Austrian"  traitor,  "on  the  ramparts,"  sees  it 
for  him:  but  what  can  he  do?  He  exhibits 
his  four-and-twenty  scarlet  pages,  (who 
"smuggle"  to  quite  unconscionable  lengths;) 
rides  through  a  Catholic  procession,  Prospec- 
tive-Cardinal as  he  is,  because  it  is  too  long, 
and  keeps  him  from  an  appointment:  hunts, 
gallants ;  gives  suppers,  Sardanapalus-wise, 
the  finest  ever  seen  in  Vienna.  Abbe  Geor- 
gel (as  we  fancy  it  was)  writes  a  Despatch  in 
his  name    "every  fortnight;" — mentions,  ia 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


459 


one  of  these,  that  "  Maria  Theresa  stands,  in- 
deed, with  the  handkerchief  in  one  hand,  weep- 
ing for  the  woes  of  Poland ;  but  with  the  sword 
in  the  other  hand,  ready  to  cut  Poland  in  sec- 
tions, and  take  her  share."*  Untimely  joke; 
which  proved  to  Prince  Louis  the  root  of  un- 
speakable chagrins!  For  Minister  D'Aiguil- 
lon  (much  against  his  duty)  communicates 
the  Letter  to  King  Louis ;  Louis  to  Du  Barry, 
to  season  her  souper,  and  laughs  over  it:  the 
thing  becomes  a  court-joke  ;  the  filially-pious 
Dauphiness  hears  it,  and  remembers  it.  Ac- 
counts go,  moreover,  that  Rohan  spake  cen- 
suringly  of  the  Dauphiness  to  her  Mother: 
this,  probably,  is  but  hearsay  and  false;  the 
devout  Maria  Theresa  disliked  him,  and  even 
despised  him,  and  vigorously  laboured  for 
his  recall. 

Thus,  in  rosy  sleep  and  somnambulism,  or 
awake  only  to  quaff  the  full  wine-cup  of  the 
Scarlet  Woman,  (his  mother,)  and  again  sleep 
and  somnambulate,  does  the  Prospective- 
Cardinal  and  Commendator  pass  his  days. 
Unhappy  man!  This  is  not  a  world  that  was 
made  in  sleep ;  that  it  is  safe  to  sleep  and 
somnambulate  in.  In  that  "  loud-roaring  Loom 
of  Time"  (where  above  nine  hundred  millions 
of  hungry  Men,  for  one  item,  restlessly  weave 
and  work,)  so  many  threads  fly  humming  from 
their  "eternal  spindles;"  and  swift  invisible 
shuttles,  far  darting,  to  the  Ends  of  the  World, 
— complex  enough  !  At  this  hour,  a  miser- 
able Boehmer  in  Paris  (whom  thou  wottesi 
not  of)  is  spinning,  of  diamonds  and  gold,  a 
paltry  thrum  that  will  go  nigh  to  strangle  the 
life  out  of  thee. 

Meanwhile  Louis  the  welj-beioved  has  left 
(for  ever)  his  Parc-aux-cerfs ;  and,  amid  the 
scarce-suppressed  hootings  of  the  world,  taken 
up  his  last  lodging  at  St.  Denis.  Feeling  that 
it  was  all  over,  (for  the  small-pox  has  the 
victory,  and  even  Du  Barry  is  off,)  he,  as  the 
Abbe  Georgel  records,  "made  the  amende 
honorable  to  God,"  (these  are  his  Reverence's 
own  words ;)  had  a  true  repentance  of  three 
days'  standing;  and  so,  continues  the  Abbe, 
"  fell  asleep  in  the  Lord."  Asleep  in  the  Lord, 
Monsieur  I'Abbe  !  If  such  a  mass  of  Laziness 
and  Lust  fell  asleep  in  the  Lord,  who,  fanciest 
thou,  is  it  that  falls  asleep — elsewhere  1 
Enough  that  he  did  fall  asleep  ;  that  thick- 
wrapt  in  the  Blanket  of  the  Night,  under  what 
keeping  we  ask  not,  he  never  through  endless 
Time  can,  for  his  own  or  our  sins,  insult  the 
face  of  the  Sun  any  more : — and  so  now  we 
go  onward,  if  not  to  less  degrees  of  beastliness, 
yet,  at  least  and  worst,  to  cheering  varieties  of 
it. 

Louis  XVI.  therefore  reigns,  (and  under  the 
Sieur  Gamain,  makes  locks ;)  his  fair  Dauphi- 


*  M  moires  de  VAbhe  OeorgeU  ii.  1—220.  Abbe  Geor- 
ge', who  has  given,  in  the  place  referred  to,  a  lonjj 
solemn  Narrative  of  the  Necltlace  Business,  passes  for 
the  grand  authority  on  it:  but  neither  will  he,  strictly 
taken  up,  abide  scrutiny.  He  is  vague  as  may  be  ; 
writing  in  what  is  called  the  "soaped-pig"  fashion: 
yet  sometimes  you  do  catch  him,  and  hold  him.  There 
are  hardly  above  three  dates  in  his  whole  Narrative. 
lie  mistakes  several  times;  perhaps,  once  or  twice, 
wilfully  misrepresents,  a  little.  The  main  incident  of 
the  business  is  misdated  by  him,  almost  a  twelvemonth. 
It  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  poor  Al)b6  wrote  in 
exile  ;  and  with  cause  enough  for  prepossesfiions  and 
buetilities. 


ness  has  become  a  Queen.  Eminence  Rohan 
is  home  from  Vienna;  to  condole  and  con- 
gratulate. He  bears  a  letter  from  Maria 
Theresa;  hopes  the  Queen  will  not  forget  old 
Ceremonial  Fuglemen,  and  friends  of  the 
Dauphiness.  Heaven  and  Earth  !  The  Dauphi- 
ness Queen  will  not  see  him ;  orders  the  Let- 
ter to  be  sent  her.  The  King  himself  signifies 
briefly  that  he  "will  be  asked  for  when 
wanted !" 

Alas  !  at  Court,  our  motion  is  the  delicatest, 
unsurest.  We  go  spinning,  as  it  were,  on 
teetotums,  by  the  edge  of  bottomless  deeps. 
Rest  is  fall;  so  is  one  false  whirl.  A  moment 
ago,  Eminence  Rohan  seemed  waltzing  with 
the  best :  but,  behold,  his  teetotum  has  carried 
him  over ;  there  is  an  inversion  of  the  centre 
of  gravity ;  and  so  now,  heels  uppermost,  ve- 
locity increasing  as  the  time,  space  as  the 
square  of  the  time, — he  rushes. 

On  a  man  of  poor  Rohan's  somnolence  and 
violence,  the  sympathizing  mind  can  estimate 
what  the  effect  was.  Consternation,  stupe- 
faction, the  total  jumble  of  blood,  brains,  and 
nervous  spirits  ;  in  ear  and  heart,  only  univer- 
sal hubbub,  and  louder  and  louder  singing  of 
the  agitated  air.  A  fall  comparable  to  that 
of  Satan  !  Men  have,  indeed,  been  driven  from 
Court;  and  borne  it,  according  to  ability.  A 
Choiseul,  in  these  very  years,  retired  Parthian- 
like,  with  a  smile  or  scowl ;  and  drew  half  the 
Court-host  along  with  him.  Our  Wolsey, 
though  once  an  Ego  et  Rex  mens,  could  journey, 
it  is  said,  without  strait-waistcoat,  to  his  mo- 
nasetry ;  and  there,  telling  beads,  look  forward 
to  a  still  longer  journey.  The  melodious,  too 
soft-strung,  Racine,  when  his  King  turned  his 
back  on  him,  emitted  one  meek  wail,  and  sub- 
missively— died.  But  the  case  of  Coadj  u  tor  de 
Rohan  differed  from  all  these.  No  loyalty  was 
in  him  that  he  should  die ;  no  self-help,  that 
he  should  live;  no  faith  that  he  should  tell 
beads.  His  is  a  mud-volcanic  character;  in- 
coherent, mad,  from  the  very  foundation  of  it. 
Think,  too,  that  his  Courtiership  (for  how  could 
any  nobleness  enter  there?)  was  properly  a 
gambling  speculation:  the  loss  of  his  trump 
Queen  of  Hearts  can  bring  nothing  but  flat, 
unredeemed  despair.  No  other  game  has  he, 
in  this  world, — or  in  the  next.  And  then  the 
exasperating  Why?  the  Haw  came  it ?  For  that 
Rohanic,  or  Georgelic,  sprightliness  of  the 
"handkerchief  in  one  hand,  and  sword  in  the 
other,"  (if  indeed,  that  could  have  caused  it  all,) 
has  quite  escaped  him.  In  the  name  of  Friar 
Bacon's  Head,  ivhat  was  it  1  Imagination,  with 
Desperation  to  drive  her,  may  fly  to  all  points 
of  Space ; — and  return  with  wearied  wings,  and 
no  tidings.  Behold  me  here:  this,  which  is  the 
first  grand  certainty  for  man  in  general,  is  the 
first  and  last  and  only  one  for  poor  Rohan.  And 
then  his  Here  !  Alas,  looking  upwards,  he  can 
eye,  from  his  burning  marie,  the  azure  realms, 
once  his  ;  Cousin  Countess  de  Marsan,  and  so 
many  Richelieus,  Polignacs,  and  other  happy 
angels,  male  and  female,  all  blissfully  gyrating 
there;  while  he —  ! 

Nevertheless  hope,  in  the  human  breast, 
though  not  in  the  diabolical,  springs  eternal. 
The  outcast  Rohan  bends  all  his  thoughts,  fa- 
culties, prayers,  purposes,  to  one  object;  one 


460 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


object  he  will  attain,  or  go  to  Bedlam.  How- 
many  ways  he  tries  ;  what  days  and  nights  of 
conjecture,  consultation ;  what  written  un- 
published reams  of  correspondence,  protesta- 
tion, back-stairs  diplomacy  of  every  rubric  ! 
How  many  suppers  has  he  eaten  ;  how  many 
given, — in  vain !  It  is  his  morning  song,  and 
his  evening  prayer.  From  innumerable  falls 
he  rises ;  only  to  fall  again.  Behold  him  even, 
with  his  red  stockings,  at  dusk,  in  the  Garden 
of  Trianon:  he  has  bribed  the  Concierge;  will 
see  her  Majesty  in  spite  of  Etiquette  and  Fate  ; 
peradventure,  pitying  his  long  sad  King's-evil, 
she  will  touch  him,  and  heal  him.  In  vain, 
(says  the  Female  Historian,  Campan.)*  The 
Chariot  of  Majesty  shoots  rapidly  by,  with 
high-plumed  heads  in  it;  Eminence  is  known 
by  his  red  stockings,  but  not  looked  at,  only 
laughed  at,  and  left  standing  like  a  Pillar  of 
Salt. 

Thus  through  ten  long  years  (of  new  resolve 
and  new  despondency,  of  flying  from  Saverne 
to  Paris,  and  from  Paris  to  Saverne)  has  it 
lasted ;  hope  deferred  making  the  heart  sick. 
Reynard  Georgel  and  Cousin  de  Marsan,  by 
eloquence,  by  influence,  and  being  "  at  M.  de 
Maurepas'  pillow  before  six,"  have  secured  the 
Archbishopric,  the  Grand-Almonership,  (by  the 
medium  of  Poland  ;)  and,  lastly,  to  tinker  many 
rents,  and  appease  the  Jew,  that  fattest  Com- 
mendatorship,  founded  by  King  Thierri  the 
Donothing — perhaps  Avith  a  view  to  such  cases. 
All  good  !  languidly  croaks  Rohan  ;  yet  all  not 
the  one  thing  needful ;  alas,  the  Queen's  eyes 
do  not  yet  shine  on  me. 

Abbe  Georgel  admits  (in  his  own  polite  di- 
plomatic way)  that  the  mud-volcano  was  much 
agitated  by  these  trials;  and  in  time  quite 
changed.  Monseigneur  deviated  into  cabalis- 
tic courses,  after  elixirs,  philtres,  and  the  phi- 
losopher's stone  ;  that  is,  the  volcanic  stream 
grew  thicker  and  heavier:  at  last  by  Caglios- 
tro's  magic,  (for  Cagliostro  and  the  Cardinal  by 
elective  affinity  must  meet,)  it  sank  into  the 
opacity  of  perfect  London  fog!  So,  too,  if 
Monseigneur  grew  choleric  ;  wrapped  himself 
up  in  reserve,  spoke  roughly  to  his  domestics 
and  dependents, — were  notthe  terrifico-absurd 
mud  explosions  becoming  more  frequent? 
Alas,  what  wonder?  Some  nine-and-forty 
winters  have  now  fled  over  his  Eminence,  (for 
it  is  1783,)  and  his  beard  falls  white  to  the 
shaver;  but  age  for  him  brings  no  "benefit of 
experience."  He  is  possessed  by  a  fixed- 
idea  ! 

Foolish  Eminence!  is  the  Earth  grown  all 
barren  and  of  a  snuff"  colour,  because  one  pair 
of  eyes  in  it  look  on  thee  askance  1  Surely 
thou  hast  thy  Body  there  yet;  and  what  of 
Soul  might  from  the  first  reside  in  it.  Nay,  a 
warm,  snug  Body,  with  not  only  five  senses, 

*  Madame  Campan,  in  her  Narrative,  and,  indeed,  in 
her  Memoirs  penerally,  does  not  seem  to  in/cwrf falsehood : 
this,  in  the  Business  of  the  Necklace,  is  sayin?  a  preat 
deal.  She  rather,  perhaps,  intends  the  prodncinjr  of  an 
impression  ;  which  may  have  appeared  to  herself  to  be 
the  right  one  But,  at  all  events,  she  has,  here  or  else- 
where, no  notion  of  historical  rigour  ;  she  cives  hardly 
jmy  date,  or  the  like  ;  will  tell  the  same  thing,  in  differ- 
ent i)laces,  different  ways,  &c.  There  is  a  tradition  that 
Louis  XVIII.  revised  her  Mhnoires  before  pul)lication. 
She  requires  to  be  read  with  skepticism  everywhere  ; 
but  yields  something  in  that  way. 


(sound  still  in  spite  of  much  tear  and  wear,) 
but  most  eminent  clothing  besides ; — clothed 
with  authority  over  much,  with  red  Cardinal's 
cloak,  red  Cardinal's  hat;  with  Commendator- 
ship,  Grand-Almonership  (so  kind  have  thy 
Fripiers  been,)  and  dignities  and  dominions 
too  tedious  to  name.  The  stars  rise  nightly, 
with  tidings  (for  thee,  too,  if  thou  wilt  listen) 
from  the  infinite  Blue ;  Sun  and  Moon  bring 
vicissitudes  of  season ;  dressing  green,  with 
flower-borderings,  and  cloth  of  gold,  this  an- 
cient ever-young  Earth  of  ours,  and  filling  her 
breasts,  with  all-nourishing  mother's  milk. 
Wilt  thou  work?  The  whole  Encyclopedia 
(not  Diderot's  only,  but  the  Almighty's)  is 
there  for  thee  to  spread  thy  broad  faculty  upon. 
Or,  if  thou  have  no  faculty,  no  Sense,  hast  thou 
not  (as  already  suggested)  Senses,  to  the  number 
of  five.  What  victuals  thou  wishest,  command  ; 
wiih  what  wine  savoureth  thee,  be  filled.  Al- 
ready thou  art  a  false  lascivious  Priest;  with 
revenues  of,  say,  a  quarter  of  a  million  ster- 
ling; and  no  mind  to  mend.  Eat,  foolish 
Eminence;  eat  with  voracity, — leaving  the 
shot  till  afterwards !  In  all  this  the  eyes  of 
Marie  Antoinette  can  neither  help  thee  nor 
hinder. 

And  yet  what  is  the  Cardinal,  dissolute,  mud- 
volcano  though  he  be,  more  foolish  herein, 
than  all  Sons  of  Adam?  Give  the  wisest  of 
us  once  a  "  fixed-idea," — which,  though  a  tem- 
porary madness,  who  has  not  had? — and  see 
where  his  wisdom  is!  The  Chamois-hunter 
serves  his  doomed  seven  years  in  the  Quick- 
silver Mines  ;  returns  salivated  to  the  marrow 
of  the  backbone ;  and  next  morning, — goes 
forth  to  hunt  again.  Behold  Cardalion,  King 
of  Urinals  ;  with  a  woful  ballad  to  his  mistress' 
eyebrow !  He  blows  out,  Werter-wise,  his 
foolish  existence,  because  she  will  not  have  it 
to  keep;-  heeds  not  that  there  are  some  five 
hundred  millions  of  other  mistresses  in  this 
noble  Planet ;  most  likely  much  such  as  she. 
O  foolish  men!  They  sell  their  Inheritance, 
(as  their  mother  did  hers,)  thought  it  is  Para- 
dise, for  a  crotchet:  will  they  not,  in  every 
age,  dare  not  only  grape-shot  and  gallows- 
ropes,  but  Hell-fire  itself,  for  better  sauce  to 
their  victuals  ?  My  friends,  beware  of  fixed- 
ideas. 

Here,  accordingly,  is  poor  Boehmer  with 
one  in  his  head  too  !  He  has  been  hawking 
his  "irreducible  case  of  Cardan"  (that  Neck- 
lace of  his)  these  three  long  years,  through  all 
Palaces  and  Ambassadors'  Hotels,  over  the 
old  "  nine  Kingdoms,"  (or  more  of  them  that 
there  now  are:)  searching,  sifting  Earth,  Sea, 
and  Air,  for  a  customer.  To  take  his  Neck- 
lace in  pieces,  and  so,  losing  only  his  manual 
labour  and  expected  glory,  dissolve  his  fixed- 
idea,  and  fixed  diamonds,  into  current  ones: 
this  were  simply  casting  out  the  Devil — from 
himself;  a  miracle,  and  perhaps  more!  For 
he  too  has  a  Devil  or  Devils :  one  mad  object 
that  he  strives  at;  that  he  too  will  attain,  or  go 
to  Bedlam.  Creditors,  snarling,  hound  him  on 
from  without;  mocked  Hopes,  lost  Labours, 
bear-bait  him  from  within:  to  these  torments 
his  fixed-idea  keeps  him  chained.  In  six-and- 
thirty  weary  revolutions  of  the  Moon,  was  it 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


461 


wonderful  the  man's  brain  had  got  dried  a 
little  1 

Behold,  one  day,  being  Court-Jeweller,  he 
too  bursts,  almost  as  Rohan  had  done,  into  the 
Queen's  retirement,  or  apartment;  flings  her- 
self (as  Campan  again  has  recorded)  at  her 
Majesty's  feet;  and  there,  with  clasped,  up- 
lifted hands,  in  passionate  nasal-gutturals, 
with  streaming  tears  and  loud  sobs,  entreats 
her  to  do  one  of  two  things  :  Either  to  buy  his 
Necklace ;  or  else  graciously  to  vouchsafe  him 
her  royal  permission  to  drown  himself  in  the 
River  Seine.  Her  majesty,  pitying  the  dis- 
tracted, bewildered  state  of  the  man,  calmly 
points  out  the  plain  third  course :  Depecez  votre 
Collier,  (take  your  Necklace  in  pieces  ;) — add- 
ing, withal,  in  a  tone  of  queenly  rebuke,  that 
if  he  would  drown  himself,  he  at  all  times 
could,  without  her  furtherance. 

Ah,  had  he  drowned  himself,  with  the  Neck- 
lace in  his  pocket;  and  Cardinal  Commendator 
at  his  skirts!  Kings,  above  all,  beautiful 
Queens,  as  far-radiant  Symbols  on  the  pin- 
nacles of  the  world,  are  so  exposed  to  madmen. 
Should  these  two  fixed-ideas  that  beset  this 
beauiifullest  Queen,  and  almost  burst  through 
her  Palace-walls,  one  day  unile.,  and  this  not  to 
jump  into  the  River  Seine; — what  maddest 
result  may  be  looked  for ! 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    ARTIST. 


If  the  reader  has  hitherto  (in  our  too  figura- 
tive language)  seen  only  the  figurative  hook 
and  the  figurative  eye,  which  Boehmer  and 
Rohan,  far  apart,  were  respectively  fashioning 
for  each  other,  he  shall  now  see  the  cunning 
Milliner  (an  actual,  unmetaphorical  Milliner) 
by  whom  these  two  individuals,  with  their  two 
implements,  are  brought  in  contact,  and  hook- 
ed together  into  stupendous  artificial  Siamese- 
Twins  ; — after  which  the  whole  nodus  and 
solution  will  naturally  combine  and  unfold 
itself. 

Jeanne  de  St.  Remi,  by  courtesy  or  other- 
wise. Countess,  styled  also  of  Valois,  and  even 
of  France,  has  now,  (in  this  year  of  Grace, 
1783,)  known  the  world  for  some  seven-and- 
twenty  summers ;  and  had  crooks  in  her  lot. 
6he  boasts  herself  descended,  by  what  is  called 
natural  generation,  from  the  Blood-Royal  of 
France  :  Henri  Second,  before  that  fatal  tour- 
ney-lance entered  his  right  eye,  and  ended 
him,  appears  to  have  had,  successively  or 
simultaneously,  four — unmentionable  women  : 
and  so,  in  vice  of  the  third  of  these,  came  a 
certain  Henri  de  St.  Remi  into  this  world ;  and, 
as  High  and  Puissant  Lord,  ate  his  victuals 
and  spent  his  days,  on  an  allotted  domain  of 
Fontette,  near  Bar-sur-Aube,  in  Champagne. 
Of  High  and  Puissant  Lords,  at  this  Fontette, 
six  other  generations  followed ;  and  thus  ulti- 
mately, in  a  space  of  some  two  centuries, — 
succeeded  in  realizing  this  brisk  little  Jeanne 
de  St.  Remi,  here  in  question.  But,  ah,  what 
a  falling:  off!  The  Royal  Family  of  France 
has  well-nigh  forgotten  its  left-hand  collate- 
rals; the  last  High  and  Puissant  Lord,  (much 


dipt  by  his  predecessors,)  falling  into  drink, 
and  left  by  a  scandalous  world  to  drink  his 
pitcher  dry,  had  to  alienate  by  degrees  his 
whole  worldly  Possessions,  down  almost  to  the 
indispensable,  or  inexpressibles;  and  die  at 
last  in  the  Paris  H6tel-Dieu ;  glad  that  it  was 
not  on  the  street.  So  that  he  has  indeed  given 
a  sort  of  bastard  Life-royal  to  little  Jeanne, 
and  her  little  brother;  but  not  the  smallest 
earthly  provender  to  keep  it  in.  The  mother, 
in  her  extremity,  forms  the  wonderfullest  con- 
nections ;  and  little  Jeanne,  and  her  little 
brother,  go  out  into  the  highways  to  beg.* 

A  charitable  Countess  Boulainvilliers,  struck 
with  the  little  bright-eyed  tatterdemalion  from 
the  carriage  window,  picks  her  up ;  has  her 
scoured,  clothed ;  and  rears  her,  in  her  fluc- 
tuating, miscellaneous  way,  to  be,  about  the 
age  of  twenty,  a  nondescript  of  Mantuamaker, 
Soubrette,  Court-beggar,  Fine-lady,  Abigail, 
and  Scion-of-Royalty.  Sad  combination  of 
trades  !  The  Court,  after  infinite  soliciting, 
puts  one  off"  with  a  hupgry  dole  of  little  more 
than  thirty  pounds  a  year.  Nay,  the  audacious 
Count  Boulainvilliers  dares  (with  what  pur- 
poses he  knows  best)  to  ofter  some  suspicious 
presents  !f  Whereupon  his  good  Countess 
(especially  as  Maniuamaking  languishes) 
thinks  it  could  not  but  be  fit  to  go  down  to 
Bar-sur-Aube  ;  and  there  see  whether  no  frac- 
tions of  that  alienated  Fontette  Property,  held, 
perhaps,  on  insecure  tenure,  may,  by  terror  or 
cunning,  be  recoverable.  Burning  her  paper 
patterns ;  pocketting  her  pension,  (till  more 
come,)  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  sallies  out  thither, 
in  her  twenty-third  year. 

Nourished  in  this  singular  way,  alternating 
between  saloon  and  kitchen-table,  with  the 
loftiest  of  pretensions,  meanest  of  possessions, 
our  poor  High  and  Puissant  Mantuamaker  has 
realized  for  herself  a  "face  not  beautiful,  yet 
with  a  certain  piquancy;"  dark  hair,  blue 
eyes ;  and  a  character,  which  the  present 
writer,  a  determined  student  of  human  nature, 
declares  to  be  undecipherable.  Let  the  Psycho- 
logists try  it !  Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi  de  Valois 
de  France  actually  lived,  and  worked,  and  was : 
she  has  even  published,  at  various  times,  three 
considerable  Volumes  of  Autobiography,  with 
loose  Leaves  (in  Courts  of  Justice)  of  un- 
known number  ;t  wherein  he  that  runs  may 


♦  Vie  de  Jeanne  Comtesse  de  Lamotte,  (by  Herself.) 
Vol.  I. 

t  He  was  of  Hebrew  descent :  grandson  of  the  re- 
nowned Jew  Bernard,  whom  I/Ouis  XV.,  and  even 
Louis  XVI.,  used  to  "  walk  with  in  the  Royal  Garden," 
when  they  wanted  him  to  lend  them  money.— See 
Souvenirs  du  Dvc  de  Levis  ;  Memoires  de  Duclos,  Sec. 

t  Four  Memoires  Pour  by  her,  in  this  Affaire  dv. 
Collier;  like  "Lawyers'  tongues  turned  inside  out!" 
Afterwards  one  Volume,  Memoires  Justificatifs  de  la 
Comtesse  de,  &.C.,  (London,  1788;)  with  Appendi-x  of 
"Documents,"  so-called.  This  hHs  also  been  translated 
into  a  kind  of  English.  Then  two  Volumes,  as  quoted 
above  :  Vie  de  Jeanne  de,  &c. ;  printed  in  London,— by 
way  of  e.xtorting  money  from  Paris.  This  latter  Lying 
Autobiography  of  Lamotte  was  bought  up  by  French 
persons  in  authority.  It  was  the  burning  of  this  Edifio 
Princeps  in  the  Sevres  Potteries,  on  Jbe  30th  of  May, 
1792,  which  raised  such  a  smoke,  that  the  Legislative 
Assembly  took  alarm;  and  had  an  investijration  about 
it,  and  considerable  examining  of  Potiers,  &c.,  till  the 
truth  came  out.  Copies  of  the  Book  were  speedily  re- 
printed after  the  Tenth  of  August.  It  is  in  Enelish  too  ; 
and,  except  in  the  Necklace  part,  is  not  so  entirely  dis- 
tracted as  the  former. 

2  0.2 


463 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


read,— but  not  understand.  Strange  Volumes ! 
more  like  the  screeching  of  distracted  night- 
birds,  (suddenly  disturbed  by  the  torch  of  Po- 
lice-Fowlers,) than  the  articulate  utterance 
of  a  rational  unfeathered  biped.  Cheerfully 
admitting  these  statements  to  be  all  lies;  we 
ask,  How  any  mortal  could,  or  should,  so  lie  1 

The  Psychologists,  however,  commit  one 
sore  mistake  ;  that  of  searching,  in  every  cha- 
racter named  human,  for  something  like  a 
conscience.  Being  mere  contemplative  re- 
cluses, for  most  part,  and  feeling  that  Morality 
is  the  Heart  of  Life,  they  judge  that  with  all  the 
world  it  is  so.  Nevertheless,  as  practical  men 
are  aware,  Life  can  go  on  in  excellent  vigour, 
without  crotchet  of  that  kind.  What  is  the 
essence  of  Life  1  Volition?  Go  deeper  down, 
you  find  a  much  more  universal  root  and  cha- 
racteristic :  Digestion.  While  Digestion  lasts, 
Life  cannot,  in  philosophical  language,  be  said 
to  be  extinct:  and  Digestion  will  give  rise  to 
Volitions  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  Desires  (and 
attempts)  which  may  pass  for  such.  He  who 
looks  neither  before  nor  after,  any  further  than 
the  Larder,  and  Stateroom,  (which  is  properly 
the  finest  compartment  of  the  Larder,)  will 
need  no  World-theory,  (Creed,  as  it  is  called,) 
or  Scheme  of  Duties  ;  lightly  leaving  the  world 
to  wag  as  it  likes  with  any  theory  or  none,  his 
grand  object  is  a  theory  (and  practice)  of  ways 
and  means.  Not  goodness  or  badness  is  the 
type  of  him;  only  shiftiness  or  shiftlessness. 

And  now,  disburdened  of  this  obstruction, 
let  the  Psychologists  consider  it  under  a  bolder 
view.  Consider  the  brisk  Jeanne  deSaint-Remi 
de  Saint-Shifty  as  a  Spark  of  vehement  Life 
(not  developed  into  Will  of  any  kind,  yet  fully 
into  Desires  of  all  kinds)  cast  into  such  a  Life- 
element  as  we  have  seen.  Vanity  and  Hunger ; 
a  Princess  of  the  Blood,  yet  whose  father  had 
sold  his  inexpressibles;  uncertain  whether 
fosterdaughter  of  a  fond  Countess,  with  hopes 
sky-high,  or  supernumerary  Soubrette,  with 
not  enough  of  Mantuamaking:  in  a  word,  Gig- 
rnanity  disgigged ;  one  of  the  saddest,  pitiable, 
unpitied  predicaments  of  man  !  She  is  of  that 
light  unreflecting  class,  of  that  light  unreflect- 
ing sex :  varium  semper  et  mutabile.  And  then 
her  Fine-Ladyism,  though  a  purseless  one  ; 
capricious,  coquettish,  and  with  all  the  finer 
sensibilities  of  the  heart;  now  in  the  rackets, 
now  in  the  sullens ;  vivid  in  contradictory 
resolves  ;  laughing,  weeping  without  reason, — 
though  these  acts  are  said  to  be  signs  of  reason. 
Consider,  too,  how  she  has  had  to  work  her  way, 
all  along,  by  flattery  and  cajolery;  wheedling, 
eaves-dropping,  and  nambypambying:  how 
she  needs  wages,  and  knows  no  other  produc- 
tive trades.  Thought  can  hardly  be  said  to 
exist  in  her:  only  Perception  and  Device. 
With  an  understanding  lynx-eyed  for  the  sur- 
face of  things,  but  which  pierces  beyond  the 
surface  of  nothing ;  every  individual  thing  (for 
she  has  never  seized  the  heart  of  it)  turns  up 
a  new  face  to  her  every  new  day,  and  seems  a 
thing  changed,  a  different  thing.  Thus  sits, 
©r  rather  vehemently  bobs  and  hovers  her 
vehement  mind,  in  the  middle  of  a  boundless 
many-dancing  whirlpool  of  gilt-shreds,  paper 
clippings,  and  windfalls, — to  which  the  revolv- 
ing chaos   of  my  Uncle-Toby's   Smoke-jack 


was  solidity  and  regularity.  Reader !  thou  for 
thy  sins  must  have  met  with  such  fair  Irra- 
tionals ;  fascinating,  with  their  lively  eyes,  with 
their  quick  snappish  fancies  ;  distinguished  in 
the  higher  circles,  in  Fashion,  even  in  Litera- 
ture: they  hum  and  buzz  there,  on  graceful 
film  wings  ; — searching,  nevertheless,  with  the 
wonderfullest  skill,  for  honey:  "untamable  as 
flies  !" 

Wonderfullest  skill  for  honey,  we  say  ;  and, 
pray,  mark  that,  as  regards  this  Countess  de 
Saint-Shifty.  Her  instinct-of-genius  is  prodi- 
gious ;  her  appetite  fierce.  In  any  foraging 
speculation  of  the  private  kind,  she,  unthinking 
as  you  call  her,  will  be  worth  a  hundred 
thinkers.  And  so  of  such  untamable  flies  the 
untamablest.  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  is  now 
buzzing  down,  in  the  Bar-sur-Aube  Diligence  ; 
to  inspect  the  honey-jars  of  Fontette ;  and  see 
and  smell  whether  there  be  any  flaws  in  them. 

Alas,  at  Fontette,  we  can,  with  sensibility, 
behold  straw-roofs  we  were  nursed  under; 
farmers  courteously  oifer  cooked  milk,  and 
other  country  messes ;  but  no  soul  will  part 
with  bis  Landed  Property,  for  which  (though 
cheap)  he  declares  hard  money  was  paid.  The 
honey-jars  are  all  close,  then  1 — However,  a 
certain  Monsieur  de  Lamotte,  a  tall  Gendarme, 
home  on  furlough  from  Luneville,  is  now  at 
Bar ;  pays  us  attentions ;  becomes  quite  par- 
ticular in  his  attentions, — for  we  have  a  face 
"  with  a  certain  piquancy,"  the  liveliest  glib- 
snappish  tongue,  !he  liveliest  kittenish  manner, 
(not  yet  hardened  into  ca^hood,)  with  thirty 
pounds  a-year,  and  prospects.  M.  de  Lamotte, 
indeed,  is  as  yet  only  a  private  sentinel ;  but 
then  a  private  sentinel  in  the  Gendarmes:  and 
did  not  his  fiither  die  fighting  "at  the  head  of 
his  company,"  at  Minden  1  Why  not  in  virtue 
of  our  own  Countess-ship  dub  him  too  Count ; 
by  left-hand  collateralism,  get  him  advanced? 
— Finished  before  the  furlough  is  done  !  The 
untamablest  of  flies  has  again  buzzed  ofl^;  in 
wedlock  with  M.  de  Lamotte  ;  if  not  to  get 
honey,  yet  to  escape  spiders ;  and  so  lies  in 
garrison  at  Luneville,  amid  coquetries  and 
hysterics,  in  Gigmanity  disgigged — disconso- 
late enough. 

At  the  end  of  four  long  years,  (too  long,)  M. 
de  Lamotte,  or  call  him  now  Count  de  Lamotte, 
sees  good  to  lay  down  his  fighting-gear,  (un- 
happily still  only  the  musket,)  and  become 
what  is  by  certain  moderns  called  "  a  Civi- 
lian :"  not  a  Civil-Law  Doctor;  merely  a  citi- 
zen, one  who  does  not  live  by  being  killed. 
Alas  !  cold  eclipse  has  all  along  hung  over  the 
Lamotte  household.  Countess  Boulainvilliers, 
it  is  true,  writes  in  the  most  feeling  manner: 
but  then  the  Royal  Finances  are  so  deranged  ! 
Without  personal  pressing  solicitation,  on  the 
spot,  no  Court-Solicitor,  were  his  pension  the 
meagrest,  can  hope  to  better  it.  At  Luneville, 
the  sun  indeed  shines ;  and  there  is  a  kind  of 
Life;  but  only  an  un-Parisian,  half  or  quarter 
Life  ;  the  very  tradesmen  grow  clamorous,  and 
no  cunningly  devised  fable,  ready  money  alone, 
will  appease  them.  Commandant  Marquis 
d'Autichamp*  agrees  with  Madame  Boulain- 


*  lie  is  the  same  Marquis  d'Autichamp,  who  was  to 
"relieve  Lyons,"  and  raise  the  Siege  of  Lyons,  in 
Autumn,  1793,  but  could  not  do  it. 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


463 


villiers  that  a  journey  to  Paris  were  the  pro- 
ject ;  whither,  also,  he  himself  is  just  going. 
Perfidious  Commandant  Marquis !  His  plan 
is  seen  through :  he  dares  to  presume  to  make 
love  to  a  Scion-of-Royalty ;  or  to  hint  that  he 
could  dare  to  presume  to  do  it.  Whereupon, 
indignant  Count  de  Lamotte,  as  we  said,  throws 
up  his  commission,  and  down  his  fire-arms ; 
without  further  delay.  The  King  loses  a  tall 
private  sentinel;  the  world  has  a  new  black- 
leg: and  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Lamotte 
take  places  in  the  Diligence  for  Strasburg. 

Good  Fostermother  Boulainvilliers,  how- 
ever, is  no  longer  at  Strasburg:  she  is  forward 
at  the  Archiepiscopal  palace  in  Saverne ;  on  a 
visit  there,  to  his  Eminence  Cardinal  Com- 
mendator  Grand- Almoner  Archbishop  Prince 
Louis  de  Rohan  !  Thus,  then,  has  Destiny  at 
last  brought  it  about.  Thus,  after  long  wander- 
ings, on  paths  so  far  separate,  has  the  time 
come,  (in  this  late  year  1783,)  when,  of  all  the 
nine  hundred  millions  of  the  Earth's  denizens, 
these  pre-appointed  two  beheld  each  other  ! 

The  foolish  Cardinal,  since  no  sublunary 
means,  not  even  bribing  of  the  Trianon  Con- 
cierge, will  serve,  has  taken  to  the  superlunary: 
he  is  here,  with  his  fixed-idea;  and  volcanic 
vapourosity,  darkening,  under  Cagliostro's  ma- 
nagement, into  thicker  and  thicker  opaque, — 
of  the  Black-Art  itself.  To  the  glance  of  hun- 
gry genius  Cardinal  and  Cagliostro  could  not 
but  have  meaning.  A  flush  of  astonishment, 
a  sigh  over  boundless  wealth  (for  the  moun- 
tains of  debt  lie  invisible)  in  the  hands  of 
boundless  Stupidity  ;  some  vague  looming  of 
indefinite  hope :  all  this  one  can  well  fancy. 
But,  alas,  what,  to  a  high  plush  Cardinal,  is  a 
now  insolvent  Scion-of-Royalty, — though  with 
a  face  of  some  piquancy  ?  The  good  Foster- 
mother's  visit,  in  any  case,  can  last  but  three 
days ;  then,  amid  old  nambypambyings,  with 
the  eflTusions  of  the  nobler  sensibilities,  and 
tears  of  pity  (at  least  for  oneself,)  Countess 
de  Lamotte,  and  husband,  must  off  with  her 
to  Paris,  and  new  possibilities  at  Court.  Only 
when  the  sky  again  darkens,  can  this  vague 
looming  from  Saverne  look  out,  by  fits,  as  a 
cheering  weather-sign. 


CHAPTER  VL 

■WILI.    THE    TWO    FIXED-IDEAS    TTXITE  1 

However,  the  sky,  according  to  custom,  is 
not  long  in  darkening  again.  The  King's 
finances,  we  repeat,  are  in  so  distracted  a 
state !  No  D'Ormesson,  no  Joly  de  Fleury, 
weary  of  milking  the  already  dry,  will  increase 
that  scandalous  Thirty  Pounds  of  a  Scion-of- 
Royalty  by  a  single  doit.  Calonne  himself, 
who  has  a  willing  ear  and  encouraging  word 
for  all  mortals  whatsoever,  only  with  diffi- 
culty, and  by  aid  of  Madame  of  France,* 
raises  it  still  to  some  still  miserable  Sixty-five. 
Worst  of  all,  the  good  Fostermother  Boulain- 
villiers, in  few  months,  suddenly  dies :  the 
wretched  widower,  sitting  there,  with  his 
white  handkerchief,  to  receive  condolences. 


Campan. 


with  closed  shutters,  mortuary  tapestries,  and 
sepulchral  cressets  burning,  (which,  however, 
the  instant  the  condolences  are  gone,  he  blows 
out,  to  save  oil,)  has  the  audacity  again,  amid 
crocodile  tears,  to — drop  hints  !*  Nay,  more, 
he  (wretched  man  in  all  senses)  abridges  the 
Lamotte  table  ;  will  besiege  virtue  both  in  the 
positive  and  negative  way.  The  Lamottes, 
wintery  as  the  world  looks,  cannot  begone  too 
soon. 

As  to  Lamotte  the  husband,  he,  for  shelter 
against  much,  decisively  dives  down  to  the 
"  subterranean  shades  of  Rascaldom  ;"  gam- 
bles, swindles  ;  can  hope  to  live,  miscellane-,  t 
ously,  if  not  by  the  Grace  of  God,  yet  by  the 
Oversight  of  the  Devil, — for  a  time.  Lamotte 
the  wife  also  makes  her  packages :  and  wav- 
ing the  unseductive  Count  Boulainvilliers 
Save-all  a  disdainful  farewell,  removes  to  the 
Belle  Image  in  Versailles ;  there,  within  wind 
of  Court,  in  attic  apartments,  on  poor  water- 
gruel  board,  resolves  to  await  what  can  betide. 
So  much,  in  few  months  of  this  fateful  year 
1783,  has  come  and  gone. 

Poor  Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi  de  Lamotte 
Valois,  Ex-Mantua  maker,  Scion-of-Royalty ! 
What  eye,  looking  into  those  bare  attic  apart- 
ments, and  water-gruel  platters  of  the  Belle 
Image,  but  must,  in  spite  of  itself,  grow  dim  with 
almost  a  kind  of  tear  for  thee !  There  thou 
art,  with  thy  quick  lively  glances,  face  of  a 
certain  piquancy,  thy  gossamer  untamable 
character,  snappish  sallies,  glib  all-managing 
tongue  ;  thy  whole  incarnated,  garmented,  and 
so  sharply  appetent  "  spark  of  Life ;"  cast 
down  alive  into  this  World,  without  vote  of 
thine,  (for  the  Elective  Franchises  have  not 
yet  got  that  length ;)  and  wouldst  so  fain  live 
there.  Paying  scot-and-lot ;  providing,  or  fresh- 
scouring,  silk  court-dresses  ;  "  always  keep- 
ing a  gig!"  Thou  must  hawk  and  shark  to 
and  fro,  from  anteroom  to  anteroom  ;  become 
a  kind  of  terror  to  all  men  in  place,  and  wo- 
men that  influence  such;  dance  not  light  Ionic 
measures,  but  attendance  merely  ;  have  weep- 
ings, thanksgiving  effusions,  aulic,  almost 
forensic,  eloquence  :  perhaps  eke  out  thy  thin 
livelihood  by  some  coquetries,  in  the  small 
way ; — and  so,  most  poverty-stricken,  cold- 
blighted,  yet  with  young  keen  blood  struggling 
against  it,  spin  forward  thy  unequal  feeble 
thread,  which  the  Clotho-scissors  will  soon 
clip ! 

Surely,  now,  if  ever,  were  that  vague  loom- 
ing from  Saverne  welcome,  as  a  weather-sign. 
How  doubly  welcome  is  his  plush  Eminence's 
personal  arrival ; — for  with  the  earliest  spring 
he  has  come  in  person,  as  he  periodically 
does  ;  vaporific,  driven  by  his  fixed-idea. 

Genius,  of  the  mechanical  practical  kind, 
what  is  it  but  a  bringing  together  of  two 
Forces  that  fit  each  other,  that  will  give  birth 
to  a  third  1  Ever,  from  Tubalcain's  time, 
Iron  lay  ready  hammered ;  Water,  also,  was 
boiling  and  bursting:  nevertheless,  for  want 
of  a  genius,  there  was  as  yet  no  Steam-engine. 
In  his  Eminence  Prince  Louis,  in  that  huge, 

*rie   de  Jeanne   de  Lamotte,  Sec,   6crite  par  eUe- 
i. 


464 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


restless,  incoherent  Being  of  his,  depend  on 
it,  brave  Countess,  there  are  Forces  deep, 
manifold ;  nay,  a  fixed-idea  concentrates  the 
whole  huge  Incoherence  as  it  were  into  one 
Force :  cannot  the  eye  of  genius  discover  its 
fellow  ? 

Communing  much  with  the  CoviVi-v aletaille, 
our  brave  Countess  has  more  than  once  heard 
talk  of  Boehmer,  of  his  Necklace,  and  threat- 
ened death  by  water;  in  the  course  of  gossip- 
ing and  tattling,  this  topic  from  time  to  time 
emerges ;  is  commented  upon  with  empty 
laughter, — as  if  there  lay  no  further  meaning 
in  it.  To  the  common  eye  there  is  indeed 
none :  but  to  the  eye  of  genius  ?  In  some 
moment  of  inspiration,  the  question  rises  on 
our  brave  Lamotte :  were  not  this,  of  all  ex- 
tant Forces,  the  cognate  one  that  would  unite 
with  Eminence  Rohan's  1  Great  moment, 
light-beaming,  fire-flashing;  like  birth  of  Min- 
erva ;  like  all  moments  of  Creation  !  Fancy 
how  pulse  and  breath  flutter,  almost  stop,  in 
the  greatness :  the  great  not  Divine  Idea,  the 
great  Diabolic  Idea  is  too  big  for  her. — 
Thought  (how  often  must  we  repeat  it!)  rules 
the  world ;  Fire  and,  in  a  less  degree,  Frost ; 
Earth  and  Sea,  (for  what  is  your  swiftest  ship, 
or  steamship  but  a  Thought — imbodied  in 
wood  ?)  ;  Reformed  Parliaments,  rise  and  ruin 
of  Nations, — sale  of  Diamonds  :  all  things 
obey  Thought.  Countess  de  Saint  Remi  de 
Lamotte,  by  power  of  thought  is  now  made 
woman.  With  force  of  genius  she  represses, 
crushes  deep  down,  her  Undivine  Idea;  bends 
all  her  faculty  to  realize  it.  Prepare  thyself. 
Reader  for  a  series  of  the  most  surprising 
Dramatic  Representations  ever  exhibited  on 
any  stage. 

We  hear  tell  of  Dramatists,  and  scenic  illu- 
sion how  "natural,"  how  illusive  it  was:  if 
the  spectator,  for  some  half-moment,  can  half- 
deceive  himself  into  the  belief  that  it  was 
real,  he  departs  doubly  content.  With  all 
which,  and  much  more  of  the  like,  I  have  no 
quarrel.  But  what  must  be  thought  of  the 
Female  Dramatist  who,  for  eighteen  long 
months,  can  exhibit  the  beautifullest  Fata- 
morgana  to  a  plush  Cardinal,  wide  awake, 
with  fifty  years  on  his  head ;  and  so  lap  him 
in  her  scenic  illusion  that  he  never  doubts  but 
it  is  all  firm  earth,  and  the  pasteboard  Cou- 
lisse-trees are  producing  Hesperides  apples  ? 
Could  Madame  de  Lamotte,  then  have  written 
a  Hamlet?  I  conjecture,  not.  More  goes  to 
the  writing  of  a  Hamlet  than  completest  "  imi- 
tation" of  all  characters  and  things  in  this 
Earth  ;  there  goes,  before  and  beyond  all,  the 
rarest  understanding  of  these,  insight  into  their 
hidden  essences  and  harmonies.  Erasmus's 
Ape,  as  is  known  in  Literary  History,  sat  by 
while  its  Master  was  shaving,  and  "  imitated  " 
every  point  of  the  process  ;  but  its  own  fool- 
ish beard  grew  never  the  smoother. 

As  in  looking  at  a  finished  Drama,  it  were 
nowise  meet  that  the  spectator  first  of  all  got 
behind  the  scenes,  and  saw  the  burnt-corks, 
brayed-resin,  thunder-barrels,  and  withered 
hunger-bitten  men  and  women,  of  which  such 
heroic  work  was  made:  so  here  with  the 
reader.    A  peep  into  the  side-scenes  shall  be  I 


granted  him,  from  time  to  time.  But,  on  the 
whole,  repress,  O  reader,  that  too  insatiable 
scientific  curiosity  of  thine ;  let  thy  cpsthetic 
feeling  first  have  play;  and  witness  what  a 
Prospero's-grotto  poor  Eminence  Rohan  is  led 
into,  to  be  pleased  he  knows  not  why. 

Survey  first  what  we  might  call  the  stage- 
lights,  orchestra,  general  structure  of  the  thea- 
tre, mood  and  condition  of  the  audience.  The 
theatre  is  the  World,  with  its  restless  business 
and  madness ;  near  at  hand  rise  the  royal 
Domes  of  Versailles,  mystery  around  them, 
and  as  background  the  memory  of  a  thousand 
years.  By  the  side  of  the  River  Seine  walks, 
haggard,  wasted,  a  Jouaillier-Bijoutier  de  la 
Reine,  with  necklace  in  his  pocket.  The  au- 
dience is  a  drunk  Christopher  Sly  in  the  fittest 
humour.  A  fixed-idea,  driving  him  headlong 
over  steep  places,  like  that  of  the  Gadarenes' 
Swine,  has  produced  a  deceptibility,  as  of  des- 
peration, that  will  clutch  at  straws.  Under- 
stand one  other  word  :  Cagliostro  is  prophesy- 
ing to  him  !  The  Quack  of  Quacks  has  now 
for  years  had  him  in  leading.  Transmitting 
"predictions  in  cipher;"  questioning,  before 
Hieroglyphic  Screens,  Columbs  in  a  state  of 
Innocence,  for  elixirs  of  life,  and  philosopher's 
stone;  unveiling,  in  fuliginous,  clear-obscure 
the  (sham)  majesty  of  nature;  he  isolates  him 
more  and  more  from  all  unpossessed  men. 
Was  it  not  enough  that  poor  Rohan  had  be- 
come a  dissolute,  somnolent-violent,  ever- 
vapory  Mud-volcano;  but  black  Egyptian 
magic  must  be  laid  on  him  ! 

If,  perhaps,  too,  our  Countess  de  Lamotte, 
with  her  blandishments, — for  though  not  beau- 
tiful, she  "  has  a  certain  piquancy,"  et  cetera  ? — 
Enough,  his  poor  Eminence  sits  in  the  fittest 
place,  in  the  fittest  mood :  a  newly-awakened 
Christopher  Sly;  and  with  his  "small  ale," 
too,  beside  him.  Touch,  only,  the  lights  with 
fire-tipt  rod ;  and  let  the  orchestra  soft-warbling 
strike  up  their  fara-lara  fiddle-diddle-dee  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 


MARIE-AITTOIirETTE. 


Such  a  soft-warbling  fara-lara  was  it  to  his 
Eminence,  when  (in  early  January  of  the  year 
1784)  our  Countess  first,  mysteriously,  and 
under  seal  of  sworn  secrecy,  hinted  to  him 
that,  with  her  winning  tongue  and  great  talent 
as  Anecdotic  Historian,  she  had  worked  a  pas- 
sage to  the  ear  of  Queen's  Majesty  itself.* 
Gods !  Dost  thou  bring  with  thee  airs  from 
Heaven  ?  Is  thy  face  yet  radiant  with  some 
reflex  of  that  Brightness  beyond  bright ! — Men 
with  fixed  idea  are  not  as  other  men.  To 
listen  to  a  plain  varnished  tale,  such  as  your 
Dramatist  can  fashion ;  to  ponder  the  words  ; 
to  snuff"  them  up,  as  Ephraim  did  the  east-wind, 
and  grow  flatulent  and  drunk  with  them:  what 
else  could  poor  Eminence  do  ]  His  poor 
somnolent,  so  swift-rocked   soul  feels  a  new 


*  Compare  Rohan's  MSmoires  Pour,  (there  are  four 
of  them,)  in  the  Affaire  du  Collier,  with  Lamotte'a 
four.  They  go  on  in  the  way  of  controversy,  of  argu- 
ment, and  response. 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


465 


element  infused  into  it;  turbid  resinous  light, 
wide-coruscating,  glares  over  the  "waste  of 
his  imagination."  Is  he  interested  in  the  mys- 
terious tidings  ]  Hope  has  seized  them ;  there 
is  in  the  world  nothing  else  that  interests 
him. 

The  secret  friendship  of  Queens  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  let  sleep :  ever  new  Palace  Inter- 
views occur ; — yet  in  deepest  privacy;  for  how 
should  her  Majesty  awaken  so  many  tongues 
of  Principalities  and  Nobilities,  male  and  fe- 
male, that  spitefully  watch  herl  Above  all, 
however,  "  on  the  2d  of  February,"  that  day 
of  "  the  Procession  of  blue  Ribands,"*  much 
was  spoken  of;  somewhat,  too,  of  Monseigneur 
de  Rohan  ! — Poor  Monseigneur,  hadst  thou 
three  long  ears,  thou'dst  hear  her. 

But  will  she  not,  perhaps,  in  some  future 
priceless  Interview,  speak  a  good  word  for 
theel  Thyself  shalt  speak  it,  happy  Emi- 
nence ;  at  least,  write  it :  our  tutelary  Countess 
will  be  the  bearer! — On  the  21st  of  March 
goes  off  that  long  exculpatory  imploratory 
Letter :  it  is  the  first  Letter  that  went  off  from 
Cardinal  to  Queen ;  to  be  followed,  in  time,  by 
"  above  two  hundred  others  ;"  which  are  gra- 
ciously answered  by  verbal  Messages,  nay,  at 
length  by  Royal  Autographs  on  gilt  paper, — 
the  whole  delivered  by  our  tutelary  Countess.f 
The  tutelary  Countess  comes  and  goes,  fetch- 
ing and  carrying ;  with  the  gravity  of  a  Roman 
Augur,  inspects  those  extraordinary  chicken- 
bowels,  and  draws  prognostics  from  them. 
Things  are  in  fair  train :  the  Dauphiness  took 
some  offence  at  Monseigneur,  but  the  Queen 
has  nigh  forgotten  it.  No  inexorable  Queen  ; 
ah  no  !  So  good,  so  free,  light-hearted  ;  only 
sore  beset  with  malicious  Polignacs  and 
others ; — at  times,  also,  short  of  money. 

Marie  Antoinette,  as  the  reader  well  knows, 
has  been  much  blamed  for  want  of  Etiquette. 
Even  now,  when  the  other  accusations  against 
her  have  sunk  down  to  oblivion  and  the  Father 
of  Lies,  this  of  wanting  Etiquette  survives 
her ; — in  the  Castle  of  Ham,  at  this  hour,t  M. 
de  Polignac  and  Company  may  be  wringing 
their  hands,  not  without  an  oblique  glance  at 
her  for  bringing  them  thither.  She  indeed 
discarded  Etiquette  ;  once,  when  her  carriage 
broke  down,  she  even  entered  a  hackney- 
coach.  She  would  walk,  too,  at  Trianon,  in 
mere  straw-hat,  and,  perhaps,  muslin  gown ! 
Hence,  the  Knot  of  Etiquette  being  loosed,  the 
Frame  of  Society  broke  up ;  and  those  aston- 
ishing "  Horrors  of  the  French  Revolution" 
supervened.  On  what  Damocles'  hairs  must 
the  judgment-sword  hang  over  this  distracted 
Earth  !  Thus,  however,  it  was  that  Tenlerden 
Steeple  brought  an  i/iflux  of  the  Atlantic  on 
us,  and  so  Godwin  Sands.  Thus,  too,  might 
it  be  that  because  Father  Noah  took  the  liber- 
ty of,  say,  rinsing  out  his  wine-vat,  his  Ark 
was  floated  off,  and  a  World  drowned. — Beau- 
tiful Highborn  that  wert  so  foully  hurled  low  ! 
For,  if  thy  Being  came  to  thee  out  of  old  Haps- 


♦  Lamotte's  Mimoires  Justificatifs,  (London,  1788.) 
f  See  Oeorg-el :  see  Lamotte's  Memoires ;  in  her  Ap- 
pendix of  "Documents"  to  that  volume,  certain  of  these 
Letters  are  given. 
t  A.  D.  1831. 

59 


burgh  Dynasties,  came  it  not  also  (like  my 
own)  out  of  Heaven  ?     Sunt  lachrymm  rerum,  et 
mentem  mortalia  tangunt.     Oh,  is  there  a  man's 
heart  that  thinks,  without  pity,  of  those  long 
months  and  years  of  slow-wasting  ignominy; 
— of  thy  Birth,  soft-cradled  in  Imperial  Schon- 
brunn,  the  winds  of  heaven  not  to  visit  thy 
face  too  roughly,  thy  foot  to  light  on  softness, 
thy  eye  on  splendour;  and  then  of  thy  Death, 
or  hundred  Deaths,  to  which  the  Guillotine 
and  Fouquier  Tinville's  judgment-bar  was  but 
the  merciful  end  1     Look  there,  0  man  born  of 
woman !     The  bloom  of  that  fair  face  is  wast- 
ed, the  hair  is  gray  with  care ;  the  brightness 
of  those  eyes  is  quenched,  their  lids    hang 
drooping,  the  face  is  stony,  pale,  as  of  one 
living  in  death.     Mean  weeds  (which  her  own 
hand  has  mended)*  attire  the  Queen  of  the 
World.     The  death-hurdle,  where  thou  sittest, 
pale,  motionless,  which  only  curses  environ, 
must  stop:  a  people,  drunk  with  vengeance, 
will  drink  it  again  in  full  draught :  far  as  the 
eye  reaches,  a  multitudinous  sea  of  maniac 
heads ;  the  air  deaf  with  their  triumph-yell ! 
The  Living-dead  must  shudder  with  yet  one 
other  pang:  her  startled  blood  yet  again  suf- 
fuses with  the  hue  of  agony  that  pale  face, 
which  she  hides  with  her  hands.     There  is, 
then,  no  heart  to  say,  God  pity  thee  1     0  think 
not  of  these ;  think  of  Him  whom  thou  wor- 
shippest,  the  Crucified, — who,  also,  treading 
the  wine-press  alone,  fronted  sorrow  still  deep- 
er; and  triumphed  over  it,  and  made  it  Holy; 
and  built  of  it  a  "  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow,"  for 
thee  and  all  the  wretched !     Thy  path  of  thorns 
IS  nigh  ended.    One  long  last  look  at  the  Tui- 
leries,  where  thy  step  was  once  so  light, — 
where  thy  children  shall  not  dwell.     The  head 
is  on  the  block;  the  axe  rushes — Dumb  lies 
the  World;  that  wild-yelling  World,  and  all 
its  madness,  is,  behind  thee. 

Beautiful  Highborn  that  wert  so  foully  hurled 
low  !  Rest  yet  in  thy  innocent  gracefully  heed- 
less seclusion,  (unintruded  on  by  me,)  while 
rude  hands  have  not  yet  desecrated  it.  Be  the 
curtains,  that  shroud  in  (if  for  the  last  time  oa 
this  Earth)  a  Royal  Life,  still  sacred  to  me. 
Thy  fault,  in  the  French  Revolution,  was  that 
thou  wert  the  Symbol  of  the  Sin  and  Misery 
of  a  thousand  years ;  that  with  Saint-Bartholo- 
mews, and  Jacqueries,  with  Gabelles,  and 
Dragonades,  and  Parcs-aux-cerfs,  the  heart  of 
mankind  was  filled  full, — and  foamed  over, 
into  all-involving  madness.  To  no  Napoleon, 
to  no  Cromwell  wert  thou  wedded:  such  sit 
not  in  the  highest  rank,  of  themselves ;  are 
raised  on  high  by  the  shaking  and  confound- 
ing of  all  the  ranks.  As  poor  peasants,  how 
happy,  worthy  had  ye  two  been  !  But  by  evil 
destiny  ye  were  made  a  King  and  Queen  of; 
and  so  both  once  more — are  become  an  aston- 
ishment and  a  by-word  to  all  limes. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

THE    TWO   FIXED-IDEAS    WILL    CNITE. 

"  Countess  de  Lamotte,  then,  had  penetrated 
into  the  confidence  of  the  Queen  ]     Those  gilt- 

*  Weber  :  Mimoires  concervajit  Marie- Antoinette,  (Lon- 
don, 1809,)  torn,  iii.,  notes,  106. 


466 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


paper  Autographs  were  actually  written  by  the 
Queen  ?"  Reader,  forget  not  to  repress  that  too 
insatiable,  scientific  curiosity  of  thine  !  What 
I  know  is  that  a  certain  Vilette-de-Retaux,  with 
military  whiskers,  denizen  of  Rascaldom,  com- 
rade there  of  Monsieur  le  Comte,  is  skilful  in 
imitating  hands.  Certain  it  is,  also,  that  Ma- 
dame laComtesse  has  penetrated  to  the  Trianon 
— Doorkeeper's.  Nay,  as  Campan  herself  must 
admit,  she  has  met,  "  at  a  Man-midwife's  in 
Versailles,"  with  worthy  Queen's-valet  Les- 
claux, — or  Desclos,  for  there  is  no  uniformity 
in  it.  With  these,  or  the  like  of  these,  she  in 
the  back-parlor  of  the  Palace  itself,  (if  late 
enough,)  may  pick  a  merry-thought,  sip  the 
foam  from  a  glass  of  Champagne.  No  further 
seek  her  honours  to  disclose,  for  the  present: 
or  anatomically  dissect,  as  we  said,  those  ex- 
traordinary chicken-bowels,  from  which  she, 
and  she  alone,  can  read  Decrees  of  Fate,  and 
also  realize  them. 

Skeptic,  seest  thou  his  Eminence  waiting 
there,  in  the  moonlight ;  hovering  to  and  fro  on 
the  back  terrace,  till  she  come  out — from  the 
inefiable  Interview?*  He  is  close  muffled; 
walks  restlessly  observant;  shy  also,  and  court- 
ing the  shade.  She  comes:  up  closer  with  thy 
capote,  O  Eminence,  down  with  thy  broad- 
brim ;  for  she  has  an  escort !  'T  is  but  the 
good  Monsieur  Queen's-valet  Lesclaux:  and 
now  he  is  sent  back  again,  as  no  longer  need- 
ful. Mark  him,  Monseigneur,  nevertheless ; 
thou  wilt  see  him  yet  another  time.  Monseig- 
neur marks  little  :  his  heart  is  in  the  ineffable 
Interview,  in  the  gilt-paper  Autograph,  alone. 
— Queen's-valet  Lesclaux  1  Methinks,  he  has 
much  the  stature  of  Villette,  denizen  of  Ras- 
caldom !  Impossible ! 

How  our  Countess  managed  with  Cagliostro  1 
Cagliostro,  gone  from  Strasburg,  is  as  yet  far 
distant,  winging  his  way  through  dim  Space ; 
will  not  be  here  for  months  :  only  his  "  predic- 
tions in  cipher"  are  here.  Here  or  there,  how- 
ever, Cagliostro,  to  our  Countess,  can  be  use- 
ful. At  a  glance,  the  eye  of  genius  has  de- 
scried him  to  be  a  bottomless  slough  of  falsity, 
vanity,  gulosity,  and  thick-eyed  stupidity:  of 
foulest  material,  but  of  fattest; — fit  compost 
for  the  Plant  she  is  rearing.  Him  who  has 
deceived  all  Europe  she  can  undertake  to 
deceive.  His  Columbs,  demonic  Masonries, 
Egyptian  Elixirs,  what  is  all  this  to  the  light- 
giggling  exclusively  practical  Lamottel  It 
runs  off  from  her,  as  all  speculation,  good,  bad, 
and  indifferent,  has  always  done,  "  like  water 
from  one  in  wax-cloth  dress."  With  the  lips 
meanwhile  she  can  honour  it;  Oil  of  Flattery 
(the  best  patent  antifriction  known)  subdues 
all  irregularities  whatsoever. 

On  Cagliostro,  again,  on  his  side,  a  certain 
uneasy  feeling  might,  for  moments  intrude 
itself:  the  raven  loves  not  ravens.  But  what 
can  he  do  1  Nay,  she  is  partly  playing  his 
game  :  can  he  not  spill  her  full  cup  yet,  at  the 
right  season,  and  pack  her  out  of  doors'? 
Oftenest,  in  their  joyous  orgies,  this  light 
fascinating    Countess, — who    perhaps  has   a 


*  See  Oeorgel. 


design  on  Ms  heart,  seems  to  him  but  one 
other  of  those  light  Papiliones,  who  have  flut- 
tered round  him  in  all  climates ;  whom  with 
grim  muzzle  he  has  snapt  by  the  thousand. 

Thus,  what  with  light  fascinating  Countess, 
what  with  Quack  of  Quacks,  poor  Eminence 
de  Rohan  lies  safe ;  his  mud-volcano  placidly 
simmering  in  thick  Egyptian  haze:  withdrawn 
from  all  the  world.  Moving  figures,  as  of  men, 
he  sees ;  takes  not  the  trouble  to  look  at. 
Court-cousins  rally  him  ;  are  answered  in  si- 
lence; or,  if  it  go  too  far,  in  mud-explosions 
terrifico-absurd.  Court-cousins  and  all  man- 
kind are  unreal  shadows  merely;  Queen's  fa- 
vour the  only  substance. 

Nevertheless,  the  World,  on  its  side,  toa, 
has  an  existence;  lies  not  idle  in  these  days. 
It  has  got  its  Versailles  Treaty  signed,  long 
months  ago ;  and  the  Plenipotentiaries  all  home 
again,  for  votes  of  thanks.  Paris,  London,  and 
other  great  Cities,  and  small,  are  working, 
intriguing;  dying,  being  born.  There,  in  the 
Rue  Taranne,  for  instance,  the  once  noisy 
Denis  Diderot  has  fallen  silent  enough.  Here, 
also,  in  Bolt  Court,  old  Samuel  Johnson,  like 
an  over-wearied  Giant,  must  lie  down,  and 
slumber  without  dream; — the  rattling  of  car- 
riages and  wains,  and  all  the  world's  din  and 
business  rolling  by,  as  ever,  from  of  old. — 
Sieur  Boehmer,  however,  has  not  yet  drowned 
himself  in  the  Seine ;  only  walks  haggard, 
wasted,  purposing  to  do  it. 

News  (by  the  merest  accident  in  the  world) 
reach  Sieur  Boehmer,  of  Madame's  new  favour 
with  her  Majesty  !  Men  will  do  much  before 
they  drown.  Sieur  Boehmer's  Necklace  is  on 
Madame's  table,  his  guttural  nasal  rhetoric  in 
her  ear:  he  will  abate  many  a  pound  and 
penny  of  the  first  just  price ;  he  will  give  cheer- 
fully a  Thousand  Louis-d'or,  as  cadeau,  to  the 
generous  Scion-of-Royalty  that  shall  persuade 
her  majesty.  The  man's  importunities  grow 
quite  annoying  to  our  Countess;  who,  in  her 
glib  way,  satirically  prattles  how  she  has  been 
bored, — to  Monseigneur,  among  othecs. 

Dozing  on  down  cushions,  far  inwards,  with 
soft  ministering  Hebes,  and  luxurious  appli- 
ances; with  ranked  Heyducs,  and  a  ValetaiUe 
innumerable,  that  shut  out  the  prose-world  and 
its  discord :  thus  lies  Monseigneur,  in  enchant- 
ed dream.  Can  he,  even  in  sleep,  forget  his 
tutelary  Countess,  and  her  service  ?  By  the 
delicatest  presents  he  alleviates  her  distresses, 
most  undeserved.  Nay,  once  or  twice,  gilt 
Autographs,  from  a  Queen, — with  whom  he  is 
evidently  rising  to  unknown  heights  in  favour, 
— have  done  Monseigneur  the  honour  to  make 
him  her  Majesty's  Grand  Almoner,  when  the 
case  was  pressing.  Monseigneur,  we  say,  has 
had  the  honour  to  disburse  charitable  cash,  on 
her  Majesty's  behalf,  to  this  or  the  other  dis- 
tressed deserving  object :  say  only  to  the  length 
of  a  few  thousand  pounds,  advanced  from  his 
own  funds ; — her  majesty  being  at  the  mo- 
ment so  poor,  and  charity  a  thing  that  wiU  not 
wait.  Always  Madame,  good  foolish,  gadding 
creature,  takes  charge  of  delivering  the  mo- 
ney.— Madame  can  descend  from  her  attics,  in 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


4d7 


Ihe  Belk  Image;  and  feel  the  smiles  of  Nature 
and  Fortune,  a  little;  so  bounteous  has  the 
Queen's  Majesty  been.* 

To  Monseigneur  the  power  of  money  over 
highest  female  hearts  had  never  been  incredi- 
ble. Presents  have,  many  times,  worked  won- 
ders. But  then,  O  Heavens,  what  present? 
Scarcely  were  the  Cloud-Compeller  himself,  all 
coined  into  new  Louis-d'or,  worthy  to  alight 
in  such  a  lap.  Loans,  charitable  disbursements, 
however,  as  we  see,  are  premissible ;  these,  by 
defect  of  payment,  may  become  presents.  In 
the  vortex  of  his  Eminence's  day-dreams,  lum- 
bering multiform  slowly  round,  this  of  impor- 
tunate Boehmer  and  his  Necklace,  from  time 
to  time,  turns  up.  Is  the  Queen's  Majesty 
at  heart  desirous  of  it;  but  again,  at  the 
moment,  too  poor?  Our  tutelary  Countess 
answers  vaguely,  mysteriously; — confesses,  at 
last,  under  oath  of  secrecy,  her  own  private 
suspicion  that  the  Queen  wants  this  same 
Necklace,  of  all  things ;  but  dare  not,  for  a 
stingy  husband,  buy  it.  She,  the  Countess  de 
Lamotte,  will  look  further  into  the  matter ;  and, 
if  aught  serviceable  to  his  Eminence  can  be 
suggested,  in  a  good  way  suggest  it,  in  the 
proper  quarter. 

Walk  warily,  Countess  de  Lamotte ;  for  now, 
with  thickening  breath,  thou  approaches!  the 
moment  of  moments !  Principalities  and  Pow- 
ers, Parlement,  Grand  Chambre,  and  Tournelle, 
with  all  their  whips  and  gibbet-wheels  ;  the 
very  Crack  of  Doom  hangs  over  thee,  if  thou 
trip.  Forward,  with  nerve  of  iron,  on  shoes 
of  felt;  /iA;e  a  Treasure-digger,  "in  silence; 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,"  where 
yawn  abysses  deep  as  the  Pool,  and  all  Pande- 
monium hovers  eager  to  rend  thee  into  rags  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 


PARK    OF    VERSAILLES. 


Or  will  the  reader  incline  rather  taking  the 
other  and.sunny  side  of  the  matter  to  enter 
that  Laniottic-Circean  theatirical  establish- 
ment of  Monseigneur  de  Rohan  ;  and  see  there 
how  (under  the  best  of  Dramaturgists)  Melo- 
drama, with  sweeping  pall,  flits  past  him; 
while  the  enchanted  Diamond  fruit  is  gradual- 
ly ripening,  to  fall  by  a  shake  1 

Tlie  28th  of  July  (of  this  same  momentous 
1784)  has  come;  and  with  it  the  most  raptu- 
rous tumult  into  the  heart  of  Monseigneur. 
Ineffable  expectancy  stirs  up  his  whole  soul, 
with  the  much  that  lies  therein,  from  its  low- 
est foundations :  borne  on  wild  seas  to  Armi- 
da  Islands,  yet  (as  is  fit)  through  Horror  dim 
hovering  round,  he  tumultuously  rocks.  To 
the  Chateau,  to  the  Park!  This  night  the 
Queen  will  meet  thee,  the  Queen  herself:  so 
far  has  our  tutelary  Countess  brought  it.  What 
can  ministerial  impediments,  Polignac  in- 
trigues, avail  against  the  favour,  nay  (Heaven 
and  Earth !)  perhaps  the  tenderness  of  a  Queen? 
She  vanishes  from  amid  their  meshwork  of 
Etiquette  and  Cabal;  descends  from  herceles- 


*  Oeorgel.    Rohan's  Four  .Wlsmoires  Pour;  Lamotte's 
Four. 


tial  Zodiac  to  thee,  a  shepherd  of  Latmos. 
Alas,  a  white-bearded,  pursy  shepherd,  fat  and 
scant  of  breath !  Who  can  account  for  the 
taste  of  females  ?  But  thou,  burnish  up  thy 
whole   faculties  of  gallantry,  thy  fifty  years' 

experience  of  the  sex ;  this  night,  or  never  ! 

In  such  unutterable  meditations,  does  Mon- 
seigneur restlessly  spend  the  day;  and  long 
for  darkness,  yet  dread  it. 

Darkness  has  at  length  come.  The  perpen- 
dicular rows  of  Heyducs,  in  that  Palais  or  Ho- 
tel de  Strasbourg,  are  all  cast  prostrate  in 
sleep;  the  very  Concierge  resupine,  with  open 
mouth,  audibly  drinks  in  nepenthe  ;  when  Mon- 
seigneur, "in  blue  greatcoat,  with  slouched 
hat,"  issues  softly,  with  his  henchman,  (Planta 
of  the  Orisons,)  to  the  Park  of  Versailles. 
Planta  must  loiter  invisible  in  the  distance ; 
Slouched-hat  will  wait  here,  among  the  leafy 
thickets  ;  till  our  tutelary  Countess,  "  in  black 
domino,"  announce  the  moment,  which  surely 
must  be  near. 

The  night  is  of  the  darkest  for  the  season  ; 
no  Moon;  warm, slumbering  July,  in  motion- 
less clouds,  drops  fatness  over  the  Earth.  The 
very  stars  from  the  Zenith  see  not  Mon- 
seigneur; see  only  his  cloud-covering,  fringed 
with  twilight  in  the  far  North.  Midnight,  tell- 
ing itself  forth  from  these  shadowy  Palace 
Domes?  All  the  steeples  of  Versailles,  the 
villages  around,  with  metal  tongue,  and  huge 
Paris  itself  dull-droning,  answer  drowsily  Yes  ! 
Sleep  rules  this  Hemisphere  of  the  W^orld. 
From  Arctic  to  Antarctic,  the  Life  of  our 
Earth  lies  all,  in  long  swaths,  or  rows,  (like 
those  rows  of  Heyducs  and  snoring  Con- 
cierge,) successively  mown  down,  from  verti- 
cal to  horizontal,  by  Sleep  !  Rather  curious 
to  consider. 

The  flowers  are  all  asleep  in  Little  Trianon, 
the  roses  folded  in  for  the  night ;  but  the  Rose 
of  Roses  still  wakes.  O  wondrous  Earth  !  O 
doubly  wondrous  Park  of  Versailles  with  Lit- 
tle and  Great  Trianon, — and  a  scarce-breath- 
ing Monseigneur !  Ye  Hydraulics  of  Lenolre, 
that  also  slumber,  with  stop-cocks,  in  your 
deep  leaden  chambers,  babble  not  of  him,  when 
ye  arise.  Ye  odorous  balm-shrubs,  huge  spec- 
tral Cedars,  thou  sacred  Boscage  of  Horn- 
beam, ye  dim  Pavilions  of  the  Peerless,  whis- 
per not !  Moon,  lie  silent,  hidden  in  thy  va- 
cant cave;  no  star  look  down:  let  neither 
Heaven  nor  Hell  peep  through  the  blanket  of 
the  Night,  to  cry.  Hold,  Hold!— The  Black 
Domino  ?  Ha  !  Yes  ! — With  stouter  step  than 
might  have  been  expected,  Monseigneur  is  un- 
der way;  the  Black  Domino  had  only  to  whis- 
per, low  and  eager: "  In  the  Hornbeam  Arbour !" 
And  now.  Cardinal,  O  now ! — Yes,  there  ho- 
vers the  white  Celestial;  "in  white  robe  of 
linon  mouchete,"  finer  than  moonshine;  a  Juno 
by  her  bearing:  there  in  that  bosket!  Mon- 
seigneur, down  on  thy  knees  ;  never  can  red 
breeches  be  better  wasted.  O  he  would  kiss 
the  royal  shoe-tie,  or  its  shadow,  (were  there 
one  :)  not  words  ;  only  broken  gaspings,  mur- 
muring prostrations,  eloquently  speak  his 
meaning.  But,  ah,  behold !  Our  tutelary  Black 
Domino,  in  haste,  with  vehement  whisper: 
"  On  vient  /"  The  white  Juno  drops  a  fairest 
Rose,  with  these  ever-memorable  words,  "  Vou» 


4C8 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


savez  ce  que  cela  veut  dire  (you  know  what  that 
means  ;")  vanishes  in  the  thicket,  the  Black 
Domino  hurrying  her  with  eager  whisper  of 
*'  Vite,  vite,  (away,  away !")  for  the  sound  of 
footsteps  (doubtless  from  Madame,  and  Ma- 
dame d'Artois,  unwelcome  sisters  that  they 
are  !)  is  approaching  fast.  Monseigneur  picks 
up  his  Rose ;  runs  as  for  the  King's  plate ;  al- 
most overturns  poor  Planta,  whose  laugh  as- 
sures him  that  all  is  safe.* 

O  Ixion  de  Rohan,  happiest  mortal  of  this 
world,  since  the  first  Ixion  of  deathless  me- 
mory,— who,  nevertheless,  in  that  cloud-em- 
brace, begat  strange  Centaurs!  Thou  art 
Prime  Minister  of  France  without  peradven- 
ture :  is  not  this  the  Rose  of  Royalty,  worthy 
to  become  ottar  of  roses,  and  yield  perfume 
for  ever  1  How  thou,  of  all  people,  wilt  con- 
trive to  govern  France  in  these  very  peculiar 
times. — But  that  is  little  to  the  matter.  There, 
doubtless,  is  thy  Rose,  (which,  methinks,  it 
were  well  to  have  a  Box  or  Casket  made  for :) 
nay,  was  there  not  in  the  dulcet  of  thy  Juno's 
"  Nous  saver"  a  kind  of  trepidation,  a  quaver, — 
as  of  still  deeper  meanings  ! 

Reader,  there  is  hitherto  no  item  of  this 
miracle  that  is  not  historically  proved  and 
true. — In  distracted  black-magical  phantasma- 
gory,  adumbrations  of  yet  higher  and  highest 
I)alliances,j-  hover  stupendous  in  the  back- 
ground: whereof  your  Georgels  andCarapans, 
and  other  official  characters,  can  take  no  no- 
tice !  There,  in  distracted  black-magical  phan- 
tasniagory,  let  these  hover.  The  truth  of  them 
for  us  is  that  they  do  so  hover.  The  truth  of 
them  in  itself  is  known  only  to  three  persons : 
Dame  (self-styled  Countess)  de  Lamotte ;  the 
Devil ;  and  Philippe  Egalite, — who  furnished 
money  and  facts  for  the  Lamotte  Memoires,  and, 
before  guillotinement,  begat  the  present  King 
of  the  French. 

Enough,  that  Ixion  de  Rohan,  lapsed  almost 
into  deliquium,  by  such  sober  certainty  of 
waking  bliss,  is  the  happiest  of  all  men ;  and 
his  tutelary  Countess  the  dearest  of  all  women, 
save  one  only.  On  the  25th  of  August,  (so 
strong  still  are  those  villainous  Drawing-room 
cabals,)  he  goes  weeping,  but  submissive,  (by 
order  of  a  gilt  Autograph,)  home  to  Saverne ; 
till  further  dignities  can  be  matured  for  him. 
He  carries  his  Rose,  now  considerably  faded,  in 
a  Casket  of  fit  price ;  may,  if  he  so  please,  per- 
petuate it  as  pot-pourri.  He  names  a  favourite 
walk  in  his  Archiepiscopal  pleasure-grounds. 
Promenade  de  la  Rose  ,•  there  let  him  court  diges- 
tion, and  loyally  somn ambulate  till  called  for. 
I  notice  it  as  a  coincidence  in  chronology, 
■  that,  few  days  after  this  date,  the  Demoiselle 
(or  even,  for  the  last  month.  Baroness)  Gay 

♦  Compare  Oeorgel,  Lamotte's  Memoires  Justificatifs, 
and  the  Memoires  Pour  of  the  various  parties,  especial- 
ly Gay  d'Oliva's.  Georgel  places  the  scene  in  the  year 
1785;  quite  wrong.  Lamotte's  "royal  Autographs" 
(as  given  in  the  Appendix  to  Mtmoires  Justificatifs) 
seem  to  be  misdated  as  to  the  day  of  the  month.  There 
is  endless  confusion  of  dates. 

f  Lamotte's  Memoires  Justificatifs ;  MS.  Songs  in  the 
Affaire  du  Collier,  &.C.  &.C.  Nothing  can  exceed  the 
brutalitv  of  these  things,  (unfit  for  Print  or  Pen  ;)  which, 
nevertheless,  found  believers  ;  increase  of  believers,  in 
the  public  exasperation  ;  and  did  the  Queen  (say  all  her 
historians)  incalculable  damage. 


d'Oliva  began  to  find  Countess  de  Lamotte 
"  not  at  home,"  in  her  fine  Paris  hotel,  in  her 
fine  Charonne  country-house;  and  went  no 
more,  with  Villette,  and  such  pleasant  dinner- 
guests,  and  her,  to  see  Beaumarchais'  Marriage 
de  Figaro,*  running  its  hundred  nights. 


CHAPTER  X. 


BEHIXD    THE    SCEKES. 


"The  Queen  1"  Good  reader,  thou  surely  art 
not  a  Partridge  the  Schoolmaster,  or  a  Mon- 
seigneur de  Rohan,  to  mistake  the  stage  for  a 
reality  ! — "  But  who  this  Demoiselle  d'Oliva 
was  V  Reader,  let  us  remark  rather  how  the 
labours  of  our  Dramaturgic  Countess  are  in- 
creasing. 

New  actors  I  see  on  the  scene ;  not  one  of 
whom  shall  guess  what  the  other  is  doing;  or, 
indeed,  know  rightly  what  himself  is  doing. 
For  example,  cannot  Messieurs  de  Lamotte 
and  Villette,  of  Rascaldom,  like  Nisus  and 
Euryalus,  take  a  midnight  walk  of  contempla- 
tion, with  "  footsteps  of  Madame  and  Madame 
d'Artois,"  (since  all  footsteps  are  much  the 
same,)  without  offence  to  any  one ''  A  Queen's 
Similitude  can  believe  that  a  Queen's  Self 
(for  frolic's  sake)  is  looking  at  her  through 
the  thickets  ;f  a  terrestrial  Cardinal  can  kiss 
with  devotion  a  celestial  Queen's  slipper,  or 
Queen's  Similitude's  slipper, — and  no  one  but 
a  Black  Domino  the  wiser.  All  these  shall 
follow  each  his  precalculated  course ;  for  their 
inward  mechanism  is  known  and  fit  wires 
hook  themselves  on  this.  To  Two  only  is 
a  clear  belief  vouchsafed:  to  Monseigneur, 
(founded  on  stupidity;)  to  the  great  creative 
Dramaturgist,  sitting  at  the  heart  of  the  whole 
mystery,  (founded  on  completest  insight.) 
Great  creative  Dramaturgist!  How, like  Schil- 
ler, "  by  union  of  the  Possible  with  the  Neces- 
sarily-existing, she  brings  out  the" — Eighty 
thousand  Pounds !  Don  Aranda,  with  his 
triple-sealed  missives  and  hoodwinked  secre- 
taries, bragged  justly  that  he  cut  down  the 
Jesuits  in  one  day;  but  here,  without  minis- 
terial salary,  or  King's  favour,  or  any  help  be- 
yond her  own  black  domino,  labours  a  greater 
than  he.  How  she  advances,  stealthily,  stead- 
fastly, with  Argus  eye  and  ever  ready-brain; 
"  with  nerve  of  iron,  on  shoes  of  felt !"  O 
worthy  to  have  intrigued  for  Jesuitdora,  for 
Pope's  Tiara ; — to  have  been  Pope  Joan  thy- 
self, in  those  old  days;  and  as  Arachne  of 
Arachnes,  sat  in  the  centre  of  that  stupendous 
spider-web,  that,  reaching  from  Goa  to  Aca- 
pulco,  and  from  Heaven  to  Hell,  overnetted 
the  thoughts  and  souls  of  men  ! — Of  which 
spider-web  stray  tatters,  in  favourable  dewy 
mornings,  even  yet  become  visible. 

The  Demoiselle  d'Oliva"?  She  is  a  Parisian 
Demoiselle  of  three-and-twenty,  tall,  blond,  and 
beautiful  ;t  from  unjust  guardians,  and  an 
evil  world,  she  has  had  somewhat  to  suffer. 


*Gay  d'Oliva's  First  MSmoire  Pour,  p.  37. 

t  See  Lamotte  ;  see  Gay  d'Oliva. 

tl  was  then  presented  "to  two  Ladies,  one  of  whom 
was  remarkable  for  the  richness  of  her  shape,  She  had 
blue  eyes  and  chestnut  hair'  (Bette  d'Etienville's  Se- 
cond Memoire  Pour  ;  in  the  Suite  de  I' Affaire  du  Collier.) 


^HE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


469, 


"In  the  month  of  June,  1784,"  says  the  De- 
moiselle herself,  in  her  (judicial)  Autobio- 
graphy, "  I  occupied  a  small  apartment  in  the 
Rue  du  Jour,  Quartier  St.  Eustache.  I  was 
not  far  from  the  Garden  of  the  Palais-Royal ; 
I  had  made  it  my  usual  promenade."  For, 
indeed,  the  real  God's-truth  is,  I  was  a  Parisian 
unfortunate-female,  with  moderate  custom ; 
and  one  must  go  where  his  market  lies.  "I 
frequently  passed  three  or  four  hours  of  the 
afternoon  there,  with  some  women  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, and  a  little  child  of  four  years  old, 
whom  I  was  fond  of,  whom  his  parents  will- 
ingly trusted  with  me.  I  even  went  thither  alone, 
except  for  him,  when  other  company  failed. 

"  One  afternoon,  in  the  month  of  July  fol- 
lowing, I  was  at  the  Palais-Royal :  my  whole 
company,  at  the  moment,  was  the  child  I 
speak  of.  A  tall  young  man,  walking  alone, 
passes  several  times  before  me.  He  was  a 
man  I  had  never  seen.  He  looks  at  me ;  he 
looks  fixedly  at  me.  I  observe  even  that  al- 
ways, as  he  comes  near,  he  slackens  his  pace, 
as  if  to  survey  me  more  at  leisure.  A  chair 
stood  vacant;  two  or  three  feet  from  mine. 
He  seals  himself  there. 

"Till  this  instant,  the  sight  of  the  young 
man,  his  walks,  his  approaches,  his  repeated 
gazings,  had  made  no  impression  on  me.  But 
now  when  he  was  sitting  so  close  by,  I  could 
not  avoid  noticing  him.  His  eyes  ceased  not 
to  wander  over  all  my  person.  His  air  be- 
comes earnest,  grave.  An  unquiet  curiosity 
appears  to  agitate  him.  He  seems  to  measure 
my  figure,  to  seize  by  turns  all  parts  of  my 
physiognomy." — He  finds  me  (but  whispers 
not  a  syllable  of  it)  tolerably  like,  both  in  per- 
son and  profile;  for  even  the  Abbe  Georgel 
says,  I  was  a  bcUe  courtisane. 

"  It  is  time  to  name  this  young  man :  he 
was  the  Sieur  de  Lamotte,  styling  himself 
Comte  de  Lamotte."  Who  doubts  itl  He 
praises  "my  feeble  charms;"  expresses  a 
wish  to  "  pay  his  addresses  to  me."  I,  being 
a  lone  spinster,  know  not  what  to  say;  think 
it  best  in  the  meanwhile  to  retire.  Vain  pre- 
caution I  "I  see  him  all  on  a  sudden  appear 
in  my  apartment!" 

On  his  "ninth  visit"  (for  he  was  always 
civility  itself)  he  talks  of  introducing  a  great 
Court-lady,  by  whose  means  I  may  even  do 
her  Majesty  some  little  secret-service, — the 
reward  of  which  will  be  unspeakable.  In  the 
dusk  of  the  evening,  silks  mysteriously  rustle; 
enter  the  creative  Dramaturgist,  Dame,  styled 
Countess,  de  Lamotte;  and  so — the  too  intru- 
sive, scientific  reader,  has  now, for  his  punish- 
ment, s;ot  on  the  wrong  side  of  that  loveliest 
Transparency;  finds  nothing  but  grease-pots, 
and  vapour  of  expiring  wicks ! 

The  Demoiselle  Gay  d'Oliva  may  once  more 
sit,  or  stand,  in  the  Palais-Royal,  with  such 

This  is  she  whom  Bette.and  Bette's  Advocate,  intended 
the  world  to  take  for  Gay  d'Oliva.  "The  other  is  of 
middle  size  :  dark  ej'ea,  chestnut  hair,  white  complexion : 
the  sound  of  her  voice  is  agreeable  ;  she  speaks  per- 
fectly well,  and  wilh  no  less  facility  than  vivacity;" 
this  one  is  meant  for  Lamotte.  Oliva's  real  name  was 
Essi^ny  ;  the  Oliva  (Olisva,  anagram  of  Valois)  was 
given  her  by  Lamotte  alonp  with  the  title  of  Baroness, 
MS.  Notes,  Affaire  du  Collier.) 


custom  as  will  come.  In  due  time,  she  shall 
again,  but  with  breath  of  Terror,  be  blown 
upon ;  and  blown  out  of  France  to  Brussels. 


CHAPTER  XL 


THE    KECKLACE    IS    SOLD. 


Autumn,  with  its  gray  moaning  winds,  and 
coating  of  red  strown  leaves,  invites  Courtiers 
to  enjoy  the  charms  of  Nature ;  and  all  busi- 
ness of  moment  stands  still.  Countess  de 
Lamotte,  while  everything  is  so  stagnant,  and 
even  Boehmer  (though  with  sure  hope)  has 
locked  up  his  Necklace  for  the  season,  can 
drive,  wilh  her  Count  and  his  Euryalus,  Vil- 
lette,  down  to  native  Bar-sur-Aube ;  and  there 
(in  virtue  of  a  Queen's  bounty)  show  the  en- 
vious a  Scion-of-royalty  re-grafted  ;  and  make 
Ihem  yellower  looking  on  it.  A  well-varnish- 
ed chariot,  with  the  Arms  of  Valois  duly 
painted  in  bend-sinister;  a  house  gallantly 
furnished,  bodies  gallantly  atlired, — secure 
them  the  favourablest  reception  from  all  man- 
ner of  men.  The  very  Due  de  Penthievre 
(Egalite's  father-in-law)  welcomes  our  La- 
motte, with  that  urbanity  characteristic  of  his 
high  station,  and  the  old  school.  Worth,  in- 
deed, makes  the  man,  or  woman;  but  leather 
(of  gig-straps)  and  prunella  (of  gig-lining) 
first  makes  it  go. 

The  great  creative  Dramaturgist  has  thus 
let  down  her  drop-scene ;  and  only,  with  a 
Letter  or  two  to  Saverne,  or  even  a  visit  thither, 
(for  it  is  but  a  day's  drive  from  Bar,)  keeps 
up  a  due  modicum  of  intermediate  instru- 
mental music.  She  needs  some  pause,  in  good 
sooth,  to  collect  herself  a  little ;  for  the  last  act 
and  grand  Catastrophe  is  at  hand.  Two  fixed- 
ideas,  (Cardinal's  and  Jeweller's,)  a  negative 
and  a  positive,  have  felt  each  other ;  stimu- 
lated now  by  new  hope,  are  rapidly  revolving 
round  each  other,  and  approximating;  like 
two  flames,  are  stretching  out  long  fire-tongues 
to  join  and  be  one. 

Boehmer,  on  his  side,  is  ready  with  the 
readiest;  as,  indeed,  he  has  been  these  four 
long  years.  The  Countess,  it  is  true,  will 
have  neither  part  nor  lot  in  that  foolish  Cadeau 
of  his,  or  in  the  whole  foolish  Necklace  busi- 
ness :  this  she  has  in  plain  words  (and  even 
not  without  asperity,  due  to  a  bore  of  such 
magnitude)  given  him  to  know.  From  her, 
nevertheless,  by  cunning  inference,  and  the 
merest  accident  in  the  world,  the  sly  Jouail- 
lier-Bijoutier  has  gleaned  thus  much,  ihat 
Monseigneur  de  Rohan  is  the  man. — Enough  ! 
Enough  !  Madame  shall  be  no  more  troubled. 
Rest  there,  in  hope,  thou  Necklace  of  the 
Devil ;  but,  O  Monseigneur,  be  thy  return 
speedy ! 

Alas,  Ihe  man  lives  not  that  would  be 
speedier  than  Monseigneur,  if  he  durst.  But 
as  yet  no  gilt  Autograph  invites  him,  permits 
him ;  the  few  gilt  Autographs  are  all  negatory, 
procrastinating.  Cabals  of  Court;  for  ever 
cabals  !  Nay,  if  it  be  not  for  some  Necklace, 
or  other  such  crotchet  or  necessity,  who  knows 
but  he  may  7i€vcr  be  recalled,  (so  fickle  is 
womankind;)  but  forgotten,  and  left  to  rot 
2R 


4tO 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


here,  like  his  Rose,  into  pot-pourri?  Our  tu- 
telary Countess,  too,  is  shyer  in  this  matter 
than  we  ever  saw  her.  Nevertheless,  by  in- 
tense skilful  cross-questioning,  he  has  extorted 
somewhat;  sees  partly  how  it  stands.  The 
Queen's  Majesty  will  have  her  Necklace,  (for 
when,  in  such  case,  had  not  woman  her 
way?);  and  can  even  pay  for  it — by  instal- 
ments ;  but  then  the  stingy  husband !  Once 
for  all,  she  will  not  be  seen  in  the  business. 
Now,  therefore,  were  it,  or  were  it  not,  per- 
missible to  mortal  to  transact  it  secretly  in  her 
stead?  That  is  the  question.  If  to  mortal, 
then  to  Monseigneur.  Our  Countess  has  even 
ventured  to  hint  afar  off  at  Monseigneur  (kind 
Countess!)  in  the  proper  quarter;  but  his  dis- 
cretion is  doubted, — in  regard  to  money  mat- 
ters.— Discretion  1  And  I  on  the  Promenade  de 
la  Rose? — Explode  not,  O  Eminence!  Trust 
will  spring  of  trial :  thy  hour  is  coming. 

The  Lamottes,  meanwhile,  have  left  their 
i'arewell  card  with  all  the  respectable  classes 
of  Bar-sur-Aube ;  our  Dramaturgist  stands 
again  behind  the  scenes  at  Paris.  How  is  it, 
O  Monseigneur,  that  she  is  still  so  shy  with 
thee,  in  this  matter  of  the  Necklace  ;  that  she 
leaves  the  love-lorn  Latmian  shepherd  to 
droop,  here  in  lone  Saverne,  like  weeping-ash, 
in  naked  winter,  on  his  Promenade  of  the 
Rose,  with  vague  commonplace  responses 
that  "his  hour  is  coming?" — By  Heaven  and 
Earth  !  at  last,  in  late  January,  it  is  come.  Be- 
hold it,  this  new  gilt  Autograph  :  "To  Paris, 
on  a  small  business  of  delicacy,  which  our 
Countess  will  explain," — which  I  already 
know!  To  Paris  !  Horses;  Postillions;  Beef- 
eaters ! — And  so  his  resuscitated  Eminence, 
all  wrapt  in  furs,  in  the  pleasantest  frost, 
(Abbe  Georgel  says,  un  beau  froid  de  Janvier,') 
over  clear-jingling  highways,  rolls  rapidly, — 
borne  on  the  bosom  of  Dreams. 

O  Dame  de  Lamotte,  has  the  enchanted 
Diamond  fruit  ripened,  then  ?  Hast  thou  given 
it  the  little  shake,  big  with  unutterable  fate  ? — 
I?  can  the  Dame  justly  retort:  Who  saw  me 
in  it? — The  reader,  therefore,  has  still  Three 
scenic  Exhibitions  to  look  at,  by  our  great 
Dramaturgist ;  then  the  Fourth  and  last, — by 
another  Author. 

To  us,  reflecting  how  oftenest  the  true 
moving  force  in  human  things  works  hidden 
underground,  it  seems  small  marvel  that  this 
month  of  January,  (1785,)  wherein  our  Coun- 
tess so  little  courts  the  eye  of  the  vulgar  his- 
torian, should,  nevertheless,  have  been  the 
busiest  of  all  for  her ;  especially  the  latter  half 
thereof. 

Wisely  eschewing  matters  of  business, 
(which  she  could  never  in  her  life  under- 
stand,) our  Countess  will  personally  take  no 
charge  of  that  bargain-making ;  leaves  it  all 
to  her  Majesty  and  the  gilt  Autographs.  Assi- 
duous Boehmer,  nevertheless,  is  in  frequent 
close  conference  with  Monseigneur:  the  Paris 
Palais-de-Strasbourg,  shut  to  the  rest  of  men, 
sees  the  Jouaillier-Bijoutier,  with  eager  official 
aspect,  come  and  go.  The  grand  difficulty  is 
— must  we  say  it? — her  Majesty's  wilful  whim- 
sicality, unacquaintance  with  Business.    She 


positively  will  not  write  a  gilt  Autograph, 
authorizing  his  En^inence  to  make  the  bargain ; 
but  writes  rather,  in  a  petting  manner,  that  the 
thing  is  of  no  consequence,  and  can  be  given 
up !  Thus  must  the  poor  Countess  dash  to 
and  fro,  like  a  weaver's  shuttle,  between  Paris 
and  Versailles;  wear  her  horses  and  nerves 
to  pieces;  nay,  sometimes  in  the  hottest  haste, 
wait  many  hours  within  call  of  the  Palace, 
considering  what  can  be  done,  (with  none  but 
Villette  to  bear  her  company,) — till  the  Queen's 
whim  pass. 

At  length,  aAer  furious-driving  and  confer- 
ences enough,  on  the  29th  of  January,  a  mid- 
dle course  is  hit  on.  Cautious  Boehmer  shall 
write  out  (on  finest  paper)  his  terms  ;  which 
are  really  rather  fair :  Sixteen  hundred  thou- 
sand livres ;  to  be  paid  in  five  equal  instal- 
ments ;  the  first  this  day  six  months  ;  the 
other  four  from  three  months  to  three  months; 
this  is  what  Court-Jewellers,  Boehmer  and 
Bassange,  on  the  one  part,  and  Prince  Cardinal 
Commendator  Louis  de  Rohan,  on  the  other 
part,  will  stand  to  ;  witness  their  hands.  Which 
written  sheet  of  finest  paper  our  poor  Countess 
must  again  take  charge  of,  again  dash  off  with 
to  Versailles  ;  and  therefrom,  after  trouble 
unspeakable,  (shared  in  only  by  the  faithful 
Villette,  of  Rascaldom,)  return  with  it,  bearing 
this  most  precious  marginal  note, — ^^  Bon — 
Marie  Antoinette  de  France,'^  in  the  Autograph 
hand!  Happy  Cardinal!  this  ^Aom  shalt  keep 
in  the  innermost  of  all  thy  repositories. 
Boehmer,  meanwhile,  secret  as  Death,  shall 
tell  no  man  that  he  has  sold  his  Necklace ;  or 
if  much  pressed  for  an  actual  sight  of  the 
same,  confess  that  it  is  sold  to  the  Favourite 
Sultana  of  the  Grand  Turk  for  the  time 
being.* 

Thus,  then,  do  the  smoking  Lamotte  horses 
at  length  get  rubbed  down,  and  feel  the  taste 
of  oats,  after  midnight;  the  Lamotte  Countess 
can  also  gradually  sink  into  needful  slumber, 
perhaps  not  unbroken  by  dreams.  On  the 
morrow  the  bargain  shall  be  concluded ;  next 
day  the  Necklace  be  delivered,  on  Monseig- 
neur's  receipt. 

Will  the  reader,  therefore,  be  pleased  to 
glance  at  the  following  two  Life-Pictures, 
Real-Phantasmagories,  or  whatever  we  may 
call  them :  they  are  the  two  first  of  those  Three 
scenic  real-poetic  Exhibitions,  brought  about 
by  our  Dramaturgist:  short  Exhibitions,  but 
essential  ones. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

THE    IfECKLACE    VANISHES. 

It  is  the  first  day  of  February ;  that  grand  day 
of  Delivery.  The  Sieur  Boehmer  is  in  the 
Court  of  the  Palais  de  Strasbourg;  his  look 
mysterious-official,  but  (though  much  emaci- 
ated) radiant  with  enthusiasm.  The  Seine 
has  missed  him :  though  lean,  he  will  fatten 
again,  and  live  through  new  enterprises. 

Singular,  were  we  not  used  to  it:  the  name, 


♦  Carnpan. 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


471 


Boehraer,  as  it  passes  upwards  and  inwards, 
lowers  all  halberts  of  Heyducs  in  perpendicu- 
lar rows  :  the  historical  eye  beholds  him, 
bowing  low,  with  plenteous  smiles,  in  the 
plush  Saloon  of  Audience.  Will  it  please 
Monseigneur,  then,  to  do  the  ne-plus-ultra  of 
Necklaces  the  honour  of  looking  at  it?  A 
piece  of  Art,  which  the  Universe  cannot  par- 
allel, shall  be  parted  with  (Necessity  compels 
Court-Jewellers)  at  that  ruinously  low  sum. 
They,  the  Court-Jewellers,  shall  have  much 
ado  to  weather  it;  but  their  work,  at  least, 
will  find  a  fit  Wearer,  and  go  down  to  juster 
posterity.  Monseigneur  will  merely  have  the 
condescension  to  sign  this  Receipt  of  Deli- 
very :  all  the  rest,  her  Highness  the  Sultana 
of  the  Sublime  Porte  has  settled  it. — Here  the 
Court-Jeweller,  with  his  joyous,  though  now 
much  emaciated  face,  ventures  on  a  faint 
knowing  smile ;  to  which,  in  the  lofty  disso- 
lute-serene of  Monseigneur's,  some  twinkle  of 
permission  could  not  but  respond. — This  is 
the  First  of  those  Three  real-poetic  Exhibi- 
tions, brought  about  by  our  Dramaturgist, — 
with  perfect  success. 

It  was  said,  long  afterwards,  that  Monseig- 
neur should  have  known,  that  Boehmer  should 
have  known,  her  Highness  the  Sultana's  mar- 
ginal-note (that  of  "  Right — Blarie  jlntoinette  of 
France'')  to  be  a  forgery  and  mockery  :  the  of 
France  was  faial  to  it.  Easy  talking,  easy 
criticizing !  But  how  are  two  enchanted  men 
to  know;  two  men  with  a  fixed-idea  each,  a 
negative  and  a  positive,  rushing  together  to 
neutralize  each  other  in  rapture  1— Enough, 
Monseigneur  has  the  nc-plus-uUra  of  Necklaces, 
conquered  by  man's  valour  and  woman's  wit; 
and  rolls  off  with  it,  in  mysterious  speed,  to 
Versailles, — triumphant  as  a  Jason  with  his 
Golden  Fleece. 

The  Second  grand  scenic  Exhibition  by  our 
Dramaturgic  Countess  occurs  in  her  own 
apartment  at  Versailles,  so  early  as  the  follow- 
ing night.  It  is  a  commodious  apartment, 
with  alcove  ;  and  the  alcove  has  a  glass  door.* 
Monseigneur  enters, — with  a  follower  bearing 
a  mysterious  Casket;  carefully  depositing  it, 
and  then  respectfully  withdrawing.  It  is  the 
Necklace  itself  in  all  its  glory !  Our  tutelary 
Countess,  and  Monseigneur,  and  we,  can  at 
leisure  admire  the  queenly  Talisman;  con- 
gratulate ourselves  that  the  painful  conquest 
of  it  is  achieved. 

But,  hist!  A  knock,  mild,  but  decisive,  as 
from  one  knocking  with  authority !  Mon- 
seigneur and  we  retire  to  our  alcove ;  there, 
from  behind  our  glass  screen,  observe  what 
passes.  Who  comes  1  The  door  flung  open  : 
de  par  la  Rcine!  Behold  him,  Monseigneur : 
he  enters  with  grave,  respectful,  yet  official 
air;  worthy  Monsieur  Queen's-valet  Lesclaux, 
the  same  who  escorted  our  tutelary  Countess, 
that  moonlight  night,  from  the  back  apartments 
of  Versailles.  Said  we  not,  thou  wouldst  see 
him  once  more  1 — Methinks,  again,  spite  of  his 
Qneen's-uniform,  he  has  much  the  features  of 
Villette  of  Rascaldom  ! — Rascaldom  or  Valet- 
dom,  (for   to  the   blind  all   colours   are   the 

♦  Qeorgel,  &c. 


same,)  he  has,  with  his  grave,  respectful,  yet 
official  air,  received  the  Casket,  and  its  price- 
less contents;  with  fit  injunction,  with  fit  en- 
gagements; and  retires  bowing  low. 

Thus,  softly,  silently,  like  a  very  Dream,  flits 
away  our  solid  necklace, — through  the  Horn 
Gate  of  Dreams ! 


CHAPTER  Xni. 
SCENE  thihd:  by  dame  de  lamotte. 

Now,  too,  in  these  same  days  (as  he  caa 
afterwards  prove  by  afiidavit  of  Landlords) 
arrives  Count  Cagliostro  himself,  from  Lyons  ! 
No  longer  by  predictions  in  cipher;  but  by  his 
living  voice,  (often  in  wrapt  communion  with 
the  unseen  world, "  with  Caraffe  and  four  can- 
dles ;")  by  his  greasy  prophetic  bulldog  face, 
(said  to  be  the  "  most  perfect  quack-face  of  the 
eighteenth  century,")  can  we  assure  ourselves 
that  all  is  well ;  that  all  will  turn  "  to  the  glory 
of  Monseigneur,  to  the  good  of  France,  and 
of  mankind,"*  and  Egyptian  masonry.  "  To- 
kay flows  like  water;"  our  charming  Countess, 
with  her  piquancy  of  face,  is  sprightlier  than 
ever;  enlivens  with  the  brightest  sallies,  with 
the  adroitest  flatteries  to  all,  those  suppers  of 
the  gods.  O  Nights,  O  Suppers — too  good  to 
last !  Nay,  now  also  occurs  another  and  Third 
scenic  Exhibition,  fitted  by  its  radiance  to 
dispel  from  Monsiegneur's  soul  the  last  trace 
of  care. 

Why  the  Queen  does  not,  even  yet,  openly 
receive  me  at  Court  ?  Patience,  Monseigneur! 
Thou  little  knowest  those  too  intricate  cabals; 
and  how  she  still  but  works  at  them  silently, 
with  royal  suppressed  fury,  like  a  royal  lioness 
only  delivermg  herself  from  the  hunter's  toils. 
Meanwhile,  is  not  thy  work  done]  The  Neck- 
lace, she  rejoices  over  it;  beholds  (many  times 
in  secret)  her  Juno-neck  mirrored  back  the 
lovelier  for  it, — as  our  tutelar  Countess  can 
testify.  Come  to-morrow  to  the  QCil  de  EcEuf  ,- 
there  see  with  eyes,  in  high  noon,  as  already  in 
deep  midnight  thou  hast  seen,  whether  in  her 
royal  heart  there  were  delay. 

Let  us  stand,  then,  with  Monseigneur,  in 
that  Q^il  de  Bcciif  in  the  Versailles  Palace  Gal- 
ery ;  for  all  well-dressed  persons  are  admitted : 
there  the  Loveliest,  in  pomp  of  royalty,  will 
walk  to  mass.  The  world  is  all  in  pelisses 
and  winter  furs ;  cheerful,  clear, — with  noses 
tending  to  blue.  A  lively  many-voiced  Hum 
plays  fitful,  hither  and  thither;  of  sledge  par- 
ties and  Court  parties :  frosty  state  of  the 
weather ;  stability  of  M.  de  Calonne  ;  Majesty's 
looks  yesterday; — such  Hum  as  always,  in 
these  sacred  Court-spaces  since  Louis  le  Grand 
made  and  consecrated  them,  has,  with  more 
or  less  impetuosity,  agitated  our  common  At- 
mosphere. 

Ah,  through  that  long  high  Gallery  what 
figures  have  passed — and  vanished !  Louvois, 
— with  the  Great  King,  flashing  fire-glances 
on  the  fugitive ;  in  his  red  right  hand  a  pair 
of  tongs,  which  pious  Maintenon  hardly  holds 


•  Oeorgel,  k,c. 


472 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


back :  Louvois,  where  art  thou  1  Ye  Mari- 
chavjc  de  France  ?  Ye  unmentionable-women 
of  past  generations "?  Here  also  was  it  that 
rolled  and  rushed  the  "  sound,  absolutely  like 
thunder,"*  of  Courtier  hosts;  in  that  dark 
hour  when  the  signal  light  in  Louis  the  Fif- 
teenth's chamber-window  was  blown  out ;  and 
his  ghastly  infectious  Corpse  lay  alone,  for- 
saken on  its  tumbled  death-lair,  "  in  the  hands 
of  some  poor  women  :"  and  the  Courtier-hosts 
rushed  from  the  Deep-fallen  to  hail  the  New- 
risen  !  These  too  rushed,  and  passed ;  and 
their  "  sound,  absolutely  like  thunder,"  became 
silence.  Figures  1  Men  1  They  are  fast  fleet- 
ing Shadows:  fast  chasing  each  other:  it  is 
not  a  Palace,  but  a  Caravansera. — Monseig- 
neur,  (with  thy  too  much  Tokay  overnight !) 
cease  puzzling:  here  thou  art,  this  blessed 
February  day : — the  Peerless,  will  she  turn 
lightly  that  high  head  of  hers,  and  glance 
aside  into  the  (Eil  de  Bcsuf,  in  passing  ?  Please 
Heaven,  she  will.  To  our  tutelary  Countess, 
at  least,  she  promised  it;-(-  though,  alas,  so 
fickle  is  womankind  ! — 

Hark  !  Clang  of  opening  doors  !  She  issues, 
like  the  Moon  in  silver  brightness,  down  the 
Eastern  steeps.  La  Reine  vient !  What  a  figure! 
I  (with  the  aid  of  glasses)  discern  her.  O 
Fairest,  Peerless !  Let  the  hum  of  minor  dis- 
coursing hush  itself  Avholly;  and  only  one 
successive  rolling  peal  of  Vive  la  Rcine  (like 
the  moveable  radiance  of  a  train  of  fire-works) 
irradiate  her  path. — Ye  Immortals  !  She  does, 
she  beckons,  turns  her  head  this  way  ! — "  Does 
she  not?"  says  Countess  de  Lamotte. — Ver- 
sailles, the  (Eil  deBwuf,  Bind  all  men  and  things, 
are  drowned  in  a  sea  of  Light;  Monseigneur 
and  that  high  beckoning  Head  are  alone,  with 
each  other,  in  the  Universe. 

0  Eminence,  what  a  beatific  vision  !  Enjoy 
it,  blest  as  the  gods ;  ruminate  and  re-enjoy 
it,  with  full  soul :  it  is  the  last  provided  for 
thee.  Too  soon  (in  the  course  of  these  six 
months)  shall  thy  beatific  vision,  like  Mirza's 
vision,  gradually  melt  away;  and  only  oxen 
and  sheep  be  grazing  in  its  place; — and  thou, 
as  a  doomed  Nebuchadnezzar,  be  grazing  with 
them. 

"  Does  she  not  1"  said  the  Countess  de  La- 
motte. That  it  is  a  habit  of  hers ;  that  hardly 
a  day  passes  without  her  doing  it:  this  the 
Countess  de  Lamotte  did  not  say. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    NECKLACE    CANKOT    BE    PAID. 

Here,  then,  the  specially  Dramaturgic  labours 
of  Countess  de  Lamotte  may  be  said  to  termi- 
nate. The  rest  of  her  life  is  Histrionic  merely, 
or  Histrionic  and  Critical ;  as,  indeed,  what 
had  all  the  former  part  of  it  been  but  a  Hypo- 
crisia,  a  more  or  less  correct  Playing  of  Parts  1 
O  "  Mrs.  Facing-both-ways,  (as  old  Bunyan 
said,)  what  a  talent  hadst  thou !  No  Proteus 
ever  took  so  many  shapes,  no  Chameleon  so 
often  changed  color.     One  thing  thou  wert  to 


*  Cumpan. 


t  See  Qeorgel. 


Monseigneur;  another  thing  to  Cagliostro, 
and  Vilette  of  Rascaldom ;  a  third  thing  to  the 
World,  (in  printed  Memoires ;)  a  fourth  thing  to 
Philippe  Egalite  :  all  things  to  all  men  ! 

Let  her,  however,  we  say,  but  manage  now  to 
act  her  own  parts,  with  proper  Histrionic  illu- 
sion; and,  by  Critical  glosses,  give  her  past 
Dramaturgy  the  fit  aspect,  to  Monsiegneur  and 
others :  this  henceforth,  and  not  new  Drama- 
turgy, includes  her  whole  task.  Dramatic 
Scenes,  in  plenty,  will  follow  of  themselves ; 
especially  that  Fourth  and  final  Scene,  spoken 
of  above  as  by  another  Author, — by  Destiny 
itself. 

For  in  the  Lamotte  Theatre  (so  different 
from  our  common  Pasteboard  one)  the  Play 
goes  on,  even  when  the  Machinist  has  left  it. 
Strange  enough:  those  Air-images, which  from 
her  Magic-lantern  she  hung  out  on  the  empty 
bosom  of  Night,  have  clutched  hold  of  this 
solid-seeming  World,  (which  some  call  the 
Material  World,  as  if  that  made  it  more  a  Real 
one,)  and  will  tumble  hither  and  thither  the 
solidest  mass  there.  Yes,  reader,  so  goes  it 
here  below.  What  thou  callest  a  Brain-web, 
or  mere  illusive  Nothing,  is  it  not  a  web  of  the 
Brain  ;  of  the  Spirit  which  inhabits  the  Brain ; 
and  which,  in  this  World,  rather,  as  I  think, 
to  be  named  the  spiritual  one,)  very  naturally 
moves  and  tumbles  hither  and  thither  all  things 
it  meets  with,  in  Heaven  or  in  Earth  1 — So,  too, 
the  Necklace,  though  we  saw  it  vanish  through 
the  Horn  Gate  of  Dreams,  and  in  my  opinion 
man  shall  never  more  behold  it, — yet  its  activ- 
ity ceases  not,  nor  will.  For  no  Act  of  a  man, 
no  Thing,  (how  much  less  the  man  himself!) 
is  extinguished  when  it  disappears :  through 
considerable  times  (there  are  instances  of 
Three  Thousand  Years)  it  visibly  works ;  in- 
visibly, unrecognised,  it  works  through  end- 
less times.  Such  a  Hyper-magical  is  this  our 
poor  old  Real  world ;  which  some  take  upon 
them  to  pronounce  effete,  prosaic  !  Friend,  it 
is  thyself  that  art  all  withered  up  into  effete 
Prose,  dead  as  ashes:  know  this,  (I  advise 
thee  ;)  and  seek  passionately,  with  a  passion 
little  short  of  desperation,  to  have  it  remedied. 

Meanwhile,  what  will  the  feeling  heart  think 
to  learn  that  Monseigneur  de  Rohan  (as  we 
prophesied)  again  experiences  the  fickleness 
of  a  Court;  that,  notwithstanding  beatific  vi- 
sions, at  noon  and  midnight,  the  Queen's  Ma- 
jesty (with  the  light  ingratitude  of  her  sex) 
flies  off  at  a  tangent;  and,  far  from  ousting  his 
detested  and  detesting  rival.  Minister  Breteuil, 
and  openly  delighting  to  honour  Monseig- 
neur, will  hardly  vouchsafe  him  a  few  gilt  Auto- 
graphs, and  those  few  of  the  most  capricious, 
suspicious,  soul-confusing  tenor]  What  terrifi- 
co-absurd  explosions,  which  scarcely  Cag- 
liostro, with  Caraffe  and  four  candles,  can  still ; 
how  many  deep-weighed  Humble  Petitions,  Ex- 
planations, Expostulations,  penned  with  fervid- 
est  eloquence,  with  craftiest  diplomacy, — all  de- 
livered by  our  tutelar  Countess:  in  vain! — O 
Cardinal,  with  what  a  huge  iron  mace,  like 
Guy  of  Warwick's,  thou  smitest  Phantasms  in 
two  (which  close  again,  take  shape  again;) 
and  only  thrashest  the  air ! 

One  comfort,  however,  is  that  the  Queen's 
Majesty  has  committed  herself.    The  Rose  of 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


473 


Trianon,  and  what  may  pertain  thereto,  lies  it 
not  here  1  That  "  Righl — Marie  Antoinette  of 
France"  too;  and  the  30lh  of  July,  first-instal- 
ment-day, coming  1  She  shall  be  brought  to 
terms,  good  Eminence  !  Order  horses  and  beef- 
eaters for  Saverne  ;  there,  ceasing  all  written 
or  oral  communication,  starve  her  into  capitu- 
lating.* It  is  the  bright  May  month:  his  Emi- 
nence again  somnambulates  the  Promenade  de 
la  Rose:  but  now  with  grim  dry  eyes;  and, 
from  time  to  time,  terrifically  stamping. 

But  who  is  this  that  I  see  mounted  on  cost- 
liest horse  and  horse-gear;  betting  at  New- 
market Races  ;  though  he  can  speak  no  Eng- 
lish word,  and  only  some  Chevalier  O'Niel, 
some  Capuchin  Macdermot  (from  Bar-sur 
Aube)  interprets  his  French  into  the  dialect 
of  the  Sister  Island?  Few  days  ago  I  ob- 
served him  walking  in  Fleet-street,  thought- 
fully through  Temple-Bar  ; — in  deep  treaty 
with  Jeweller  Jeffreys,  with  Jeweller  Grey,f 
for  the  sale  of  Diamonds:  such  a  lotas  one 
may  boast  of.  A  tall  handsome  man;  with 
ex-military  whiskers ;  with  a  look  of  troubled 
gayety,  and  rascalism :  you  think  it  is  the 
Sieur  (self-styled  Count)  de  Lamotte ;  nay, 
the  man  himself  confesses  it !  The  Diamonds 
were  a  present  to  his  Countess, — from  the  still 
bountiful  Queen. 

Villette,  too,  has  he  completed  his  sales  at 
Amsterdam  ?  Him  I  shall  by  and  by  behold  ; 
not  betting  at  Newmarket,  but  drinking  wine 
and  ardent  spirits  in  the  Taverns  of  Geneva. 
Ill-gotten  wealth  endures  not;  Rascaldom  has 
no  strongbox.  Countess  de  Lamotte,  for  what  a 
set  of  cormorant  scoundrels  hast  thou  laboured ; 
art  thou  still  labouring  ! 

Still  labouring,  we  may  say :  for  as  the  fatal 
30th  of  July  approaches,  what  is  to  be  looked 
for  but  universal  Earthquake  ;  Mud-explosion 
that  will  blot  out  the  face  of  Nature]  Me- 
thinks,  stood  I  in  thy  pattens,  Dame  de  La- 
motte, I  would  cut  and  run. — "  Run  !"  exclaims 
she,  with  a  toss  of  indignant  astonishment: 


calumniated  Innocence 


For  it  is  sin- 


gular how  in  some  minds  (that  are  mere  bot- 
tomless "chaotic  whirlpools  of  gilt  shreds") 
there  is  no  deliberate  Lying  whatever;  and 
nothing  is  either  believed  or  disbelieved,  but 
only  (with  some  transient  suitable  Histrionic 
emotion)  spoken  and  heard. 

Had  Dame  de  Lamotte  a  certain  greatness 
of  character,  then  ;  at  least,  a  strength  of  tran- 
scendant  audacity,  amounting  to  the  bastard- 
heroic  1  Great,  indubitably  great,  is  her  Drama- 
turgic and  Histrionic  talent:  but  as  for  the 
rest,  one  must  answer,  with  reluctance,  No. 
Mrs.  Facing-both-vvays  is  a  "  Spark  of  vehe- 
ment Life,"  but  the  furthest  in  the  world  from 
a  brave  woman  :  she  did  not,  in  any  case, 
show  the  bravery  of  a  woman;  did,  in  many 
cases,  show  the  mere  screaming  trepidation  of 
one.  Her  grand  quality  is  rather  to  be  reckoned 
negative:  the  "untaraableness"  as  of  a  fly; 
the  "  wax-cloth  dress"  from  which  so  much 


•See  Lamotte. 

f  Grey  lived  in  No.  13,  New  Bond  Street ;  Jeffreys  in 
Piccadilly  (Rohan's  Mf moire  Pour;  see  also   Count  de 
Lamotte's  Narrative,  in  Memoires  Jusfifieatifs  )     Ilolian 
sayB,  "Jeffreys  bought  more  than  lO.OOOi.  worth." 
60 


ran  down  like  water.  Small  sparrows,  as  I 
learn,  have  been  trained  to  fire  cannon  ;  but 
would  make  poor  Artillery  Officers  in  a  Water- 
loo. Thou  dost  not  call  that  Cork  a  strong 
swimmer  1  which,  nevertheless,  shoots,  with- 
out hurt,  the  Falls  of  Niagara;  defies  the 
thunderbolt  itself  to  sink  it,  for  more  than  a 
moment.  Without  intellect,  imagination,  power 
of  attention,  or  any  spiritual  faculty,  how  brave 
were  one, — with  fit  motive  for  it,  such  as 
hunger  !  How  much  might  one  dare,  by  the 
simplest  of  methods,  by  not  thinking  of  it,  nol 
knowing  it ! — Besides,  is  not  Cagliostro,  foolish 
blustering  Quack,  still  here  1  No  scapegoat 
had  ever  broader  back.  The  Cardinal,  too, 
has  he  not  money  1  Queen's  Majesty,  even  in 
effigy,  shall  not  be  insulted;  the  Soubises,  De 
Marsans,  and  high  and  puissant  Cousins,  must 
huddle  the  matter  up  :  Calumniated  Innocence, 
in  the  most  universal  of  Earthquakes,  will 
find  some  crevice  to  whisk  through,  as  she  has 
so  often  done. 

But  all  this  while  how  fares  it  with  his  Emi- 
nence, left  somnambulating  the  Promenade  de 
la  Hose ,-  and  at  times  truculently  stamping? 
Alas, ill;  and  ever  worse.  The  starving  method, 
singular  as  it  may  seem,  brings  no  capitula- 
tion ;  brings  only,  after  a  month's  waiting,  our 
tutelary  Countess,  with  a  gilt  Autograph,  in- 
deed, and  "  all  wrapt  in  silk  threads,  sealed 
where  they  cross, — but  which  we  read  with 
curses.* 

We  must  back  again  to  Paris;  there  pen 
new  Expostulations;  which  our  unwearied 
Countess  will  take  charge  of,  but,  alas,  can 
get  no  answer  to.  However,  is  not  the  30th 
of  July  coming] — Behold  (on  the  19th  of  that 
month,)  the  shortest,  most  careless  of  Auto- 
graphs with  some  fifteen  hundred  pounds  of 
real  money  in  it,  to  pay  the — interest  of  the 
first  instalment ;  the  principal  (of  some  thirty 
thousand)  not  being  at  the  moment  perfectly 
convenient!  Hungry  Boehmer  makes  large 
eyes  at  this  proposal ;  will  accept  the  money, 
but  only  as  part  of  payment ;  the  man  is  posi- 
tive :  a  Court  of  Justice,  if  no  other  means, 
shall  get  him  the  remainder.  What  now  is  to 
be  done] 

Farmer-general  Mons.  Saint-James,  Cag- 
liostro's  disciple,  and  wet  with  Tokay,  will 
cheerfully  advance  the  sum  needed — for  her 
Majesty's  sake  ;  thinks,  however  (with  all  his 
Tokay,)  it  were  good  to  speak  with  her  Majesty 
first. — I  observe,  meanwhile,  the  distracted 
hungry  Boehmer  driven  hither  and  thither,  not 
by  his  fixed-idea ;  alas,  no,  but  by  the  far  more 
frightful  ghost  thereof, — since  no  payment  is 
forthcoming.  He  stands,  one  day,  speaking 
with  a  Queen's  waiting-woman  (Madam  Cam- 
pan  herself,)  in  "  a  thunder-shower,  which 
neither  of  them  notice," — so  thunderstruck  are 
they.f  What  weather-symptoms  for  his  Emi- 
nence ! 

The  30th  of  July  has  come,  but  no  money ; 
the  30th  is  gone,  but  no  money.  O  Eminence, 
what  a  grim  farewell  of  July  is  this  of  1785  ! 
The  last  July  went  out  with  airs  from  Heaven, 


•  See  Lamotte. 


aR2 


t  Cawpan. 


474 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  Trianon  Roses.  These  August  days,  are 
they  not  worse  than  dog's  days ;  worthy  to  be 
blotted  out  from  all  Almanacs'?  Boehmer 
and  Bassange  thou  canst  still  see ;  but  only 
"return  from  them  swearing."*  Nay,  what 
new  misery  is  this?  Our  tutelary  Histrionic 
Countess  enters,  distraction  in  her  eyes  ;■}■  she 
has  just  been  at  Versailles ;  the  Queen's  Ma- 
jesty, with  a  levity  of  caprice  which  we  dare 
not  trust  ourselves  to  characterize,  declares 
plainly  that  she  will  deny  ever  having  got  the 
Necklace ;  ever  having  had,  with  his  Emi- 
nence any  transaction  whatsoever  ! — Mud- 
explosion  without  parallel  in  volcanic  annals. 
— The  Palais  de  Strasbourg  appears  to  be  be- 
set with  spies ;  the  Lamottes  (for  the  Count, 
too,  is  here)  are  packing  up  for  Bur-sur-Aube. 
The  Sieur  Boehmer,  has  he  fallen  insane] 
Or  into  communication  with  Breteuil  1 — 

And  so  distractedly  and  distractively,  to  the 
sound  of  all  Discords  in  Nature,  opens  that 
Fourth,  final  Scenic  Exhibition,  composed  by 
Destiny. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SCEKE    FOURTH  :    BY    DESTINT. 

It  is  Assnmption-day,  the  15th  of  August. 
Don  thy  pontificalia,  Grand-Almoner;  crush 
down  these  hideous  temporalities  out  of  sight. 
In  any  case,  smooth  thy  countenance  into 
some  sort  of  lofty-dissolute  serene :  thou  hast 
a  thing  they  call  worshipping  God  to  enact, 
thyself  the  first  actor. 

The  Grand-Almoner  has  done  it.  He  is  in 
Versailles  (Eil  de  Bocuf  Gallery ;  where  male 
and  female  Peerage,  and  all  Noble  France  in 
gala,  various  and  glorious  as  the  rainbow, 
waits  only  the  signal  to  begin  worshipping: 
on  the  serene  of  his  lofty-dissolute  counte- 
nance, there  can  nothing  be  read.t  By  Hea- 
ven !  he  is  sent  for  to  the  Royal  Apartment  I 

He  returns  with  the  old  lofty-dissolute  look, 
inscrutably  serene:  has  his  turn  for  favour 
actually  come,  then  1  Those  fifteen  long 
years  of  soul's  travail  are  to  be  rewarded  by 
a  birth  1 — Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Breteuil 
issues  ;  great  in  his  pride  of  place,  in  this  the 
Crowning  moment  of  his  life.  With  one  radi- 
diant  glance,  Breteuil  summons  the  Officer  on 
Guard:  with  another,  fixes  Monseignenr:  "De 
par  le  Roi,  Monseignenr :  you  are  arrested  !  At 
your  risk.  Officer!" — Curtains  as  of  pitch- 
black  whirlwind  envelope  Monseignenr;  whirl 
off"  with  him, — to  outer  darkness.  Versailles 
Gallery  explodes  aghast ;  as  if  Guy  Fawkes's 
Plot  had  burst  under  it.  "The  Queen's  Ma- 
jesty was  weeping,"  whisper  some.  There 
will  be  no  Assumption  service ;  or  such  a 
one  as  was  never  celebrated  since  Assump- 
tion came  in  fashion. 

Europe,  then,  shall  ring  with  it  from  side  to 
side! — But  why  rides  that  Heyduc  as  if  all 


♦  Lamotte.  +  Oenrgel. 

tThis  is  Bette  d'Enteville's  description  of  him  ;  "A 
handsome  man,  of  fiftv  ;  with  high  complexion  ;  hair 
white-sfray,  and  the  front  of  the  head  bald  :  of  hisrh 
stature  ;  carriage  noble  and  easy,  though  burdened  with 
a  certain  degree  of  corpulency  ;  who,  I  never  doubted, 
was  Monsieur  de  Rohan,"     (First  Memoire  Pour.) 


the  Devils  drove  him?  It  is  Monseigneur's 
Heyduc:  Monseignenr  spoke  three  words  in 
German  to  him,  at  the  door  of  his  Versailles 
Hotel ;  even  handed  him  a  slip  of  writing, 
which  (some  say,  with  borrowed  Pencil,  "  in 
his  red  square  cap  ")  he  had  managed  to  pre- 
pare on  the  way  hither.*  To  Paris  1  To  the 
Palais-Cardinal !  The  horse  dies  on  reaching 
the  stable  ;  the  Heyduc  swoons  on  reaching 
the  cabinet:  but  his  slip  of  writing  fell  from 
his  hand ;  and  I  (says  the  xAbbs  Georgel)  was 
there.  The  red  Portfolio,  containing  all  the 
gilt  Autographs,  is  burnt  niterly,  with  much 
else,  before  Breteuil  can  arrive  for  apposition 
of  the  seals  ! — Whereby  Europe,  in  ringing 
from  side  to  side,  must  worry  itself  with  guess- 
ing: and  at  this  hour  (on  this  paper)  sees  the 
matter  in  such  an  interesting  clear-obscure. 

Soon  Count  Cagliostro  and  his  Seraphic 
Countess  go  to  join  Monseigneur,  in  State 
Prison.  In  few  days,  follows  Dame  de  La- 
motte (from  Bar-sur-Aube)  ;  Demoiselle  d'Oli- 
va  by  and  by  (from  Brussels);  Villette-de-Retaux 
from  his  Swiss  retirement,  in  the  taverns  of 
Geneva.  The  Bastille  opens  its  iron  bosom 
to  them  all. 


CHAPTER  LAST. 


MISSA    EST. 


Thus,  then,  the  Diamond  Necklace  having, 
on  the  one  hand,  vanished  through  the  Horn 
Gate  of  Dreams,  and  so  (under  the  pincers 
of  Nisus  Lamotte  and  Euryalus  Villette)  lost 
its  sublunary  individuality  and  being;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  all  that  trafficked  in  it,  sitting 
now  safe  under  lock  and  key,  that  justice  may 
take  cognisance  of  them, — our  engagement  in 
regard  to  the  matter  is  on  the  point  of  terminat- 
ing. That  extraordinary  Proces  du  Collier  (Neck- 
lace Trial,)  spinning  itself  through  Nine  other 
ever-memorable  Months,  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  hundred  and  eighty-seven  assembled 
Farliemcntiers,  and  of  all  Quidduncs,  Journal- 
ists, Anecdotists,  Satirists,  in  both  Hemis- 
pheres, is,  in  every  sense,  a  "Celebrated  Trial," 
and  belongs  to  Publishers  of  such.  How,  by 
innumerable  confrontations  and  expiscatory 
questions,  through  entanglements,  doublings, 
and  windings  that  fatigue  eye  and  soul,  this 
most  involute  of  Lies  is  finally  winded  off  to 
the  scandalous-ridiculous  cinder-heart  of  it, 
let  others  relate. 

Meanwhile,  during  these  Nine  ever-memora- 
ble Months,  till  they  terminate  late  at  night 
precisely  with  the  May  of  17S6,f  how  many 
"fugitive  leaves,"  quizzical,  imaginative,  or 
at  least  mendacious,  were  flying  about  in 
Newspapers ;  or  stitched  together  as  Pam- 
phlets ;  and  what  heaps  of  others  were  left 
creeping  in  Manuscript,  we  shall  not  say; — 
having,  indeed,  no  complete  Collection  of 
them,  and,  what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  little  to 


•  Oeor^el. 

+  On  the  31st  of  May,  1786,  sentence  was  pro- 
nounced :  about  ten  at  nijht,  the  Cardinal  got  out  of 
the  Bastille  ;  large  mobs  hurrahing  round  him, — out  of 
spleen  to  the  Court.     (See  Oeorgel.) 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


475 


do  with  such  Collection.  Nevertheless,  search- 
ing for  some  fit  Capital  of  the  composite 
order,  to  adorn  adequately  the  now  finished 
singular  Pillar  of  our  Narrative,  what  can  suit 
us  better  than  the  following,  so  far  as  we  know, 
yet  unedited, 

Occasional  Discourse,  by  Count  Mcssandro  Cagli- 
ostrOy  Thaumaturgist,  Prophet,  a7id  Arch-Quack  ; 
delivered  in  the  Bastille  :  Year  of  Lucifer,  5789  ; 
of  the  Hegira  Mohammedan,  {fromMecca,)  1201 ; 
of  the  Hcgira  Cagliostric,  (from  Palermo,)  24  ; 
of  the  Vulgar  Era,  1785. 

"Fellow  Scoundrels, — An  unspeakable  In- 
trigue, spun  from  the  soul  of  that  Circe-Me- 
goera,  by  our  voluntary  or  involuntary  help, 
has  assembled  us  all,  if  not  under  one  roof- 
tree,  yet  within  one  grim  iron-bound  ring-wall. 
For  an  appointed  number  of  months,  in  the 
ever-rolling  flow  of  Time,  we,  being  gathered 
from  the  four  winds,  did  by  Destiny  work  to- 
gether in  body  corporate  ;  and,  joint  labourers 
in  a  Transaction  already  famed  over  the  Globe, 
obtain  unity  of  Name,  (like  the  Argonauts  of 
old,)  as  Conquerors  of  the  Diamond  Necklace.  Ere 
long  it  is  done,  (for  ring-walls  hold  not  captive 
the  free  Scoundrel  for  ever ;)  and  we  disperse 
again,  over  wide  terrestrial  Space ;  some  of 
us,  it  may  be,  over  the  very  marches  of  Space. 
Our  Act  hangs  indissoluble  together;  floats 
wondrous  in  the  older  and  older  memory  of 
men  :  while  we,  little  band  of  Scoundrels,  who 
saw  each  other,  now  hover  so  far  asunder,  to 
see  each  other  no  more,  if  not  once  more  only 
on  the  universal  Doomsday,  the  last  of  the 
Days! 

"  In  such  interesting  moments,  while  we 
stand  within  the  verge  of  parting,  and  have 
not  yet  parted,  methinks  it  were  well  here,  in 
these  sequestered  Spaces,  to  institute  a  few 
general  reflections.  Me,  as  a  public  speaker, 
the  Spirit  of  Masonry,  of  Philosophy,  and 
Philanthropy,  and  even  of  Prophecy  (blowing 
mysterious  from  the  Land  of  Dreams)  impels 
to  do  it.  Give  ear,  O  Fellow  Scoundrels,  to 
what  the  Spirit  utters ;  treasure  it  in  your 
hearts,  practise  it  in  your  lives. 

"  Sitting  here,  penned  up  in  this  which  (with 
a  slight  metaphor)  I  call  the  Central  Cloaca 
of  Nature,  where  a  tyrannical  De  Launay  can 
forbid  the  bodily  eye  free  vision,  you  with  the 
mental  eye  see  but  the  better.  This  Central 
Cloaca,  is  it  not  rather  a  Heart,  into  which, 
from  all  regions,  mysterious  conduits  intro- 
duce, and  forcibly  inject,  whatsoever  is  choicest 
in  the  Scoundrelism  of  the  Earth ;  there  to 
be  absorbed,  or  again  (by  the  other  auricle) 
ejected  into  new  circulation  1  Let  the  eye  of 
the  mind  run  along  this  immeasurable  venous- 
arterial  system ;  and  astound  itself  with  the 
magnificent  extent  of  Scoundreldom  ;  the  deep, 
I  may  say,  unfathomable,  significance  of 
Scoundrelism. 

"  Yes,  brethren,  wide  as  the  Sun's  range  is 
our  Empire;  wider  than  old  Rome's  in  its 
palmiest  era.  I  have  in  my  time  been  far  ;  in 
frozen  Muscovy,  in  hot  Calabria,  east,  west, 
wheresoever  the  sky  overarches  civilized  man  : 
and  never  hitherto  saw  I  myself  an  alien  ;  out 
of  Scoundreldom  I  never  was.    Is  it  not  even 


said,  from  of  old,  by  the  opposite  party:  '  Jll 
men  are  liars  1 '  Do  they  not  (and  this  nowise 
'  in  haste')  whimperingly  talk  of  *  one  just 
person,'  (as  they  call  him,)  and  of  the  remain- 
ing thousand  save  one  that  take  part  with  us  1 
So  decided  is  our  majority." — (Applause.) 

"  Of  the  Scarlet  Woman, — yes,  Monseigneur, 
without  offence, — of  the  Scarlet  Woman  that 
sits  on  Seven  Hills,  and  her  Black  Jesuit  Mili- 
tia, out  foraging  from  Pole  to  Pole,  I  speak 
not ;  for  the  story  is  too  trite :  nay,  the  Militia 
itself,  as  I  see,  begins  to  be  disbanded,  and  in- 
valided, for  a  second  treachery ;  treachery  to 
herself!  Nor  yet  of  Governments  ;  for  a  like 
reason.  Ambassadors,  said  an  English  pun- 
ster, lie  abroad  for  their  masters.  Their  mas- 
ters, we  answer,  lie,  at  home,  for  themselves. 
Not  of  all  this,  nor  of  Courtship,  (with  its  so 
universal  Lovers'  vows,)  nor  Courtiership,  nor 
Attorneyism,  nor  Public  Oratory,  and  Selling 
by  Auction,  do  I  speak:  I  simply  ask  thegain- 
sayer.  Which  is  the  particular  trade,  profes- 
sion, mystery,  calling,  or  pursuit  of  the  Sons 
of  Adam  that  they  successfully  manage  in  the 
other  way  1  He  cannot  answer  ! — No  :  Phi- 
losophy itself,  both  practical  and  even  specu- 
lative, has,  at  length  (after  shamefullest  grop- 
ing) stumbled  on  the  plain  conclusion  that 
Sham  is  indispensable  to  Reality,  as  Lying  to 
Living ;  that  without  Lying  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  the  world,  from  swaying  of  senates  to 
selling  of  tapes,  must  explode  into  anarchic 
discords,  and  so  a  speedy  conclusion  ensue. 

"But  the  grand  problem.  Fellow  Scoundrels, 
as  you  well  know,  is  the  marrying  of  Truth 
and  Sham ;  so  that  they  become  one  flesh,  man 
and  wife,  and  generate  these  three :  Profit, 
Pudding,  and  Respectability  that  always  keeps 
her  Gig.  Wondrously,  indeed,  do  Truth  and 
Delusion  play  into  one  another  :  Reality  rests 
on  Dream.  Truth  is  but  the  skin  of  the  bot- 
tomless Untrue:  and  ever,  from  time  to  time, 
the  Untrue  sheds  it;  is  clear  again;  and  the 
superannuated  True  itself  becomes  a  Fable. 
Thus  do  all  hostile  things  crumble  back  into 
our  Empire;  and  of  its  increase  there  is  no  end. 

"  O  brothers,  to  think  of  the  Speech  with- 
out meaning,  (which  is  mostly  ours,)  and  of 
the  Speech  with  contrary  meaning,  (which  is 
wholly  ours,)  manufactured  by  the  organs  of 
Mankind  in  one  solar  day !  Or  call  it  a  day 
of  Jubilee,  when  public  Dinners  are  given, 
and  Dinner-orations  are  delivered :  or  say,  a 
Neighbouring  Island  in  time  of  General  Elec- 
tion !  O  ye  immortal  gods  !  The  mind  is  lost; 
can  only  admire  great  Nature's  plenteousness 
with  a  kind  of  sacred  wonder. 

"  For,  tell  me.  What  is  the  chief  end  of  man  1 
'  To  glorify  God,'  said  the  old  Christian  Sect, 
now  happily  extinct.  *  To  eat  and  find  eata- 
bles by  the  readiest  method,'  answers  sound 
Philosophy,  discarding  whims.  If  the  readier 
method  (than  this  of  persuasive-attraction)  is 
discovered, — point  it  out. — Brethren,  I  said  the 
old  Christian  Sect  was  happily  extinct:  as, in- 
deed, in  Rome  itself,  there  goes  the  wonderful- 
lest  traditionary  Prophecy,*  of  that  Nazareth 
Christ  coniing  back,  and  being  crucified  a 
second  time  there;  which  truly  I  see  not  in  the 

*  Goethe  mentionB  it  {Ttalianiseht  Reise.) 


47« 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


least  how  he  could  fail  to  be.  Nevertheless, 
that  old  Christian  whim,  of  an  actual  living 
and  ruling  God,  and  some  sacred  covenant 
binding  all  men  in  Him,  with  much  other  mys- 
tic stuff,  does,  under  new  or  old  shape,  linger 
with  a  few.  From  these  few,  keep  yourselves 
for  ever  far !  They  must  even  be  left  to  their 
whim,  which  is  not  like  to  prove  infectious. 

"But  neither  are  we,  my  Fellow  Scoundrels, 
without  our  Religion,  our  Worship ;  which, 
like  the  oldest,  and  all  true  Worships,  is  one 
of  Fear.  The  Christians  have  their  Cross, 
the  Moslem  their  Cresent:  but  have  not  we, 
too,  our — Gallows'?  Yes,  infinitely  terrible  is 
the  Gallows;  bestrides,  with  its  patibulary 
fork,  the  Pit  of  bottomless  Terror.  No  Mani- 
cheans  are  we ;  our  God  is  One.  Great,  ex- 
ceeding great,  I  say,  is  the  Gallows ;  of  old, 
even  from  the  beginning,  in  this  world;  know- 
ing neither  variableness  nor  decadence ;  for 
ever,  for  ever,  over  the  wreck  of  ages,  and  all 
civic  and  ecclesiastic  convulsions,  meal-mobs, 
revolutions,  the  Gallows  with  front  serenely 
terrible  towers  aloft.  Fellow  Scoundrels,  fear 
the  Gallows,  and  have  no  other  fear  !  This  is 
the  Law  and  the  Prophets.  Fear  every  ema- 
nation of  the  Gallows.  And  what  is  every 
buffet,  with  the  fist,  or  even  with  the  tongue,  of 
one  having  authority,  but  some  such  emana- 
tion. And  what  is  iPorce  of  Public  Opinion 
but  the  infinitude  of  such  emanations, — rush- 
ing combined  on  you  like  a  mighty  storm- 
wind  1  Fear  the  Gallows,  I  say!  O  when, 
with  its  long  black  arm,  it  has  clutched  a  man, 
what  avail  him  all  terrestrial  things  1  These 
pass  away,  with  horrid  nameless  dinning  in 
his  ears  ;  and  the  ill-starred  Scoundrel  pendu- 
lates between  Heaven  and  Earth,  a  thing  re- 
jected of  bothJ" — (Profound  sensation.) 

"Such,  so  wide  in  compass,  high,  gallows- 
high  in  dignity,  is  the  Scoundrel  Empire  ;  and 
for  depth,  it  is  deeper  than  the  Foundations  of 
the  World.  For  what  was  Creation  itself 
wholly  (according  to  the  best  Philosophers) 
but  a  Divulsion  by  the  Time-Spirit,  (or  Devil 
so-called ;)  a  forceful  Interruption,  or  breaking 
asunder,  of  the  old  Quiescence  of  Eternity? 
It  was  Lucifer  that  fell,  and  made  this  lordly 
World  arise.  Deepi  It  is  bottomless-deep; 
the  very  Thought,  diving,  bobs  up  from  it 
baffled.  Is  not  this  that  they  call  Vice  of  Ly- 
ing the  Adam-Kadmon,  or  primeval  Rude-Ele- 
ment, old  as  Chaos  mother's-womb  of  Death 
and  Hell ;  whereon  their  thin  film  of  Virtue, 
Truth,  and  the  like,  poorly  wavers — for  a  day  1 
All  Virtue,  what  is  it,  even  by  their  own  show- 
ing, but  Vice  transformed, — that  is,  manufac- 
tured, rendered  artificial?  *  Man's  Vices  are 
the  roots  from  which  his  Virtues  grow  out  and 
see  the  light,'  says  one :  '  Yes,'  add  I,  *  and 
thanklessly  steal  their  nourishment!'  Were 
it  not  for  the  nine  hundred  ninety  and  nine 
unacknowledged  (perhaps  martyred  and  ca- 
lumniated) Scoundrels,  how  were  their  single 
Just  Person  (with  a  murrain  on  him  !)  so  much 
as  possible  ? — Oh,  it  is  high,  high  :  these  things 
are  too  great  for  me;  Intellect,  Imagination, 
flags  her  tired  wings ;  the  soul  lost,  baffled" — 
— Here  Dame  de  Lamotle  tittered  audibly, 
and  muttered,  Coq-d'-Inde,  (which,  being  inter- 
preted into  the  Scottish  tongue,  signifies  Bub- 


bly-Jock!)  The  Arch-Quack,  whose  eyes  were 
turned  inwards  as  in  rapt  contemplation, 
started  at  the  titter  and  mutter :  his  eyes  flashed 
outwards  with  dilated  pupil ;  his  nostrils 
opened  wide ;  his  very  hair  seemed  to  stir  in 
its  long  twisted  pigtails,  (his  fashion  of  curl;) 
and  as  Indignation  is  said  to  make  Poetry,  it 
here  made  Prophecy,  or  what  sounded  as  such. 
With  terrible,  working  features,  and  gesticula- 
tion not  recommended  in  any  Book  of  Gesture, 
the  Arch-Quack,  in  voice  supernally  discord- 
ant (like  Lions  worrying  Bulls  of  Bashan) 
began : 

"  Sniff*  not,  Dame  de  Lamotte ;  tremble,  thou 
foul  Circe-Megsera:  thy  day  of  desolation  is  at 
hand !  Behold  ye  the  Sanhedrim  of  Judges, 
with  their  fanners  (of  written  Parchment) 
loud-rustling,  as  they  winnow  all  her  chaff,  and 
down-plumage,  and  she  stands  there  naked 
and  mean? — Villette,  Oliva,  do  ye  blab  se- 
crets ?  Ye  have  no  pity  of  her  extreme  need ; 
she  none  of  yours.  Is  thy  light-giggling,  un- 
tamable heart  at  last  heavy?  Hark  ye! 
Shrieks  of  one  cast  out;  whom  they  brand  on 
both  shoulders  with  iron  stamp ;  the  red  hot 
"  V,"  thou  Vulcuse,  hath  it  entered  thy  soul  1 
Weep,  Circe  de  Lamotte;  wail  there  in  truckle 
bed,  and  hysterically  gnash  thy  teeth :  nay,  do, 
smother  thyself  in  thy  door-mat  coverlid  ;  thou 
hast  found  thy  mates;  thou  art  in  the  Sal- 
petriere ! — Weep,  daughter  of  the  high  and 
puissant  Sans-inexpressibles  !  Buzz  of  Pari- 
sian Gossipry  is  about  thee;  but  not  to  help 
thee  :  no,  to  eat  before  thy  time.  What  shall 
a  King's  Court  do  with  thee,  thou  unclean 
thing,  while  thou  yet  livest?  Escape!  Flee 
to  utmost  countries;  hide  there,  if  thou  canst, 
thy  mark  of  Cain ! — In  the  Babylon  of  Fog- 
land  !  Ha !  is  that  my  London  ?  See  I  Judas 
Iscariot  Egalite  ?  Print,  yea  print  abundantly 
the  abominations  of  your  two  hearts:  breath 
of  rattlesnakes  can  bedim  the  steel  mirror,  but 
only  for  a  time. — And  there!  Ay,  there  at 
last!  Tumblest  thou  from  the  lofty  leads, 
poverty-stricken,  O  thriftless  daughter  of  the 
high  and  puissant,  escaping  bailiffs?  Des- 
cendest  thou  precipitate,  in  dead  night,  from 
window  in  the  third  story:  hurled  forth  by 
Bacchanals,  to  whom  thy  shrill  tongue  had 
grown  unbearable  ?*  Yea,  through  the  smoke 
of  that  new  Babylon  thou  fallest  headlong ; 
one  long  scream  of  screams  makes  night 
hideous :  thou  liest  there,  shattered  like  addle 
egg,  'nigh  to  the  Temple  of  Flora!'  O  La- 
motte, has  thy  Hypocrisia  ended,  then  ?  Thy 
many  characters  were  all  acted.  Here  at  last 
thou  actest  not,  but  art  what  thou  seemest:  a 
mangled  squelch  of  gore,  confusion,  and 
abomination  ;  which  men  huddle  underground, 
with  no  burial  stone.  Thou  gallows-car- 
rion !"— 

— Here  the  prophet  turned  up  his  nose,  (the 
broadest  of  the  eighteenth  century,)  and  opened 


♦  The  English  Translator  of  Lamotte's  Life  says,  she 
foil  from  the  leads  of  her  house,  niirh  the  Temple  of 
Flora,  endeavourinw  to  escape  seizure  for  debt ;  and  was 
taken  up  so  much  hurt  that  she  died  in  consequence. 
Another  report  runs  that  she  was  flung  out  of  window, 
as  in  the  Cagliostric  text.  One  way  or  other  she  did 
die,  on  the  23d  of  August,  1791  {Biopraphie  Universelle, 
XXX.  287.)  Where  the  "Temple  of  Flora"  was,  or  is, 
one  knows  not. 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE. 


477 


wide  his  nostrils  with  such  a  greatness  of  dis- 
gust, that  all  the  audience,  even  Lamotte  her- 
self, sympathetically  imitated  him. — "  O  Dame 
de  Lamotte  !  Dame  de  Lamotte !  Now,  when 
the  circle  of  thy  existence  lies  complete :  and 
my  eye  glances  over  these  two  score  and  three 
years  that  were  lent  thee,  to  do  evil  as  thou 
couldst ;  and  I  behold  thee  a  bright-eyed  little 
Tatterdemalion,  begging  and  gathering  sticks 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne ;  and  also  at  length  a 
squelched  Putrefaction,  here  on  London  pave- 
ments ;  with  the  headdressings  and  hungerings, 
the  gaddings  and  hysterical  gigglings  that 
came  between, — What  shall  I  say  was  the 
meaning  of  thee  at  all? — 

"  Villette-de-Retaux !  Have  the  catchpoles 
trepanned  thee,  by  sham  of  battle,  in  thy  Ta- 
vern, from  the  sacred  Republican  soil.*  It  is 
thou  that  wert  the  hired  Forger  of  Hand- 
writings 1  Thou  wilt  confess  it  1  Depart,  un- 
whipt,  yet  accursed. — Ha  !  The  dread  Symbol 
of  our  Faith  1  Swings  aloft,  on  the  Castle  of 
St.  Angelo,  a  Pendulous  Mass,  which  I  think  I 
discern  to  be  the  body  of  Villette  !  There  let 
him  end ;  the  sweet  morsel  of  our  Juggernaut. 

"Nay,  weep  not  thou,  disconsolate  Oliva; 
blear  not  thy  bright  blue  eyes,  daughter  of  the 
shady  Garden !  Thee  shall  the  Sanhedrim 
not  harm:  this  Cloaca  of  Nature  emits  thee; 
as  notablest  of  unfortunate-females,  thou  shall 
have  choice  of  husbands  not  without  capital; 
and  accept  one.f  Know  this,  for  the  vision 
of  it  is  true. 

"  But  the  Anointed  Majesty  whom  ye  pro- 
faned 1  Blow,  spirit  of  Egyptian  Masonry, 
blow  aside  the  thick  curtains  of  Space !  Lo 
you,  her  eyes  are  red  with  their  first  tears  of 
pure  bitterness ;  not  with  their  last.  Tirewo- 
man Campan  is  choosing,  from  the  Printshops 
of  the  Quais,  the  reputed-best  among  the 
hundred  likenesses  of  Circe  de  Lamotte  :t  a 
Queen  shall  consider  if  the  basest  of  women 
ever,  by  any  accident,  darkened  daylight  or 
candle-light  for  the  highest.  The  Portrait 
answers;  'Never!' — (Sensation  in  the  audi- 
ence.) 

«  —Ha !  What  is  this  ?  Angels,  Uriel,  Ana- 
chiel,  and  the  other  Five;  Pentagon  of  Re- 
juvenescene;  Power  that  destroyed  Original 
Sin ;  Earth,  Heaven,  and  thou  Outer  Limbo, 
which  men  name  Hell !  Does  the  Empire  of  Im- 


*See  Oeorgel,  and  Villette's  MSmoire. 
i  Affaire  du  Collier  is  this  MS.  Note  :  "  Gay  d'Oliva,  a 
common-girl  of  the  Palais-Royal,  who  was  chosen  to 
play  a  part  in  this  Business,  got  married,  some  years 
afterwards,  to  one  Beausire,  an  Ex-Noble,  formerly 
attached  to  the  d'Artois  Household.  In  1790,  he  was 
Captain  of  the  National  Guard  Company  of  the  Temple. 
He  then  retired  to  Choisy,  and  managed  to  be  named 
Procurenr  of  that  Commune  :  he  finally  employed  him- 
self in  drawing  up  Lists  of  Proscription  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg Prison,  when  he  played  the  part  of  informer, 
{mouton.)  See  Tableau  des  Prisons  de  Paris  sous  Robes- 
pierre." These  details  are  correct.  In  the  M&moires 
siirhs  Prison.',  (new  Title  of  the  Book  just  referred  to,) 
ii.  171,  we  find  this:  "The  second  Denouncer  was 
Beausire,  an  Ex-Noble,  known  under  the  old  govern- 
ment for  his  intrigues.  To  give  an  idea  of  him,  it  is 
enouah  to  say  that  he  married  the  d'Oliva,"  &c.,  as  in 
the  MS.  Note  already  given.  Finally  is  added:  "He 
was  the  main  spy  of  Boyenval ;  who,  however,  said  that 
Ih3  made  use  of  him  ;  but  that  Fouquier-Tinville  did  not 
lik(;  him,  and  would  have  him  guillotined  in  good 
.  line." 

t  See  Campan. 


posTrRE  waver  1  Burst  there,  in  starry  sheen, 
updarting,  Light-rays  from  out  its  dark  foun- 
dations ;  as  it  rocks  and  heaves,  not  in  travail- 
throes,  but  in  death-throes  ?  Yea,  Light-rays, 
piercing,  clear,  that  salute  the  Heavens, — lo, 
they  hindle  it ;  their  starry  clearness  becomes  as 
red  Hellfire  !  Imposture  is  burnt  up  ;  one  Red- 
sea  of  Fire,  wild-billowing  enwraps  the  World ; 
with  its  fire-tongue  licks  at  the  Stars.  Thrones 
are  hurled  into  it,  and  Dubois  Mitres,  and  Pre- 
bendal  Stalls  that  drop  fatness,  and — ha  !  what 
see  I  ] — all  the  Gigs  of  Creation :  all,  all !  Wo 
is  me !  Never  since  Pharaoh's  Chariots,  in 
the  Red-sea  of  water,  was  there  wreck  of 
Wheel-vehicles  like  this  in  the  Sea  of  Fire. 
Desolate,  as  ashes,  as  gases,  shall  they  wander 
in  the  wind. 

"  Higher,  higher,  yet  flames  the  Fire-Sea ; 
crackling  with  new  dislocated  timber;  hissing 
with  leather  and  prunella.  The  metal  Images 
are  molten ;  the  marble  Images  become  mor- 
tar-lime; the  stone  Mountains  sulkily  explode. 
Respectability,  with  all  her  collected  Gigs 
inflamed  for  funeral  pyre,  wailing,  leaves  the 
Earth, — to  return  under  new  Avatar.  Impos- 
ture, how  it  burns,  through  generations  :  how 
it  is  burnt  up — for  a  time.  The  World  is  black 
ashes ;  which — when  will  they  grow  green  1 
The  Images  all  run  into  amorphous  Corinthian 
brass;  all  Dwellings  of  men  destroyed;  the 
very  mountains  peeled  and  riven,  the  valleys 
black  and  dead:  it  is  an  empty  World!     Wo 

to  them  that  shall  be  born  then ! A  King,  a 

Queen,  (ah  me !)  were  hurled  in ;  did  rustle 
once ;  flew  aloft,  crackling,  like  paper-scroll. 
Oliva's  Husband  was  hurled  in  ;  Iscariot  Ega- 
lite ;  thou  grim  De  Launay,  with  thy  grim  Bas- 
tille ;  whole  kindreds  and  peoples ;  five  millions 
of  mutually  destroying  Men.  For  it  is  the 
End  of  the  Dominion  of  Imposture  (which  is 
Darkness  and  opaque  Firedamp  ;  and  the  burn- 
ing up,  with  unquenchable  fire,  of  all  the  Gigs 
that  are  in  the  Earth!" — Here  the  Prophet 
paused,  fetching  a  deep  sigh ;  and  the  Cardinal 
uttered  a  kind  of  faint,  tremulous  Hem  ! 

"Mourn  not,  0  Monseigneur,  spite  of  thy 
nephritic  cholic,  and  many  infirmities.  For 
thee  mercifully  it  was  not  unto  death.*  O 
Monseigneur,  (for  thou  hadst  a  touch  of  good- 
ness,) who  would  not  weep  over  thee,  if  he 
also  laughed  1  Behold  !  The  not  too  judicious 
Historian,  that  long  years  hence,  amid  remotest 
wilderness,  writes  thy  Life,  and  names  thee 
Mud-volcano;  even  he  shall  reflect  that  it  was 
thy  Life  this  same ;  thy  only  chance  through 
whole  Eternity ;  which  thou  (poor  gambler) 
hast  expended  so :  and,  even  over  his  hard 
heart,  a  breath  of  dewy  pity  for  thee  shall 
blow. — O  Monseigneur,  thou  wert  not  all  igno- 
ble : '  thy  Mud-volcano  was  but  strength  dis- 
located, fire  misapplied.  Thou  wentest  raven- 
ing through  the  world ;  no  Life-elixir  or  Stone 
of  the  Wise  could  we  two  (for  want  of  funds) 
discover :  a  foulest  Circe  undertook  to  fatten 
thee;  and  thou  hadst  to  fill  thy  belly  with  the 
east  wind.    And  burst  1     By  the  Masonry  of 


♦  Rohan  was  elected  of  the  Constituent  Assembly ; 
and  even  got  a  compliment  or  two  in  it,  as  Court-victim, 
from  here  and  there  a  man  of  weak  judgment.  He  was 
one  of  the  first  who,  recalcitrating  against  "Civil  Con- 
stitution of  the  Clergy,"  &c.,  took  himself  across  the 
Rhine. 


47B 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Enoch.  No !  Behold  has  not  thy  Jesuit 
Familiar  his  Scouts  dim-flying  over  the  deep 
of  human  things  1  Cleared  art  thou  of  crime, 
save  that,  of  fixed-idea;  weepest,  a  repentant 
exile,  in  the  Mountains  of  Auvergne.  Neither 
shall  the  Red  Fire-sea  itself  consume  thee ; 
only  consume  thy  Gig,  and,  instead  of  Gig 
(O  rich  exchange !)  restore  thy  Self.  Safe  be- 
yond the  Rhine-stream,  thou  livest  peaceful 
days;  savest  many  from  the  fire,  and  anointest 
their  smarting  burns.  Sleep  finally,  in  thy 
mother's  bosom,  in  a  good  old  age !" — The 
Cardinal  gave  a  sort  of  guttural  murmur,  or 
gurgle,  which  ended  in  a  long  sigh. 

"  O  Horrors,  as  ye  shall  be  called,"  again 
burst  forth  the  Quack,  "  why  have  ye  missed 
the  Sieur  de  Lamotte;  why  not  of  him,  too, 
made  gallows-carrion  1  Will  spear,  or  sword- 
stick,  thrust  at  him,  (or  supposed  to  be  thrust,) 
through  window  of  hackney-coach,  in  Pic- 
cadilly of  the  Babylon  of  Fog,  where  he  jolts 
disconsolate,  not  let  out  the  imprisoned  animal 
existence  1  Is  he  poisoned,  too  1"*  Poison 
will  not  kill  the  Sieur  Lamotte ;  nor  steel,  nor 
massacres.f  Let  him  drag  his  utterly  super- 
fluous life  to  a  second  and  a  third  generation ; 
and  even  admit  the  not  too  judicious  Historian 
to  see  his  face  before  he  die. 

"  But,  ha !"  cried  he,  and  stood  wide-staring, 
horror  struck,  as  if  some  Cribb's  fist  had 
knocked  the  wind  out  of  him :  "  O  horror  of 
horrors  !  Is  it  not  Myself  I  see  1  Roman  In- 
quisition !  Long  months  of  cruel  baiting ! 
Life  of  Giuseppe  Balsamo !  Cagliostro's  Body 
still  lying  in  St.  Leo  Castle,  his   Self  fled — 


whither?  By-standers  wag  their  heads,  and 
say;  'The  Brow  of  Brass,  behold  how  it  has 
got  all  unlackered;  these  Pinchbeck  lips  can 
lie  no  more  !'  Eheu  !  Ohoo  !" — and  he  burst 
into  unstanchable  blubbering  of  tears;  and 
sobbing  out  the  moanfuUest  broken  howl,  sank 
down  in  swoon ;  to  be  put  to  bed  by  De  Launay 
and  others. 

Thus  spoke  (or  thus  might  have  spoken) 
and  prophesied,  the  Arch-quack  Cagliostro; 
and  truly  much  better  than  he  ever  else  did  : 
for  not  a  jot  or  tittle  of  it  (save  only  that  of 
our  promised  Interview  with  Nestor  de  La- 
motte, which  looks  unlikelier  than  ever,  for 
we  have  not  heard  of  him,  dead  or  living,  since 
1826,)  but  he  has  turned  out  to  be  literally  irue. 
As,  indeed,  in  all  his  History,  one  jot  or  title 
of  untruth,  that  we  could  render  true,  is,  per- 
haps, not  discoverable ;  much  as  the  distrust- 
ful reader  may  have  disbelieved. 

Here,  then,  our  little  labour  ends.  The  Neck- 
lace was,  and  is  no  more ;  the  stones  of  it  again 
"  circulate  in  commerce"  (some  of  them  per- 
haps, in  Rundle's  at  this  hour;)  may  give  rise  to 
what  other  Histories  we  know  not.  The  Con- 
querors of  it,  every  one  that  trafficke4  in  it, 
have  they  not  all  had  their  due,  which  was 
Death  1 

This  little  Business,  like  a  little  cloud, 
bodied  itself  forth  in  skies  clear  to  the  unob- 
servant: but  with  such  hues  of  deep-tinted 
villany,  dissoluteness,  and  general  delirium,  as 
to  the  observant,  betokened  it  electric ;  and 
wise  men  (a  Goethe,  for  example)  boded 
Earthquakes.   Has  not  the  Earthquakes  come  ? 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU.* 

[London  and  Westminster  Review,  1837. 


A  PHOVERB  says,  "The  house  that  is  a- 
building  looks  not  as  the  house  that  is  built," 
Environed  with  rubbish  and  mortar-heaps  with 
scafTold-poles,  hodmen,  dust-clouds,  some  ru- 
diments only  of  that  thing  that  is  to  be,  can, 
to  the  most  observant,  disclose  themselves 
through  the  mean  tumult  of  the  thing  that  hither- 
to is.  How  true  is  this  same  with  regard  to  all 
works  and  facts  whatsoever  in  our  world ;  em- 
phatically true  in  regard  to  the  highest  fact  and 

*  See  Lamotte's  Narrative,  (Memoires  Justificatifs.) 
t  Lamotte,  after  his  wife's  death,  had  returned  to 
Paris ;  and  been  arrested— not  for  building  churches. 
The  Sentence  of  the  old  Parlement  against  him,  in  re- 
gard to  the  Necklace  business,  he  gets  annulled  by  the 
new  Courts  ;  but  is,  nevertheless,  "retained  in  confine- 
ment," (Moniteur  Newspaper,  7th  August,  1782.)  He 
was  still  in  Prison  at  the  time  the  September  Massacre 
broke  out.  From  Maton  de  la  Varenne  we  cite  the  fol- 
lowing grim  passage  :  Maton  is  in  La  Force  Prison. 

"At  one  in  the  morning,"  (of  Monday,  September  3,) 
writes  Maton,  "the  grate  that  led  to  our  quarter  was 
again  opened.  Four  men  in  uniform,  holding  ench  a 
naked  sabre  and  blazing  torch,  mounted  to  our  corridor ; 
a  turnkey  showing  the  way ;  and  entered  a  room  close 
on  ours,  to  investigate  a  box,  which  they  broke  open. 
This  done,  they  halted  in  the  gallery;  and  began  inter- 
rogating one  Cuissa,  to  know  where  Lamotte  was; 
who,  they  said,  under  a  pretext  of  finding  a  treasure, 
which  they  should  share  in,  had  swindled  one  of  them 


work  which  our  world  witnesses, — the  Life  of 
what  we  call  an  Original  Man.  Such  a  man 
is  one  not  made  altogether  by  the  common 
pattern ;  one  whose  phases  and  goings  forth 
cannot  be  prophesied  of,  even  approximately  ; 
though,  indeed,  by  their  very  newness  and 
strangeness  they  most  of  all  provoke  prophecy. 
A  man  of  this  kind,  while  he  lives  on  earth,  is 
"unfolding  himself  out  of  nothing  into  some- 
thing," surely  under  very  complex  conditions  : 

out  of  300  livres,  having  asked  him  to  dinner  for  that 
purpose.  The  wretched  Cuissa,  whom  they  had  in 
their  power,  and  who  lost  his  life  that  night,  answered, 
al!  trembling,  that  he  remembered  the  fact  well, 
but  could  not  say  what  had  become  of  the  prisoner. 
Resolute  to  find  this  Lamotte  and  confront  him  with 
Cuissa,  they  ascended  into  other  rooms,  and  made  fur- 
ther rummaging  there ;  but  apparently  without  eflTsct, 
for  1  heard  them  say  to  one  another:  "Come,  search 
among  the  corpses,  then  for,  JVom  de  Dieu!  we  must 
know  what  is  become  of  him."  (Ma  Resurrection,  par 
Maton  de  la  Varenne ;  reprinted  in  the  Histoire  Parle- 
mentaire,  xviii.  142.) — Lamotte  lay  in  the  Bic6tre 
Prison  ;  but  had  got  out,  precisely  in  the  nick  of  time, — 
and  dived  beyond  soundings. 

♦  Me.moires  hiographiqucs,  littiraires,  et  politiques,  de 
Mirabeau  ;  icrifs  par  lui-mime,  par  son  Pi-re  Oncle,  et  son 
Fils  ^doptif  (Memoirs,  biographical,  literary,  and  politi- 
cal, of  Mirabeau  :  written  by  himself,  by  his  Father,  his 
Uncle,  and  his  AdoptedSon.)    8 vols.  8  vo, Paris,  1834— 36- 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


479 


he  is  drawing  continually  towards  him,  in  con- 
tinual succession  and  variation,  the  materials 
of  his  structure,  nay,  his  very  plan  of  it,  from 
the  whole  realm  of  accident,  you  may  say,  and 
from  the  whole  realm  of  free-will:  he  is  build- 
ing his  life  together  in  this  manner ;  a  guess 
and  a  problem  as  yet,  not  to  others  only  but  to 
himself.  Hence  such  criticism  by  the  by- 
standers; loud  no-knowledge,  loud  misknow- 
ledge !  It  is  like  the  opening  of  the  Fisher- 
man's Casket  in  the  Arabian  Tale,  this  begin- 
ning and  growing-up  of  a  life  :  vague  smoke 
wavering  hither  and  thither;  some  features  of 
a  Genie  looming  through ;  of  the  ultimate 
shape  of  which  no  fisherman  or  man  can  judge. 
And  yet,  as  we  say,  men  do  judge,  and  pass 
provisional  sentence,  being  forced  to  it;  you 
can  predict  with  what  accuracy!  "Look  at 
the  audience  in  a  theatre,"  says  one :  "  the  life 
of  a  man  is  there  compressed  within  five  hours' 
diiration  ;  is  transacted  on  an  open  stage,  with 
lighted  lamps,  and  what  the  fittest  words  and 
art  of  genius  can  do  to  make  the  spirit  of  it 
clear ;  yet  listen,  when  the  curtain  falls,  what 
a  discerning  public  will  say  of  that  I  And  now, 
if  the  drama  extended  over  three-score  and  ten 
years ;  and  were  enacted,  not  with  a  view  to 
clearness,  but  rather  indeed  with  a  view  to 
concealment,  often  in  the  deepest  attainable 
involution  of  obscurity;  and  your  discerning 
public  occupied  otherwise,  cast  its  eye  on  the 
business  now  here  for  a  moment,  and  then  there 
for  a  moment  1"  Wo  to  him,  answer  we,  who 
has  no  court  of  appeal  against  the  world's  judg- 
ment! He  is  a  doomed  man:  doomed  by  con- 
viction to  hard  penalties ;  nay,  purchasing  ac- 
quittal (too  probably)  by  a  still  harder  penalty, 
that  of  being  a  trivially,  superficialty,  self-ad- 
vertiser, and  partial  or  total  quack,  which  is  the 
hardest  penalty  of  all. 

But  suppose  farther,  that  the  man,  as  we 
said,  was  an  original  man  ;  that  his  life-drama 
would  not  and  could  not  be  measured  by  the 
three  unities  alone,  but  partly  by  a  rule  of  its 
own  too :  still  farther,  that  the  transactions  he 
had  mingled  in  were  great  and  world-dividing; 
that  of  all  his  judges  there  were  not  one  who 
had  not  something  to  love  him  for  unduly,  to 
hate  him  for  unduly!  Alas!  is  it  not  precisely  in 
this  case,  where  the  whole  world  is  promptest  to 
judge,  that  the  whole  world  is  likeliest  to  be 
wrong :  natural  opacity  being  so  doubly  and 
trebly  darkened  by  accidental  difficulty  and  per- 
version 1  The  crabbed  moralist  had  some  show 
of  reason  who  said:  "To  judge  of  an  original 
contemporary  man,  you  must,  in  general,  re- 
verse the  world's  judgment  about  him ;  the 
world  is  not  only  wrong  on  that  matter,  but 
cannot  on  any  such  matter  be  right." 

One  comfort  is,  that  the  world  is  ever  work- 
ing itself  righter  and  righter  on  such  matters  ; 
that  a  continual  revisal  and  rectification  of  the 
world's  first  judgment  on  them  is  inevitably 
going  on.  For,  after  all,  the  world  loves  its 
original  men,  and  can  in  no  wise  forget  them ; 
not  till  after  a  long  while ;  sometimes  not  till 
after  thousands  of  years.  Forgetting  thc7n, 
what  indeed,  should  it  remember]  The  world's 
wealth  is  its  original  men;  by  these  and  their 
works  it  is  a  world  and  not  a  waste:  the  me- 
mory and  record  of  what  mekIi  bore — this  is 


the  sum  of  its  strength,  its  sacred  "  property 
for  ever,"  whereby  it  upholds  itself,  and  steers 
forward  better  or  worse,  through  the  yet  undis- 
covered deep  of  Time.  All  knowledge,  all  art, 
all  beautiful  or  precious  possession  of  exist- 
ence, is,  in  the  long  run,  this,  or  connected  with 
this.  Science  itself,  is  it  not,  under  one  of  its 
most  interesting  aspects.  Biography ;  is  it  not 
the  Record  of  the  Work  which  an  original  man, 
still  named  by  us,  or  not  now  named,  was 
blessed  by  the  heavens  to  dol  That  Sphere- 
and-cylinder  is  the  monument  and  abbreviated 
history  of  the  man  Archimedes ;  not  to  be  for- 
gotten, probably,  till  the  world  itself  vanish. 
Of  Poets,  and  what  they  have  done,  and  how 
the  world  loves  them,  let  us,  in  these  days,  very 
singular  in  respect  of  that  Art,  say  nothing,  or 
next  to  nothing.  The  greatest  modern  of  the 
poetic  guild  has  already  said :  "  Nay  if  thou 
wilt  have  it,  who  but  the  poet  first  formed  gods 
for  us,  brought  them  down  to  us,  raised  us  up 
to  them  1" 

Another  remark,  on  a  lower  scale,  not  un- 
worthy of  notice,  is  by  Jean  Paul:  that,  "as  in 
art,  so  in  conduct,  or  what  we  call  morals,  be- 
fore there  can  be  an  Aristotle,  with  his  critical 
canons,  there  must  be  a  Homer,  many  Homers 
with  their  heroic  performances."  In  plainer 
words,  the  original  man  is  the  true  creator  (or 
call  him  revealer)  of  Morals  too :  it  is  from  his 
example  that  precepts  enough  are  derived, 
and  written  down  in  books  and  systems :  he  pro- 
perly is  the  Thing;  all  that  follows  after  is 
but  talk  about  the  thing,  better  or  worse  inter- 
pretation of  it,  more  or  less  wearisome  and  in- 
effectual discourse  of  logic  on  it.  A  remark, 
this  of  Jean  Paul's  which,  well  meditated,  may 
seem  one  of  the  most  pregnant  lately  written 
on  these  matters.  If  any  man  had  the  ambi- 
tion of  building  a  new  system  of  morals,  (not 
a  promising  enterprise,  at  this  time  of  day,) 
there  is  no  remark  known  to  us  which  might 
better  serve  him  as  a  chief  corner-stone,  where- 
on to  found,  and  to  build,  high  enough,  nothing 
doubting ; — high,  for  instance,  as  the  Christian 
Gospel  itself.  And  to  whatever  other  heights 
man's  destiny  may  yet  carry  him  !  Consider 
whether  it  was  not,  from  the  first,  by  example, 
or  say  rather  by  human  exemplars,  and  such 
reverent  imitation  or  abhorrent  aversion  and 
avoidance  as  these  gave  rise  to,  that  man's 
duties  were  made  indubitable  to  him  ?  Also, 
if  it  is  not  yet,  in  these  last  days,  by  very  much 
the  same  means,  (example,  precept,  prohibition, 
"  force  of  public  opinion,"  and  other  forcings 
and  inducings,)  that  the  like  result  is  brought 
about ;  and,  from  the  Woolsack  down  to  the 
Treadmill,  from  Almack's  to  Chalk  Farm  and 
the  west-end  of  Newgate,  the  incongruous 
whirlpool  of  life  is  forced  and  induced  to  whirl 
with  some  attempt  at  regularity?  The  two 
Mosaic  Tables  were  of  simple  limited  stone : 
no  logic  appended  to  them :  we,  in  our  days, 
are  privileged  with  Logic — Systems  of  Morals, 
Professors  of  Moral  Philosophy,  Theories  of 
Moral  Sentiment,  Utilities,  Sympathies,  Moral 
Senses,  not  a  few;  useful  for  those  that  feel 
comfort  in  them.  But  to  the  observant  eye,  is 
it  not  still  plain  that  the  rule  of  man's  life  rests 
not  very  steadily  on  logic  (rather  carries  logic 
unsteadily  resting  jm^it^SiS  an  excuse,  an  ex- 


\;^?::^^%i. 


480 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


position,  or  ornamental  solacement  to  oneself 
and  others ;)  that  ever,  as  of  old,  the  thing  a 
man  will  do  is  the  thing  he  feels  commanded 
to  do ;  of  which  command,  again,  the  origin 
and  reasonableness  remains  often  as  good  as 
indemonstrable  by  logic ;  and,  indeed,  lies 
mainly  in  this,  that  it  has  been  demonstrated 
otherwise  and  better  by  experiment;  namely, 
that  an  experimental  (what  we  name  original) 
man  has  already  done  it,  and  we  have  seenit  to 
be  good  and  reasonable,  and  now  know  it  to  be 
so  once  and  for  evermore  1 — Enough  of  this. 

He  were  a  sanguine  individual,  surely,  that 
should  turn  to  the  French  Revolution  for  new 
rules  of  conduct  and  creators  or  exemplars  of 
morality,— except,  indeed,  exemplars  of  the 
gibbetted,  in-terrorem  sort.  A  greater  work,  it 
is  often  said,  was  never  done  in  the  world's 
history  by  men  so  small.  Twenty-five  mil- 
lions (say  these  severe  critics)  are  hurled 
forth  out  of  all  their  old  habitudes,  arrange- 
ments, harnessings,  and  garnitures,  into  the 
new,  quite  void  arena  and  career  of  Sansculott- 
ism;  there  to  show  what  originality  is  in  them. 
Fanfaronading  and  gesticulation,  vehemence, 
effervescence,  heroic  desperation,  they  do  show 
in  abundance  ;  but  of  what  one  can  call  origi- 
nality, invention,  natural  stuff  or  character, 
amazingly  little.  Their  heroic  desperation, 
such  as  it  was,  we  will  honour  and  even  ve- 
nerate, as  a  new  document  (call  it  rather  a 
renewal  of  that  primeval  ineffaceable  docu- 
ment and  charter)  of  the  manhood  of  man. 
But,  for  the  rest,  there  were  Federations; 
there  were  Festivals  of  Fraternity,  "  the 
Statute  of  Nature  pouring  water  from  her  two 
mammelles,''  and  the  august  Deputies  all  drink- 
ing of  it  from  the  same  iron  saucer:  Weights 
and  Measures  were  attempted  to  be  changed  ; 
the  Months  of  the  Year  became  Pluviose, 
Thermidor,  Messidor  (till  Napoleon  said,  // 
faudra  se  debarrasser  de  se  Messidor,  One  must 
get  this  Messidor  sent  about  its  business :) 
also  Mrs.  Momoro  and  others  rode  prosperous, 
as  Goddesses  of  Reason  ;  and  then,  these  being 
mostly  guillotined,  Mahomet  Robespierre  did, 
with  bouquet  in  hand,  and  in  new  nankeen 
trowsers,  in  front  of  the  Tuileries,  pronounce 
the  scraggiest  of  prophetic  discourses  on  the 
Etre  Supreme,  and  set  fire  to  much  emblematic 
pasteboard: — all  this,  and  an  immensity  of 
such,  the  twenty-five  millions  did  devise  and 
accomplish  ;  but  (apart  from  their  heroic  des- 
peration, which  was  no  miracle  either,  beside 
that  of  the  old  Dutch,  for  instance)  this,  and 
the  like  of  this,  was  almost  all.  Their  arena 
of  Sansculottism  was  the  most  original  arena 
opened  to  man  for  above  a  thousand  years ; 
and  they,  at  bottom,  were  unexpectedly  com- 
mon-place in  it.  Exaggerated  common-place, 
triviality  run  distracted,  and  a  kind  of  uni- 
versal ''Frenzy  of  John  Dennis,"  is  the  figure 
they  exhibit.  The  brave  Forster, — sinking 
slowly  of  broken  heart,  in  the  midst  of  that 
volcanic  chaos  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and 
clinging  still  to  the  cause,  which,  though  now 
bloody  and  terrible,  he  believed  to  be  the 
highest,  and  for  which  he  had  sacrificed  all, 
country,  kindred,  fortune,  friends,  and  life, — 
compares  the  Revolution,  indeed,  to  "  an  ex- 


plosion and  new  creation  of  the  world;"  but 
the  actors  in  it,  that  went  buzzing  about  him, 
to  a  "  handvoU  miicken,  handful  of  flies."*  And 
yet,  one  may  add,  this  same  explosion  of  a 
world  was  their  work ;  the  work  of  these — 
flies  ?  The  truth  is,  neither  Forster  nor  any 
man  can  see  a  French  Revolution ;  it  is  like 
seeing  the  ocean :  poor  Charles  Lamb  com- 
plained that  he  could  not  see  the  multitudin- 
ous ocean  at  all,  but  only  some  insignificant 
fraction  of  it  from  the  deck  of  the  Margate 
hoy.  It  must  be  owned,  however,  (urge  these 
severe  critics,)  that  examples  of  rabid  trivi- 
ality abound,  in  the  French  Revolution,  to 
a  lamentable  extent.  Consider  Maximilien 
Robespierre ;  for  the  greater  part  of  two  years, 
what  one  may  call  Autocrat  of  France.  A 
poor  sea-green  (yerddtre,)  atrabiliar  Formula 
of  a  man  ;  without  head,  without  heart,  or  any 
grace,  gift,  or  even  vice  beyond  common,  if  it 
were  not  vanity,  astucity,  diseased  rigour 
(which  some  count  strength)  as  of  a  cramp: 
really  a  most  poor  sea-green  individual  in 
spectacles;  meant  by  Nature  for  a  Methodist 
parson  of  the  stricter  sort,  to  doom  men  who 
departed  from  the  written  confession  ;  to  chop 
fruitless  shrill  logic  ;  to  contend,  and  suspect, 
and  ineffectually  wrestle  and  wriggle ;  and,  on 
the  whole,  to  love,  or  to  know,  or  to  be 
(properly  speaking)  Nothing;— this  was  he 
who,  the  sport  of  wracking  winds,  saw  him- 
self whirled  aloft  to  command  la  premiere  nation 
de  Vu/nivers,  and  all  men  shouting  long  life  to 
him ;  one  of  the  most  lamentable,  tragic,  sea- 
green  objects,  ever  whirled  aloft  in  that  man- 
ner, in  any  country,  to  his  own  swift  destruc- 
tion, and  the  world's  long  wonder ! 

So  argue  these  severe  critics  of  the  French 
Revolution:  with  whom  we  argue  not  here; 
but  remark  rather,  what  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose, that  the  French  Revolution  did  disclose 
original  men :  among  the  twenty-five  millions, 
at  least  one  or  two  units.  Some  reckon,  in 
the  present  stage  of  the  business,  as  many  as 
three  :  Napoleon,  Danton,  Mirabeau.  Whether 
more  will  come  to  light,  or  of  what  sort,  when 
the  computation  is  quite  liquidated,  one  can- 
not say:  meanwhile  let  the  world  be  thankful 
for  these  three ; — as,  indeed,  the  world  is ; 
loving  original  men,  without  limit,  were  they 
never  so  questionable,  well  knowing  how  rare 
they  are !  To  us,  accordingly,  it  is  rather 
interesting  to  observe  how  on  these  three  also, 
questionable  as  they  surely  are,  the  old  pro- 
cess is  repeating  itself;  how  these  also  are 
getting  known  in  their  true  likeness.  A 
second  generation,  relieved  in  some  measure 
from  the  spectral  hallucinations,  hysterical 
ophthalmia,  and  natural  panic-delirium  of  the 
first  contemporary  one,  is  gradually  coming 
to  discern  and  measure  what  its  predecessor 
could  only  execrate  and  shriek  over:  for,  as 
our  Proverb  said,  the  dust  is  sinking,  the  rub- 
bish-heaps disappear;  the  built  house,  such 
as  it  is,  and  was  appointed  to  be,  stands 
visible,  better  or  worse. 

Of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  what  with  so  many 
bulletins,  and  such  self-proclamation  from 
artillery  and  battle-thunder,  loud   enough  to 


*  Forster's  Briefe  und  Nachlass. 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


4dl 


ring  through  the  deafest  brain,  in  the  remotest 
nook  of  this  earth,  and  now,  in  consequence, 
with  so  many  biographies,  histories,  and  histo- 
rical arguments  for  and  against,  it  may  be 
said  that  he  can  now  sift  for  himself;  that  his 
true  figure  is  in  a  fair  way  of  being  ascer- 
tained. Doubtless  it  will  be  found  one  day 
what  significance  was  in  him ;  how  (we  quote 
from  a  New  England  Book)  "  the  man  was  a 
divine  missionary,  though  unconscious  of  it ; 
and  preached,  through  the  cannon's  throat, 
that  great  doctrine.  La  carriere  ouverte  aux  talens, 
(The  tools  to  him  that  can  handle  them,)  which 
is  our  ultimate  Political  Evangel,  wherein 
alone  can  Liberty  lie.  Madly  enough  he 
preached,  it  is  true,  as  enthusiasts  and  first 
missionaries  are  wont;  with  imperfect  utter- 
ance, amid  much  frothy  rant;  yet  as  articu- 
lately, perhaps,  as  the  case  admitted.  Or  call 
him,  if  you  will,  an  American  backwoodsman, 
who  had  to  fell  unpenetrated  forests,  and  battle 
with  innumerable  wolves,  and  did  not  entirely 
forbear  strong  liquor,  rioting,  and  even  theft ; 
whom,  nevertheless,  the  peaceful  sower  will 
follow,  and,  as  he  cuts  the  boundless  harvest, 
bless." — From  "  the  incarnate  Moloch,"  which 
the  word  once  was,  onwards  to  this  quiet 
version,  there  is  a  considerable  progress. 

Still  more  interesting  is  it,  not  without  a 
touch  almost  of  pathos,  to  see  how  the  rugged 
TerrtB  Filius  Dan  ton  begins  likewise  to  emerge, 
from  amid  the  blood-tinted  obscurations  and 
shadows  of  horrid  cruelty,  into  calm  light ;  and 
seems  now  not  an  Anthropophagus,  but  partly 
a  man.  On  the  whole,  the  Earth  feels  it  to  be 
something  to  have  a  "  Son  of  Earth ;"  any 
reality,  rather  than  a  hypocrisy  and  formula! 
With  a  man  that  went  honestly  to  work  with 
himself,  and  said  and  acted,  in  any  sense,  with 
the  whole  mind  of  him,  there  is  always  some- 
thing to  be  done.  Satan  himself,  according  to 
Dante,  was  a  praiseworthy  object,  compared 
with  those  juste-milku  angels  (so  over-nu- 
merous in  times  like  ours)  who  "  were  neither 
faithful  nor  rebellious,"  but  were  for  their  little 
selves  only :  trimmers,  moderates,  plausible 
persons,  who,  in  the  Dantean  Hell,  are  found 
doomed  to  this  frightful  penalty,  that  "  they 
have  not  the  hope  to  die,  (non  han  speranza  di 
morte ;)  but  sunk  in  torpid  death-life,  in  mud 
and  the  plague  of  flies,  they  are  to  doze  and 
dree  for  ever, — "hateful  to  God  and  to  the 
Enemies  of  God:" 

**  JWm  ragionum  di  lor,  ma  guar  da  e  passa  !" 

If  Bonaparte  were  the  "  armed  Soldier  of 
Democracy,"  invincible  while  he  continued 
true  to  that,  then  let  us  call  this  Danton  the 
Enfant  Perdu,  and  wnenlisted  Revolter  and 
Titan  of  Democracy,  which  could  not  yet  have 
soldiers  or  discipline,  but  was  by  the  nature 
of  it  lawless.  An  Earthborn,  we  say,  yet 
honestly  born  of  Earth!  In  the  Memoirs  of 
Garat,  and  elsewhere,  one  sees  these  fire-eyes 
beam  with  earnest  insight,  fill  with  the  water 
of  tears ;  the  huge  rude  features  speak  withal 
of  wild  human  sympathies ;  that  Antaeus'  bosom 
also  held  a  heart.  "  It  is  not  the  alarm-can- 
non that  you  hear,"  cries  he  to  the  terror- 
struck,  when  the  Prussians  were  already  at 
Verdun :  "  it  is  the  pas  dc  charge  against  our 
61 


enemies.  De  Vaudace,  et  encore  de  Vaudace,  et 
toujours  de  Vaudace :  to  dare,  and  again  to  dare, 
and  without  limit  to  dare  !" — there  is  nothing 
left  but  that.  Poor  "  Mirabeau  of  the  Sanscu- 
lottes," what  a  mission  !  And  it  could  not  be 
but  done, — and  it  was  done !  But,  indeed,  may 
there  not  be,  if  well  considered,  more  virtue  in 
this  feeling  itself,  once  bursting  earnest  from 
the  wild  heart,  than  in  whole  lives  of  imma- 
culate PhWisees  and  Respectabilities,  with 
their  eye  ever  set  on  "character,"  and  the 
letter  of  the  law :  "  Qtie  mon  nam  soil  flkri,  Let 
my  name  be  blighted,  then;  let  the  Cause  be 
glorious,  and  have  victory  !"  By  and  by,  as 
we  predict,  the  Friend  of  Humanity,  since  so 
many  Knife-grinders  have  no  story  to  tell  him, 
will  find  some  sort  of  story  in  this  Danton.  A 
rough-hewn  giant  of  a  man,  (not  anthropopha- 
gous entirely;)  whose  "figures  of  speech"  (and 
also  of  action)  "  are  all  gigantic ;"  whose 
"voice  reverberates  from  the  domes," — and 
dashes  Brunswick  across  the  marches  in  a 
very  wrecked  condition.  Always  his  total 
freedom  from  cant  is  one  thing ;  even  in  his 
briberies,  and  sins  as  to  money,  there  is  a 
frankness,  a  kind  of  broad  greatness.  Sin- 
cerity, a  great  rude  sincerity,  (of  insight  and 
of  purpose,)  dwelt  in  the  man,  which  quality 
is  the  root  of  all:  a  man  who  could  see  through 
many  things,  and  would  stop  at  very  few 
things ;  who  marched  impetuously,  where  to 
march  was  almost  certainly  to  fall ;  and  now 
bears  the  penalty,  in  a  "  name"  blighted,  yet, 
as  we  say,  visibly  clearing  itself.  Once 
cleared,  why  should  not  this  name,  too,  have 
significance  for  men  1  The  wild  history  is  a 
tragedy,  as  all  human  histories  are.  Brawny 
Dantons,  still  to  the  present  hour,  "  rend  the 
glebe,"  as  simple  brawny  Farmers,  and  reap 
peaceable  harvests,  at  Arcis-sur-Aube ;  and 
this  Danton — !  It  is  an  wnrhymed  tragedy; 
very  bloody,  fuliginous,  (after  the  manner  of 
the  elder  dramatists ;)  yet  full  of  tragic  ele- 
ments; not  undeserving  natural  pity  and  fear. 
In  quiet  times,  perhaps  still  at  a  great  distance, 
the  happier  onlooker  may  stretch  out  the  hand, 
across  dim  centuries,  to  him,  and  say:  "Ill- 
starred  brother,  how  thou  foughtest  with  wild 
lion-strength,  and  yet  not  with  strength  enough, 
and  flamedst  aloft,  and  wert  trodden  down  of 
sin  and  misery; — behold,  thou  also  wert  a 
man !"  It  is  said  there  lies  a  Biography  of 
Danton  written,  in  Paris,  at  this  moment ;  but 
the  editor  waits  till  the  "force  of  public  opi- 
nion" ebb  a  little.  Let  him  publish,  with 
utmost  convenient  despatch,  and  say  what  he 
knows,  if  he  do  know  it :  the  lives  of  remark- 
able men  are  always  worth  understanding 
instead  of  misunderstanding  ;  and  public 
opinion  must  positively  adjust  itself  the  best 
way  it  can. 

But  without  doubt  the  far  most  interesting, 
best-gifted  of  this  questionable  trio  is  not  the 
Mirabeau  of  the  Sansculottes,  but  the  Mira- 
beau himself:  a  man  of  much  finer  nature 
than  either  of  the  others;  of  a  genius  equal  in 
strength  (we  will  say)  to  Napoleon's ;  but  a 
much  humaner  genius,  almost  a  poetic  one. 
With  wider  sympathies  of  his  own,  he  appeals 
far  more  persuasively  to  the  sympathies  of  men. 
28 


482 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Of  him,  too,  it  is  interesting  to  notice  the 
progressive  dawning,  out  of  calumny,  misre- 
presentation, and  confused  darkness,  into  visi- 
bility and  light;  and  how  the  world  manifests 
its  continued  curiosity  about  him ;  and  as 
book  after  book  comes  forth  with  new  evi- 
dence, the  matter  is  again  taken  up,  the  old 
judgment  on  it  revised  and  anew  revised; — 
whereby,  in  fine,  we  can  hope  the  right,  or  ap- 
proximately right,  sentence  will  be  found  ;  and 
so  the  question  be  left  settled.  It  would  seem 
this  Mirabeau  also  is  one  whose  memory  the 
world  will  not,  for  a  long  while,  let  die.  Very 
different  from  many  a  high  memory,  dead  and 
deep  buried  long  since  then  !  In  his  lifetime, 
even  in  the  final  effulgent  part  of  it,  this  Mira- 
beau took  upon  him  to  write,  with  a  sort  of 
awe-struck  feeling,  to  our  Mr.  Wilberforce ; 
and  did  not,  that  we  can  find,  get  the  benefit 
of  any  answer.  Pitt  was  prime  minister,  and 
then  Fox,  then  again  Pitt,  and  again  Fox,  in 
sweet  vicissitude ;  and  the  noise  of  them,  re- 
verberating through  Brookes's  and  the  club- 
rooms,  through  tavern  dinners,  electioneering 
hustings,  leading  articles,  filled  all  the  earth  ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  those  two  (though  which 
might  be  which,  you  could  not  say)  were  the 
Ormuzd  and  Ahriman  of  political  nature ; — 
and  now!  Such  difference  is  there  (once 
more)  between  an  original  man,  of  never  such 
questionable  sort,  and  the  most  dexterous,  cun- 
ningly-devised parliamentary  mill.  The  dif- 
ference is  great;  and  one  of  those  on  which 
the  future  time  makes  largest  contrast  with 
the  present.  Nothing  can  be  more  important 
than  the  mill  while  it  continues  and  grinds ; 
important  above  all  to  those  who  have  sacks 
about  the  hopper.  But  the  grinding  once  done, 
how  can  the  memory  of  it  endure  1  It  is  im- 
portant now  to  no  individual,  not  even  to  the 
individual  with  a  sack.  So  that,  this  tumult 
well  over,  the  memory  of  the  original  man, 
and  of  what  small  revelation  he,  as  Son  of 
Nature  and  brother-man,  could  make,  does 
naturally  rise  on  us  :  his  memorable  sayings, 
actings,  and  sufferings,  the  very  vices  and 
crimes  he  fell  into,  are  a  kind  of  pabulum 
which  all  mortals  claim  their  right  to. 

Concerning  Pcuchet,  Chaussard,  Gassicourt,  and, 
indeed,  all  the  former  Biographers  of  Mira- 
beau, there  can  little  be  said  here,  except  that 
they  abound  with  errors  :  the  present  ultimate 
Fils  Adoptif,  has  never  done  picking  faults 
with  them.  Not  as  memorials  of  Mirabeau, 
but  as  memorials  of  the  world's  relation  to  him, 
of  the  world's  treatment  of  him,  they  may,  a 
little  longer,  have  some  perceptible  signifi- 
cance. From  poor  Peuchet  (he  was  known 
in  the  Moniteicr  once,)  and  other  the  like  la- 
bourers in  the  vineyard,  you  can  justly  demand 
thus  much;  and  not  justly  much  more. 

Etienne  Dumont's  Souvenirs  sur  Mirabeau 
might  not,  at  first  sight,  seem  an  advance 
towards  true  knowledge,  but  a  movement  the 
other  way,  and  yet  it  was  really  an  advance. 
The  book,  for  one  thing,  was  hailed  by  a  uni- 
versal choral  blast  from  all  manner  of  reviews 
and  periodical  literatures  that  Europe,  in  all 
its  spellable  dialects,  had:  whereby,  at  least, 
the  minds  of  men  were  again  drawn  to  the 
subject;  and  so,  amid  whatever  hallucination. 


ancient  or  new-devised,  some  increase  of  in- 
sight was  unavoidable.  Besides,  the  book 
itself  did  somewhat.  Numerous  specialities 
about  the  great  Frenchman,  as  read  by  the 
eyes  of  the  little  Genevese,  were  conveyed 
there  ;  and  could  be  deciphered,  making  allow- 
ances. Dumont  is  faithful,  veridical;  within, 
his  own  limits  he  has  even  a  certain  freedom, 
a  picturesqueness  and  light  clearness.  It  is 
true,  the  whim  he  had  of  looking  at  the  great 
Mirabeau  as  a  thing  set  in  motion  mainly  by 
him  (M.  Dumont)  and  such  as  he,  was  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  to  be  met  with  in  psycho- 
logy. Nay,  more  wonderful  still,  how  the  re- 
viewers, pretty  generally,  some  from  whom 
better  was  expected,  took  up  the  same  with 
aggravations;  and  it  seemed  settled  on  all 
sides,  that  here  again  a  pretender  had  been 
stripped,  and  the  great  made  as  little  as  the 
rest  of  us  (much  to  our  comfort);  that,  in  fact, 
figuratively  speaking,  this  enormous  Mirabeau, 
the  sound  of  whom  went  forth  to  all  lands,  was 
no  other  than  an  enormous  trumpet,  or  coach- 
horn,  (of  japanned  tin,)  through  which  a  dex- 
terous little  M.  Dumont  was  blowing  all  the 
while,  and  making  the  noise  !  Some  men  and 
reviewers  have  strange  theories  of  man.  Let 
any  son  of  Adam,  the  shallowest  now  living, 
try  honestly  to  scheme  out,  within  his  head,  an 
existence  of  this  kind ;  and  say  how  verisimi- 
lar it  looks  !  A  life  and  business  actually  con- 
ducted on  such  coach-horn  principle, — we  say 
not  the  life  and  business  of  a  statesman  and 
world-leader,  but  say  of  the  poorest  laceman 
and  tape-seller, — were  one  of  the  chief  miracles 
hitherto  on  record.  Oh,  M.  Dumont!  But  thus, 
too,  when  old  Sir  Christopher  struck  down  the 
last  stone  in  the  Dome  of  St.  Paul's,  was  it  he 
that  carried  up  the  stone?  No;  it  was  a  cer- 
tain strong-backed  man,  never  mentioned, 
(covered  with  envious  or  unenvious  oblivion,) 
— probably  of  the  Sister  Island. 

Let  us  add,  however,  more  plainly,  that  M. 
Dumont  was  less  to  blame  here  than  his  re- 
viewers were.  The  good  Dumont  accurately 
records  what  ingenious  journey-work  and 
fetching  and  carrying  he  did  for  his  Mirabeau ; 
interspersing  many  an  anecdote,  which  the 
world  is  very  glad  of;  extenuating  nothing  we 
do  hope,  nor  exaggerating  anything:  this  is 
what  he  did,  and  had  a  clear  right  and  call  to 
do.  And  what  if  it  failed,  not  altogether,  yet 
in  some  measure  if  it  did  fail,  to  strike  him, 
that  he  still  properly  was  but  a  Dumont  1  Nay, 
that  the  gift  this  Mirabeau  had  of  enlisting 
such  respectable  Dumonts  to  do  hod-work  and 
even  skilful  handiwork  for  him  ;  and  of  ruling 
them  and  bidding  them  by  the  look  of  his  eye; 
and  of  making  them  cheerfully  fetch  and  carry 
for  him,  and  serve  him  as  loyal  subjects,  with 
a  kind  of  chivalry  and  willingness, — that  this 
gift  was  precisely  the  kinghood  of  the  man, 
and  did  itself  stamp  him  as  a  leader  among 
men  !  Let  no  man  blame  M.  Dumont  (as  some 
have  too  harshly  done) ;  his  error  is  of  over- 
sight, and  venial ;  his  worth  to  us  is  indisput- 
able. On  the  other  hand,  let  all  men  blame 
such  public  instructors  and  periodical  indi- 
viduals as  drew  that  inference  and  life-theory 
for  him,  and  brayed  it  forth  in  that  loud  man- 
ner ;  or  rather,  on  the  whole,  do  not  blame,  but 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


483 


pardon,  and  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  Such 
things  are  an  ordained  trial  of  public  patience, 
which  perhaps  is  the  better  for  discipline ; 
and  seldom,  or  rather  never,  do  any  lasting 
injury. 

Close  following  on  Dumont's  "Reminis- 
cences" came  this  Biography  by  M.  Lucas 
Montigny,  "Adopted  Son;"  the  first  volume  in 
1834,  the  rest  at  short  intervals ;  and  lies 
complete  now  in  Eight  considerable  Volumes 
octavo :  concerning  which  we  are  now  to 
speak, — unhappily,  in  the  disparaging  sense. 
In  fact  it  is  impossible  for  any  man  to  say  un- 
mixed good  of  M.  Lucas's  work.  That  he,  as 
Adopted  Son,  has  lent  himself  so  resolutely  to 
the  washing  of  his  hero  white,  and  even  to  the 
white-washing  of  him  where  the  natural  colour 
w^as  black,  be  this  no  blame  to  him;  or  even, 
if  you  will,  be  it  praise.  If  a  man's  Adopted 
Son  may  not  write  the  best  book  he  can  for 
him,  then  who  mayl  But  the  fatal  circum- 
stance is,  that  M.  Lucas  Montigny  has  not 
written  a  book  at  all ;  but  has  merely  clipped 
and  cut  out,  and  cast  together  the  materials  for 
a  book,  which  other  men  are  still  wanted  to 
write.  On  the  whole  M.  Montigny  rather  sur- 
prises one.  For  the  reader  probably  knows, 
what  all  the  world  whispers  to  itself,  that  when 
*'  Mirabeau,  in  IVSS,  adopted  this  infant  born 
the  year  before,"  he  had  the  best  of  all  con- 
ceivable obligations  to  adopt  him;  having,  by 
his  own  act,  (now-notarial,)  summoned  him  to 
appear  in  this  World.  And  now  consider  both 
what  Shakspeare's  Edmund,  what  Poet  Savage, 
and  such  like,  have  bragged ;  and  also  that  the 
Mirabeaus,  from  time  immemorial,  had  (like  a 
certain  British  kindred  known  to  us)  "  pro- 
duced many  a  blackguard,  but  not  one  block- 
head!"  We  almost  discredit  that  statement, 
which  all  the  world  whispers  to  itself;  or,  if 
crediting  it,  pause  over  the  ruins  of  families. 
The  Haarlem  canal  is  not  flatter  than  M.  Mon- 
tigny's  genius.  He  wants  the  talent  which 
seems  born  with  all  Frenchmen,  that  of  pre- 
senting what  knowledge  he  has  in  the  most 
knowable  form.  One  of  the  solidest  men,  too  : 
doubtless  a  valuable  man;  whom  it  were  so 
pleasant  for  us  to  praise,  if  we  could.  May  he 
be  happy  in  a  private  station,  and  never  write 
more; — except  for  the  Bureaux  de  Prefecture, 
with  tolerably  handsome  official  appointments, 
which  is  far  better ! 

His  biographical  work  is  a  monstrous  quar- 
r}'',  or  mound  of  shot-rubbish,  in  eight  strata, 
hiding  valuable  matter,  which  he  that  seeks 
will  find.  Valuable,  we  say ;  for  the  Adopted 
Son  having  access,  nay  welcome  and  friendly  en- 
treaty, to  family  papers,  to  all  manner  of  ar- 
chives, secret  records;  and  workingtherein  long 
years,  with  a  filial  unweariedness,  has  made 
himself  piously  at  home  in  all  corners  of  the 
matter.  He  might,  with  the  same  spirit,  (as 
we  always  upbraidingly  think,)  so  easily  have 
made  us  at  home  too  !  But  no  :  he  brings  to 
light  things  new  and  old;  now  precious  illus- 
trative private  documents,  now  the  poorest 
public  heaps  of  mere  pamphleteer  and  parlia- 
mentary matter,  so  attainable  elsewhere,  often 
so  omissible  were  it  not  to  be  attained ;  and 
jumbles  and  tumbles  the  whole  together  with 
such  reckless  clumsiness,  with  such  endless 


copiousness  (having  wagons  enough)  as  gives 
the  reader  many  a  pang.  The  very  pains  be- 
stowed on  it  are  often  perverse;  the  whole  is 
become  so  hard,  heavy;  unworkable,  except 
in  the  sweat  of  one's  brow !  Or  call  it  a  mine, 
— artificial-natural  silver  mine.  Threads  of 
beautiful  silver  ore  lie  scattered,  which  you 
must  dig  for,  and  sift:  suddenly,  when  your 
thread  or  vein  is  at  the  richest,  it  vanishes  (as 
is  the  way  with  mines)  in  thick  masses  of 
agglomerate  and  pudding-stone,  no  man  can 
guess  whither.  This  is  not  as  it  should  be; 
and  yet  unfortunately  it  could  be  no  other. 
The  long  bad  book  is  so  much  easier  to  do 
than  the  brief  good  one ;  and  a  poor  bookseller 
has  no  way  of  measuring  and  paying  but  by 
the  ell,  cubic  or  superficial.  The  very  weaver 
comes  and  says,  not  "I  have  woven  so  many 
ells  of  stuff,"  but  "  so  many  ells  of  such  stuflf:" 
satin  and  Cashmere-shawl  stuflf, — or,  if  it  be 
so,  duffle  and  coal-sacking,  and  even  cobweb 
stufl: 

Undoubtedly  the  Adopted  Son's  will  was 
good.  Ought  we  not  to  rejoice  greatly  in  the 
possession  of  these  same  silver-veins ;  and  take 
them  in  the  buried  mineral  state,  or  in  any 
state ;  too  thankful  to  have  them  now  inde- 
structible, now  that  they  are  printed  1  Let  the 
world,  we  say,  be  thankful  to  M.  Montigny,  and 
yet  know  what  it  is  they  are  thanking  him  for. 
No  Life  of  Mirabeau  is  to  be  found  in  these 
Volumes,  but  the  amplest  materials  for  writing 
a  Life.  Were  the  Eight  Volumes  well  riddled 
and  smelted  down  into  One  Volume,  such  as 
might  be  made,  that  one  were  the  volume ! 
Nay  it  seems  an  enterprise  of  such  uses,  and 
withal  so  feasible,  that  some  day  it  is  as  good 
as  sure  to  be  done,  and  again  done,  and  finally 
well  done. 

The  present  reviewer,  restricted  to  a  mere 
article,  purposes,  nevertheless,  to  sift  and  ex- 
tract somewhat.  He  has  bored  (so  to  speak) 
and  run  mine-shafts  through  the  book  in  vari- 
ous directions,  and  knows  pretty  well  what  is 
in  it,  though  indeed  not  so  well  where  to  find 
the  same,  having  unfortunately  (as  reviewers 
are  wont)  "  mislaid  our  paper  of  references !" 
Wherefore,  if  the  best  extracts  be  not  presented, 
let  not  M.  Lucas  suflTer.  By  one  means  and 
another,  some  sketch  of  Mirabeau's  history? 
what  befel  him  successively  in  this  World,  an<i 
what  steps  he  successively  took  in  consequence ; 
and  how  he  and  it,  working  together,  made  trtie 
thing  we  call  Mirabeau's  Life, — may  be  brought 
out;  extremely  imperfect,  yet  truer,  one  can. 
hope,  than  the  Biographical  Dictionaries  ajid 
ordinary  voice  of  rumour  give  it.  Whether, 
and  if  so,  where  and  how,  the  current  estimate 
of  Mirabeau  is  to  be  rectified,  fortified,  or  la 
any  important  point  overset  and  expunged:,  will 
hereby  come  to  light,  almost  of  itself,  ass  we 
proceed.  Indeed,  it  is  very  singular,  consider- 
ing the  emphatic  judgments  daily  utteped,  in 
print  and  speech,  about  this  man,  what  Egyp- 
tian obscurity  rests  over  the  mere  facts  of  his 
external  history ;  the  right  knowledge  of  which, 
one  would  fancy,  must  be  the  preliminary  of 
any  judgment,  however  faint.  Brut  thus,  as 
we  always  urge,  are  such  judgments  generaUy 
passed:  vague  plebiscita,(decrees  of  the  comnoon 
people  ;>  made  up  of  innumerable  loud  empty 


464 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ayes  and  loud  empty  noes;  which  are  without 
meaning,  and  have  only  sound  and  currency  : 
pkbiscita  needing  so  much  revisal ! — To  the 
work,  however. 

One  of  the  most  valuable  elements  in  these 
eight  chaotic  volumes  of  M.  Montigny  is  the 
knowledge  he  communicates  of  Mirabeau's 
father ;  of  his  kindred  and  family,  contemporary 
and  anterior.  The  father,  we  in  general  knew, 
was  Victor  Riquetti,  Marquis  de  Mirabeau, 
called  and  calling  himself  the  Friend  of  Men  •  a 
title,  for  the  rest,  which  bodes  him  no  good,  in 
these  days  of  ours.  Accordingly  one  heard  it 
added  with  little  surprise,  that  this  Friend  of 
Men  was  the  enemy  of  almost  every  man  he 
had  to  do  with;  beginning  at  his  own  hearth, 
ending  at  the  utmost  circle  of  his  acquaintance ; 
and  only  beyond  that,  feeling  himself  free  to 
love  men.  "  The  old  hypocrite  !"  cry  many, — 
not  we.  Alas,  it  is  so  much  easier  to  love  men 
while  they  exist  only  on  paper,  or  quite  flexible 
and  compliant  in  your  imagination,  than  to 
love  Jack  and  Kit  who  stand  there  in  the  body, 
hungry,  untoward ;  jostling  you,  barring  you, 
with  angular  elbows,  with  appetites,  irasci- 
bilities, and  a  stupid  will  of  their  own !  There 
is  no  doubt  but  old  Marquis  Mirabeau  found  it 
extremely  difficult  to  get  on  with  his  brethren 
of  mankind ;  and  proved  a  crabbed,  sulphurous, 
choleric  old  gentleman,  many  a  sad  time: 
nevertheless,  there  is  much  to  be  set  right  in 
that  matter ;  and  M.  Lucas,  if  one  can  carefully 
follow  him,  has  managed  to  do  it.  Had  M. 
Lucas  but  seen  good  to  print  these  private 
letters,  family  documents,  and  more  of  them, 
(for  he  "could  make  thirty  octavo  volumes,") 
in  a  separate  state;  in  mere  chronological 
order,  with  some  small  commentary  of  anno- 
tation; and  to  leave  all  the  rest  alone! — As  it 
is,  one  must  search  and  sift.  Happily  the  old 
Marquis  himself,  in  periods  of  leisure,  or  forced 
leisure,  whereof  he  had  many,  drew  up  certain 
"unpublished  memoirs"  of  his  father  and  pro- 
genitors ;  out  of  which  memoirs  young  Mira- 
beau also  in  forced  leisure  (still  more  forced, 
in  the  Castle  of  If!)  redacted  one  Memoir,  of  a 
very  readable  sort:  by  the  light  of  this  latter, 
so  far  as  it  will  last,  we  walk  with  convenience. 

The  Mirabeaus  were  Riquettis  by  surname, 
which  is  a  slight  corruption  of  the  Italian  Jlrri- 
ghetti.  They  came  from  Florence:  cast  out  of 
it  in  some  Guelph-Ghibelline  quarrel,  such  as 
were  common  there  and  then,  in  the  5'-ear  1267. 
Stormy  times  then,  as  now  !  The  chronologist 
can  remark  that  Dante  Alighieri  was  a  little 
boy  of  some  four  years  that  morning  the  Arri- 
ghettis  had  to  go,  and  men  had  to  say,  "  They 
are  gone,  these  villains  !  They  are  gone,  these 
martyrs  !"  the  little  boy  listening  with  interest. 
Let  the  boy  become  a  man,  and  he  too  shall 
have  to  go ;  and  prove  come  e  duro  calk,  and 
what  a  world  this  is  ;  and  have  his  poet-nature 
not  killed,  for  it  would  not  kill,  but  darkened 
into  Old-Hebrew  sternness,  and  sent  onwards 
to  Hades  and  Eternity  for  a  home  to  itself. 
As  Dame  Quickly  said  in  the  Dream — "  Those 
were  rare  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole  ! — Pretty  much 
like  our  own,"  answered  he. — In  this  manner  did 
the  Arrighettis  (doubtless  in  grim  Longobardic 
ire)  scale  the  Alps;  and  become  Tramontane 


French  Riquettis;  and  produce, — among  other 
things,  the  present  article  in  this  Review. 

It  was  hinted  above  that  these  Riquettis 
were  a  notable  kindred ;  as  indeed  there  is 
great  likelihood,  if  we  knew  it  rightly,  the 
kindred  and  fathers  of  most  notable  men  are. 
The  Vaucluse  fountain,  that  gushes  out  as  a 
river,  may  well  have  run  some  space  under 
ground  in  that  character,  before  it  found  vent. 
Nay  perhaps  it  is  not  always,  or  often,  the  in- 
trinsically greatest  of  a  family-line  that  be- 
comes the  noted  one,  but  only  the  best  favoured 
of  fortune.  So  rich  here,  as  elsewhere,  is 
Nature,  the  mighty  Mother;  and  scatters  from 
a  single  Oak-tree,  as  provender  for  pigs,  what 
would  plant  the  whole  Planet  into  an  oak- 
forest  !  For  truly,  if  there  were  not  a  mute 
force  in  her,  where  were  she  with  the  speak- 
ing and  exhibiting  one?  If  under  that  frothy 
superficies  of  braggarts,  babblers,  and  high- 
sounding,  richly-decorated  personages,  that 
strut  and  fret,  and  preach  in  all  times  Quam 
■parva  sapientia  regatur,  there  lay  not  some  sub- 
stratum of  silently  heroic  men ;  working  as 
men ;  with  man's  energy,  enduring  and  en- 
deavouring; invincible,  who  whisper  not  even 
to  themselves  how  energetic  they  are  1 — The 
Riquetti  family  was,  in  some  measure,  defined 
already  by  analogy  to  that  Britivsh  one;  as  a 
family  totally  exempt  from  blockheads,  but  a 
little  liable  to  produce  blackguards.  It  took 
root  in  Provence,  and  bore  strong  southern 
fruit  there:  a  restless,  stormy  line  of  men; 
with  the  wild  blood  running  in  them,  and  as 
if  there  had  been  a  doom  hung  over  them 
("like  the  line  of  Alreus,"  Mirabeau  used  to 
say,)  which  really  there  was,  the  wild  blood 
itself  being  doom  enough.  How  long  they  had 
stormed  in  Florence  and  elsewhere,  these 
Riquettis,  history  knows  not;  but  for  the  space 
of  those  five  centuries,  in  Provence,  they  were 
never  without  a  man  to  stand  Riquelti-like  on 
the  earth.  Men  sharp  of  speech,  prompt  of 
stroke  ;  men  quick  to  discern,  fierce  to  resolve ; 
headlong,  headstrong,  strong  every  way;  who 
often  found  the  civic  race-course  too  strait  for 
them,  and  kicked  against  the  pricks ;  doing 
this  thing  or  the  other,  which  the  world  had  to 
animadvert  upon,  in  various  dialects,  and  find 
"  clean  against  rule." 

One  Riquetti  (in  performance  of  some  vow 
at  sea,  as  the  tradition  goes)  chained  two 
mountains  together:  "the  iron  chain  is  still  to 
be  seen  at  Moustier; — it  stretches  from  one 
mountain  to  the  other,  and  in  the  middle  of  it 
there  is  a  large  star  with  five  rays ;"  the  sup- 
posed date  is  1390.  Fancy  the  Smiths  at 
work  on  this  business  !  The  town  of  Moustier 
is  in  the  Basses-Alpes  of  Provence  :  whether 
the  Riquetti  chain  creaks  there  to  this  hour, 
and  lazily  swags  in  the  winds,  with  its  "star 
of  five  rays"  in  the  centre,  and  offers  an  un- 
certain perch  to  the  sparrow,  we  know  not. 
Or  perhaps  it  was  cut  down  in  the  Revolution 
time,  when  there  rose  such  a  hatred  of  no- 
blesse, such  a  famine  for  iron;  and  made  into 
pikes  1  The  Adopted  Son,  so  minute  generally, 
ought  to  have  mentioned,  but  does  not. — That 
there  was  building  of  hospitals,  endowing  of 
convents,  Chartreux,  RecoUets,  down  even  to 
Jesuits;  still  more,  that  there  was  harrying 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


4m 


and  fighting,  needs  not  be  mentioned :  except 
only  that  all  this  went  on  with  uncommon 
emphasis  among  the  Riquettis.  What  quarrel 
could  there  be  and  a  Riquetti  not  in  iti  They 
fought  much:  with  an  eye  to  profit,  to  redress 
of  disprofit;  probably  too  for  the  art's  sake. 

What  proved  still  more  rational,  they  got 
footing  in  Marseilles  as  trading  nobles,  (a  kind 
of  French  Venice  in  those  days,)  and  took 
with  great  diligence  to  commerce.  The  family 
biographers  are  careful  to  say  that  it  was  in 
the  Venetian  style,  however,  and  not  ignoble. 
In  which  sense,  indeed,  one  of  their  sharp- 
spoken  ancestors,  on  a  certain  bishop's  un- 
ceremoniously styling  him  "Jean  de  Riquetti, 
Merchant  of  Marseilles,"  made  ready  answer, 
"I  am,  or  was,  merchant  of  police  here,"  (first 
consul,  an  office  for  nobles  only,)  "as  my 
Lord  Bishop  is  merchant  of  holy-water:"  let 
his  Reverence  take  that.  At  all  events,  the 
ready-spoken  proved  first-rate  traders ;  ac- 
quired their  basUde,  or  mansion,  (white,  on 
one  of  those  green  hills  behind  Marseilles,) 
endless  warehouses:  acquired  the  lands  first 
of  this,  then  of  that;  the  lands,  Village,  and 
Castle  of  Mirabeau  on  the  banks  of  the  Du- 
rance; respectable  Castle  of  Mirabeau,  "stand- 
ing on  its  scarped  rock,  in  the  gorge  of  two 
valleys,  swept  by  the  north  wind," — very 
brown  and  melancholy-looking  now!  What 
is  extremely  advantageous,  the  old  Marquis 
says,  they  had  a  singular  talent  for  choosing 
wives;  and  always  chose  discreet,  valiant 
women;  whereby  the  lineage  was  the  better 
kept  up.  One  grandmother,  whom  the  Mar- 
quis himself  might  all  but  remember,  was 
wont  to  say,  alluding  to  the  degeneracy  of  the 
age :  "  You  are  men  1  You  are  but  mannikins 
(strts  houmachomes,  in  Provencal;)  we  women, 
in  our  time,  carried  pistols  in  our  girdles,  and 
could  use  them  too."  Or  fancy  the  Dame  Mi- 
rabeau sailing  stately  towards  the  church- 
font;  another  dame  striking  in  to  take  preced- 
ence of  her;  the  Dame  Mirabeau  despatching 
this  latter  with  a  box  on  the  ear  {soufflet)  and 
these  words:  "Here,  as  in  the  army,  the  bag- 
gage goes  last!"  Thus  did  the  Riquettis 
grow,  and  were  strong;  and  did  exploits  in 
their  narrow  arena,  waiting  for  a  wider  one. 

When  it  came  to  courtiership,  and  your 
field  of  preferment  was  the  Versailles  CEil-de- 
Boeuf,  and  a  Grand  Monarque  walking  encir- 
cled with  scarlet  women  and  adulators  there, 
the  course  of  the  Mirabeaus  grew  still  more 
complicated.  They  had  the  career  of  arms 
open,  better  or  worse:  but  that  was  not  the 
only  one,  not  the  main  one;  gold  apples  seem- 
ed to  rain  on  other  careers, — on  that  career 
lead  bullets  mostly.  Observe  how  a  Bruno, 
Count  de  Mirabeau,  comports  himself: — like 
a  rhinoceros  yoked  in  carriage-gear;  his  fierce 
forest-horn  set  to  dangle  a  plume  of  fleurf-dc- 
lis.  "One  day  he  had  chased  a  blue  man  (it  is 
a  sort  of  troublesome  usher,  at  Versailles) 
into  the  very  cabinet  of  the  king,  who  there- 
upon ordered  the  Duke  de  la  Feuillade  to  'put 
Mirabeau  under  arrest.'  Mirabeau  refused 
to  obey;  *he  would  not  be  punished  for  chas- 
tising the  insolence  of  a  valet ;  for  the  rest, 
would  go  to  the  diner  du  rot,  (king's  dinner.) 
who  might  then  give  his  order  himself.'     He 


came  accordingly;  the  king  asked  the  duke 
why  he  had  not  executed  the  order?  The 
duke  was  obliged  to  say  how  it  stood  ;  the  king, 
with  a  goodness  equal  to  his  greatness,  then 
said, '  It  is  not  of  to-day  that  we  know  him  to 
be  mad;  one  must  not  ruin  him,'  " — and  rhino- 
ceros Bruno  journeyed  on.  But  again,  on  the 
day  when  they  were  "  inaugurating  the  pedes- 
trian statue  of  King  Louis  in  the  Place  des 
Victoires,"  (a  masterpiece  of  adulation,)  the 
same  Mirabeau,  "passing  along  the  PontNeuf 
with  the  Guards,  raised  his  spontoon  to  his 
shoulder  before  Henry  the  Fourth's  statue,  and 
saluting  first,  bawled  out,  'Friends,  we  will 
salute  this  one;  he  deserves  it  as  well  as 
some :' "  (Mes  amis,  saluons  cdui-ci ;  il  en  vaut 
bien  un  autre.) — Thus  do  they,  the  wild  Riquet- 
tis, in  a  state  of  courtiership.  Not  otherwise, 
according  to  the  proverb,  do  wild  bulls,  unex- 
pectedly finding  themselves  in  crockery-shops. 
0  Riquetti  kindred,  into  what  centuries  and 
circumstances  art  thou  come  down  ! 

Directly  prior  to  our  old  Marquis  himself, 
the  Riquetti  kindred  had  as  near  as  possible 
gone  out.  Jean  Antoine,  afterwards  named 
Silverstock,  (Col  de  Argent,)  had,  in  the  earlier 
part  of  his  life,  been  what  he  used  to  call  killed^ 
— of  seven-and-twenty  wounds  in  one  hour. 
Haughtier,  juster,  more  choleric  man  need  not 
be  sought  for  in  biography.  He  flung  gabelle- 
men  and  excisemen  into  the  river  Durance 
(though  otherwise  a  most  dignified,  methodic 
man)  when  their  claims  were  not  clear;  he 
ejected,  by  the  like  brief  process,  all  manner 
of  attorneys  from  his  villages  and  properties  j 
he  planted  vineyards,  solaced  peasants.  He 
rode  through  France  repeatedly,  (as  the  old 
men  still  remembered,)  with  the  gallantest 
train  of  outriders,  on  return  from  the  wars ; 
intimidating  innkeepers  and  all  the  world,  into 
mute  prostration,  into  unerring  promptitude, 
by  the  mere  light  of  his  eye  ; — withal  drinking 
rather  deep,  yet  never  seen  affected  by  it.  He 
was  a  tall,  straight  man  (of  six  feet  and  up- 
wards) in  mind  as  in  body;  Vendome's  "right 
arm"  in  all  campaigns.  Vendome  once  pre- 
sented him  to  Louis  the  Great,  with  compli- 
ments to  that  effect,  which  the  splenetic  Ri- 
quetti quite  spoiled.  Erecting  his  killed  head 
(which  needed  the  silver  stock  now  to  keep  it 
straight,)  he  said  :  "  Yes,  Sire  ;  and  had  I  left 
my  fighting,  and  come  up  to  court,  and  bribed 
some  califi  (scarlet-woman  !)  I  might  have  had 
my  promotion  and  fewer  wounds  to-day !" 
The  Grand  King,  every  inch  a  king,  instan- 
taneously spoke  of  something  else. 

But  the  reader  should  have  first  seen  that 
same  killing;  how  twenty-seven  of  those  un- 
profitable wounds  were  come  by  in  one  fell 
lot.  The  Battle  of  Casano  has  grown  very  ob- 
scure to  most  of  us ;  and  indeed  Prince  Eu- 
gene and  Vendome  themselves  grow  dimmer 
and  dimmer,  as  men  and  battles  must;  but, 
curiously  enough,  this  small  fraction  of  it  has 
brightened  up  again  to  a  point  of  history  for 
the  lime  being  : — 

"  My  grandfather  had  forseen  that  manoeu- 
vre "  (it  is  Mirabeau,  the  Count,  not  the  Mar- 
quis, that  reports  :  Prince  Eugene  has  carried 
a  certain  bridge  which  the  grandfather  had 
charge  of;)  "but  he  did  not,  as  has  since  hap- 
2ii2 


486 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


pened  at  Malplaquet  and  Fontenoy,  commit 
the  blunder  of  attacking  right  in  the  teeth  a 
column  of  such  weight  as  that.  He  lets  them 
advance,  hurried  on  by  their  own  impetuosity 
and  by  the  pressure  of  their  rearward;  and 
now,  seeing  them  pretty  well  engaged,  he 
raised  his  troop,  (it  was  lying  flat  on  the 
ground,)  and  rushing  on,  himself  at  the  head 
of  them,  takes  the  enemy  in  flank,  cuts  them 
in  two,  dashes  them  back,  chases  them  over 
the  bridge  again,  which  they  had  to  repass  in 
great  disorder  and  haste.  Things  brought  to 
their  old  state,  he  resumes  his  post  on  the 
crown  of  the  bridge,  shelters  his  troop  as  be- 
fore, which,  having  performed  all  this  service 
■under  the  sure  deadly  fire  of  the  enemy's  dou- 
ble lines  from  over  the  stream,  had  suffered  a 
good  deal.  M.  de  Vendome  coming  up,  full 
gallop,  to  the  attack,  finds  it  already  finished, 
the  whole  line  flat  on  the  earth,  only  the  tall 
figure  of  the  colonel  standing  erect !  He  or- 
ders him  to  do  like  the  rest,  not  to  have  him- 
self shot  till  the  time  came.  His  faithful 
servant  cries  to  him,  'Never  would  I  expose 
myself  without  need;  I  am  bound  to  be  here, 
but  you,  Monseigneur,  are  bound  not.  I  an- 
swer to  you  for  the  post ;  but  take  yourself 
out  of  it,  or  I  give  it  up.'  The  Prince  (Ven- 
dome) then  orders  him,  in  the  king's  name,  to 
come  down.  *  Go  to,  the  king  and  you  :  I  am 
at  my  work ;  go  you  and  do  yours.'  The  good 
generous  Prince  yielded.  The  post  was  en- 
tirely untenable. 

"A  little  afterwards  my  grandfather  had  his 
right  arm  shattered.  He  formed  a  sort  of  sling 
for  it  of  his  pocket  handkerchief,  and  kept  his 
place ;  for  there  was  a  new  attack  getting 
ready.  The  right  moment  once  come,  he 
seizes  an  axe  in  his  left  hand  ;  repeats  the 
same  manosuvre  as  before  ;  again  repulses  the 
enemy,  again  drives  him  back  over  the  bridge. 
But  it  was  here  that  ill  fortune  lay  in  wait  for 
him.  At  the  very  moment  while  he  was  re- 
calling and  ranging  his  troop,  a  bullet  struck 
him  in  the  throat;  cut  asunder  the  tendons, 
the  jugular  vein.  He  sank  on  the  bridge  ;  the 
troop  broke  and  fled.  M.  de  Montolieu,  Knight 
of  Malta,  his  relative,  was  wounded  beside 
him:  he  tore  up  his  own  shirt,  and  those  of 
several  others,  to  staunch  theblood,  but  fiiinted 
himself  by  his  own  hurt.  An  old  serjeant, 
named  l^aprairie,  begged  the  aide-major  of  the 
regiment,  one  Guadin,  a  Gasccm,  to  help  and 
carry  him  ofl*  the  bridge.  Guadin  refused, 
saying  he  was  dead.  The  good  Laprairie 
could  only  cast  a  camp-kettle  over  his  colonel's 
head,  and  then  run.  The  enemy  trampled 
over  him  in  torrents  to  profit  by  the  disorder; 
the  cavalry  at  full  speed,  close  in  the  rear  of 
the  foot.  M.  de  Vendome,  seeing  his  line  bro- 
ken, the  enemy  forming  on  this  side  the  stream, 
and  consequently  the  bridge  lost,  exclaimed, 
*  Ah  !  Mirabeau  is  dead  then ;'  a  eulogy  for  ever 
dear  and  memorable  to  us." 

How  nearly,  at  this  moment,  it  was  all  over 
•with  the  Mirabeaus;  how,  but  for  the  cast  of 
an  insignificant  camp-kettle,  there  had  not 
only  been  no  Article  Mirabeau  in  this  Review, 
but  no  French  Revolution,  or  a  very  diflerent 
one ;  and   all  Europe  had  found  itself  in  far 


other  latitudes  at  this  hour,  any  one  who  has 
a  turn  for  such  things  may  easily  reflect. 
Nay,  without  great  difficulty,  he  may  reflect 
farther,  that  not  only  the  French  Revolution 
and  this  Article,  but  all  revolutions,  articles, 
and  achievements  whatsoever,  the  greatest 
and  the  smallest,  which  this  world  ever  be- 
held, have  not  once  but  often,  in  their  course 
of  genesis,  depended  on  the  veriest  trifles, 
castings  of  camp-kettles,  turnings  of  straws ; 
except  only  that  we  do  not  see  that  course  of 
theirs.  So  inscrutable  is  genetic  history ;  im- 
practicable the  theory  of  causation,  and  tran- 
scends all  calculus  of  man's  devising!  Thou, 
thyself,  O  Reader,  (who  art  an  achievement 
of  importance,)  over  what  hair  breadth  bridges 
of  Accident,  through  yawning  perils,  and  the 
man-devouring  gulf  of  Centuries,  hast  thou 
got  safe  hither, — from  Adam  all  the  way  ! 

Be  this  as  it  can.  Col  a!'  Argent  came  alive 
again,  by  "miracle  of  surgery:"  and,  holding 
his  head  up  by  means  of  a  silver  stock,  walked 
this  earth  many  long  days,  with  respectability, 
with  fiery  intrepidity  and  spleen ;  did  many 
notable  things:  among  others,  produced,  in 
dignified  wedlock,  Mirabeau  the  Friend  of 
Men ;  who,  again  produced  Mirabeau  the 
Swallower  of  Formulas ;  from  which  latter, 
and  the  wondrous  blazing  funeral-pyre  he 
made  for  himself,  there  finally  goes  forth  a 
light,  whereby  those  old  Riquetti  destinies, 
and  many  a  strange  old  hidden  thing,  become 
noticeable. 

But  perhaps  in  the  whole  Riquetti  kindred 
there  is  not  a  stranger  figure  than  this  very 
Friend  of  Men  ;  at  whom,  in  the  order  of  time, 
we  have  now  arrived.  That  Riquetti  who 
chained  the  mountains  together,  and  hung  up 
the  star  with  five  rays  to  sway  and  bob  there, 
was  but  a  type  of  him.  Strong,  tough  as  the 
oak-root,  and  as  gnarled  and  unwedgeable  ;  no 
fibre  of  him  running  straight  with  the  other : 
a  block  for  Destiny  to  beat  on,  for  the  world  to 
gaze  at,  with  ineffectual  wonder!  Really  a 
most  notable,  questionable,  hateable,  loveable 
old  Marquis.  How  little,  amid  such  jingling 
triviality  of  Literature,  Philosophic,  and  the 
pretentious  cackle  of  innumerable  Baron 
Grimms,  with  their  correspondence  and  self- 
proclamation,  one  could  fancy  that  France 
held  in  it  such  a  Nature-product  as  the  Friend 
of  Men  !  W^hy,  there  is  substance  enough  in 
this  one  Marquis  to  fit  out  whole  armies  of 
Philosophes,  were  it  properly  attenuated.  So 
many  poor  Thomases  perorate  and  have  eloges, 
poor  Morellets  speculate, Marmontels  moralize 
in  rose-pink  manner,  Diderots  become  pos- 
sessed of  encyclopedical  heads,  and  lean  Ba- 
rons de  Beaumarchais  fly  abroad  on  the  wings 
of  Figaros:  and  this  brave  old  Marquis  has 
been  hid  under  a  bushel !  He  was  a  Writer, 
too ;  and  had  talents  for  it,  (certain  of  the  ta- 
lents,) such  as  few  Frenchmen  have  had  since 
the  days  of  Montaigne.  It  skilled  not:  he, 
being  unwedgeable,  has  remained  in  antiqua- 
rian cabinets  ;  the  others,  splitting  up  so  rea 
dily,  are  the  ware  you  find  on  all  market-stalls, 
much  prized  (say,  as  brimstone  Lucifers,  "light 
bringers,"  so  called)  by  the  generality.  Such 
is  the  world's  way.     And  yet  complain  not; 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


487 


this  rich,  unwedgeable  old  Marquis,  have  we 
not  him  too  at  last,  and  can  keep  him  all  the 
longer  than  the  Thomases  1 

The  great  Mirabeau  used  to  say  always  that 
his  father  had  the  greater  gifts  of  the  two; 
which  surely  is  saying  something.  Not  that 
you  can  subscribe  to  it  in  the  full  sense,  but 
that  in  a  very  wide  sense  you  can.  So  far  as 
mere  speculative  head  goes,  Mirabeau  is  pro- 
bably right.  Looking  at  the  old  Marquis  as  a 
speculative  thinker  and  utterer  of  his  thought, 
and  with  what  rich  colouring  of  originality  he 
gives  it  forth,  you  pronounce  him  to  be  supe- 
rior, or  even  say  supreme  in  his  time  ;  for  the 
genius  of  him  almost  rises  to  the  poetic.  Do 
our  readers  know  the  German  Jean  Paul,  and 
his  style  of  thought  1  Singular  to  say,  the 
old  Marquis  has  a  quality  in  him  resembling 
afar  off  that  of  Paul ;  and  actually  works  it 
out  in  his  French  manner,  far  as  the  French 
manner  can.  Nevertheless  intellect  is  not  of 
the  speculative  head  only;  the  great  end  of 
intellect  surely  is,  that  it  makes  one  see  some- 
thing :  for  which  latter  result  the  whole  man 
must  co-operate.  In  the  old  Marquis  there 
dwells  withal  a  crabbedness,  stiff,  cross-grained 
humour,  a  latent  fury  and  fuliginosity,  very 
perverting ;  which  stiff  crabbedness,  with  its 
pride,  obstinacy,  affectation,  what  else  is  it  at 
bottom  but  loant  of  strength  1  The  real  quan- 
tity of  our  insight — how  justly  and  how  tho- 
roughly we  shall  comprehend  the  nature  of  a 
thing,  especially  of  a  human  thing — depends 
on  our  patience,  our  fairness,  lovingness,  what 
strength  soever  we  have :  intellect  comes 
from  the  whole  man,  as  it  is  the  light  that  en- 
lightens the  whole  man.  In  this  true  sense, 
the  younger  Mirabeau,  with  that  great  flashing 
eyesight  of  his,  that  broad,  fearless  freedom 
of  nature  he  had,  was  very  clearly  the  supe- 
rior man. 

At  bottom,  perhaps,  the  main  definition  you 
could  give  of  old  Marquis  Mirabeau  is,  that  he 
was  of  the  Pedant  species.  Stiff  as  brass,  in 
all  senses;  unsympaihtzing,  uncomplying;  of 
an  endless,  unfathomable  pride,  which  cloaks 
but  does  nowise  extinguish  an  endless  vanity 
and  need  of  shining:  stately,  euphuistic  man- 
nerism enveloping  the  thought,  the  morality, 
the  whole  being  of  the  man.  A  solemn, high- 
stalking  man;  with  such  a  fund  of  indignation 
inhim,or  of  latent  indignation  ;  of  contumacity, 
irrefragability  ; — who  (after  long  experiment) 
accordingly  looks  forth  on  mankind  and  this 
world  of  theirs  with  some  dull-snuffling  word 
of  forgiveness,  of  contemptuous  acquittal ;  or 
oflenest  with  clenched  lips,  (nostrils  slightly 
dilated,)  in  expressive  silence.  Here  is  pe- 
dantry; but  then  pedantry  under  the  most 
interesting  new  circumstances;  and  withal 
carried  to  such  a  pitch  as  becomes  sublime, 
one  might  almost  say,  transcendental.  Consi- 
der indeed  whether  Marquis  Mirabeau  could 
be  a  pedant,  as  your  common  Scaligers  and 
Scioppiuses  are!  His  arena  is  not  a  closet 
with  Greek  manuscripts,  but  the  wide  world 
and  Friendship  to  Humanity.  Does  not  the 
blood  of  all  the  Mirabeaus  circulate  in  his 
honorable  veins  1  He  too  would  do  somewhat 
to  raise  higher  that  high  house  ;  and  yet,  alas, 
it  is  plain  to  him  that  the  house  is  sinking : 


that  much  is  sinking.  The  Mirabeaus,  and 
above  all  others,  this  Mirabeau,  are  fallen  on 
evil  times.  It  has  not  escaped  the  old  Marquis 
how  nobility  is  now  decayed,  nearly  ruinous; 
based  no  longer  on  heroic  nobleness  of  con- 
duct and  effort,  but  on  sycophancy,  formality, 
adroitness ;  on  Parchments,  Tailors'  trim- 
mings, Prunello,  and  Coach-leather:  on  which 
latter  basis,  unless  his  whole  insight  into 
Heaven's  ways  with  Earth  have  misled  him, 
no  institution  in  this  God-governed  world  can 
pretend  to  continue.  Alas,  and  the  priest  "has 
now  no  tongue  but  for  plate-licking;"  and  the 
tax-gatherer  squeezes  ;  and  the  strumpetocracy 
sits  at  its  ease,  in  high-cushioned  lordliness, 
under  baldachins  and  cloth  of  gold:  till  now 
at  last,  what  with  one  fiction,  what  with  an- 
other, (and  veridical  Nature  dishonouring  all 
manner  of  fictions  and  refusing  to  pay  realities 
for  them,)  it  has  come  so  far  that  the  Twenty- 
five  millions,  long  scarce  of  knowledge,  of  vir- 
tue, happiness,  cash,  are  now  fallen  scarce  of 
food  to  eat ;  and  do  not,  with  that  natural  ferocity 
of  theirs  which  Nature  has  still  left  them,  feel 
the  disposition  to  die  starved ;  and  all  things 
are  nodding  towards  chaos,  and  no  man  layeth 
it  to  heart !  One  man  exists  who  might  perhaps 
stay  or  avert  the  catastrophe,  were  he  called  to 
the  helm:  the  Marquis  Mirabeau.  His  high, 
ancient  blood,  his  heroic  love  of  truth,  his 
strength  of  heart,  his  loyalty  and  profound  in- 
sight, (for  you  cannot  hear  him  speak  without 
detecting  the  man  of  genius,)  this,  with  the 
appalling  predicament  things  have  come  to, 
might  give  him  claims.  From  time  to  time,  at 
long  intervals,  such  a  thought  does  flit,  por- 
tentous, through  the  brain  of  the  Marquis. 
But  ah  !  in  these  scandalous  days,  how  shall 
the  proudest  of  the  Mirabeaus  fall  prostrate 
before  a  Pompadour?  Can  the  Friend  of  Men 
hoist,  with  good  hope,  as  his  battle-standard, 
the  furbelow  of  an  unmentionable  woman  ] 
No;  not  hanging  by  the  apron-strings  of  such 
a  one  will  this  Mirabeau  rise  to  the  premier- 
ship; but  summoned  by  France  in  her  day  of 
need,  in  her  day  of  vision,  or  else  not  at  all. 
France  does  not  summon ;  the  else  goes  its 
road. 

Marquis  Mirabeau  tried  Literature,  too,  as 
we  said;  and  with  no  inconsiderable  talent; 
na}--,  with  first-rate  talents  in  some  sort:  but 
neither  did  this  prosper.  His  Ecre  signum,  in 
such  era  of  downfall  and  all-darkening  ruin, 
was  Political  Economy;  and  a  certain  man, 
whom  he  called  "the  Master," — that  is.  Dr. 
Quesnay.  Round  this  master  (whom  the  Mar- 
quis succeeded  as  master  himself)  he  and 
some  other  idolaters  did  idolatrously  gather :  to 
publish  books  and  tracts,  periodical  literature, 
proclamation  by  word  and  deed — if  so  M'ere, 
the  world's  dull  ear  might  be  opened  to  salva- 
tion. The  world's  dull  ear  continued  shut. 
In  vain  preached  this  apostle  and  that  other, 
simultaneously  or  in  Meliboean  sequence,  in 
literature,  periodical  and  stationary ;  in  vain 
preached  the  Friend  of  Men,  (L'Jmidcs  Hommcs,) 
number  after  number,  through  long  volumes, — 
though  really  in  a  most  eloquent  manner. 
Marquis  Mirabeau  had  the  indisputablest  ideas; 
but  then  his  style!  In  very  truth,  it  is  the 
strangest  of  styles,  though  one  of  the  richest ; 


483 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


a  style  full  of  originality,  picturesqueness, 
sunny  vigour ;  but  all  cased  and  slated  over, 
threefold,  in  metaphor  and  trope ;  distorted 
into  tortuosities,  dislocations ;  starting  out 
into  crotchets,  cramp  turns,  quaintnesses,  and 
hidden  satire  ;  which  the  French  head  had  no 
ear  for.  Strong  meat,  too  tough  for  babes  !  The 
Friend  of  Men  found  warm  partisans,  widely 
scattered  over  this  Earth ;  and  had  censer- 
fumes  transmitted  him  from  Marquises,  nay, 
from  Kings  and  principalities,  over  seas  and 
alpine  chains  of  mountains;  whereby  the 
pride  and  latent  indignation  of  the  man  were 
only  fostered;  but  at  home,  with  the  million  all 
jigging  each  after  its  suitable  scrannel-pipe, 
he  could  see  himself  make  no  way, — if  it 
were  not  way  towards  being  a  monstrosity 
and  thing  men  wanted  "  to  see  ;"  not  the  right 
thing  !  Neither  through  the  press,  then,  is  there 
progress  towards  the  premiership?  The  stag- 
gering state  of  French  statesmen  must  even 
stagger  whither  it  is  bound.  A  light  public 
froths  itself  into  tempest  about  Palissot  and 
his  comedy  of  "  Les  Philosophes," — about  Gliick- 
Piccini  Music;  neglecting  the  call  of  Ruin; 
and  hard  must  come  to  hard.  Thou,  O  Friend 
of  Men,  clench  thy  lips  together;  and  wait, 
silent  as  the  old  rocks.  Our  Friend  of  Men 
did  so,  or  better ;  not  wanting  to  himself,  the 
lion-hearted  old  Marquis !  For  his  latent  in- 
dignation has  a  certain  devoutness  in  it ;  is  a 
kind  of  holy  indignation.  The  Marquis,  though 
he  knows  the  Encydopedie,  has  not  forgotten  the 
higher  Sacred  Books,  or  that  there  is  a  God  in 
this  world,  (very  different  from  the  French 
Eire  Supreme.)  He  even  professes,  or  tries  to 
profess,  a  kind  of  diluted  Catholicism,  in  his 
own  way,  and  thus  turns  an  eye  towards 
heaven  :  very  singular  in  his  attitude  here  too. 
Thus  it  would  appear  this  world  is  a  mad  im- 
broglio which  no  Friend  of  Men  can  set  right  : 
it  shall  go  wrong  then,  in  God's  name :  and 
the  staggering  state  of  all  things  stagger  whither 
it  can.  To  deep,  fearful  depths, — not  to  bot- 
tomless ones ! 

But  in  the  Family  Circle  1  There  surely  a 
man,  and  Friend  of  Men,  is  supreme  ;  and 
ruling  with  wise  autocracy,  may  make  some- 
thing of  it.  Alas,  in  the  family  circle  it  went 
not  better,  but  worse  1  The  Mirabeaus  had 
once  a  talent  for  choosing  wives :  had  it  de- 
serted them  in  this  instance,  then,  when  most 
needed]  We  say  not  so:  we  say  only  that 
Madame  la  Marquise  had  human  freewill  in 
her  too ;  that  all  the  young  Mirabeaus  were 
likely  to  have  human  freewill,  (in  great  plen- 
ty;) that  within  doors  as  without,  the  Devil 
is  busy.  Most  unsuccessful  is  the  Marquis  as 
ruler  of  men  :  his  family  kingdom,  for  the 
most  part,  little  otherwise  than  in  a  state  of 
mutiny.  A  sceptre  as  of  Rhadamanthus  will 
sway  and  drill  that  household  into  perfection 
of  Harrison  Clockwork ;  and  cannot  do  it. 
The  royal  ukase  goes  forth  in  its  calm,  irre- 
fragable justice !  meets  hesitation,  disobedi- 
ence open  or  concealed.  Reprimand  is  fol- 
lowed by  remonstrance ;  harsh  coming  thunder 
mutters,  growl  answering  growl.  With  unaf- 
fectedly astonished  eye  the  Marquis  appeals  to 
destiny  and  Heaven  ;  explodes,  since  he  needs 
must  then,  in  red  lightning  of  paternal  author- 


ity. How  it  went,  or  who  by  forethought  might 
be  to  blame,  one  knows  not;  for  the  Fils 
Adoptif,  hemmed  in  by  still  extant  relations,  is 
extremely  reticent  on  these  points :  a  certain 
Dame  de  Pailly,"  from  Switzerland,  very  beau- 
tiful and  very  artful,"  glides  half-seen  through 
the  Mirabeau  household,  (the  Marquis's  Ortho- 
doxy, as  we  said,  being  but  of  the  diluted  kind :) 
there  are  evesdroppers,  confidential  servants; 
there  are  Pride,  Anger,  Uncharitableness,  Sub- 
lime Pedantry  and  the  Devil  always  busy. 
Such  a  figure  as  Pailly,  of  herself,  bodes  good 
to  no  one.  Enough,  there  are  Lawsuits,  Lel- 
fres  de  Cachet ;  on  all  hands,  peine  forte  et  dure. 
Lawsuits,  long  drawn  out,  before  gaping  Parle- 
ments,  between  man  and  wife ;  to  the  scandal 
of  an  unrighteous  world  ;  how  much  more  of 
a  righteous  Marquis,  minded  once  to  be  an  ex- 
ample to  it !  Lettres  de  Cachet,  to  the  number 
(as  some  count)  of  fifty-four,  first  and  last, 
for  the  use  of  a  single  Marquis  :  at  times  the 
whole  Mirabeau  fire-side  is  seen  empty,  (except 
Pailly  and  Marquis ;)  each  individual  sitting 
in  his  separate  Strong-house,  there  to  bethink 
himself.  Stiff  are  your  tempers,  ye  young 
Mirabeaus  ;  not  stiffer  than  mine  the  old  one's  ! 
What  pangs  it  has  cost  the  fond  paternal  heart 
to  go  through  all  this  Brutus  duty,  the  Marquis 
knows  and  Heaven.  In  a  less  degree,  what 
pangs  it  may  cost  the  filial  heart  to  go  under 
(or  undergo)  the  same!  The  former  set  of 
pangs  he  crushes  down  into  his  soul  (aided 
by  Heaven)  suppressively,  as  beseems  a  man 
and  Mirabeau  :  the  latter  set, — are  they  not 
self-sought  pangs  ;  medicinal ;  that  will  cease 
of  their  own  accord,  when  the  imparalleled 
filial  impiety  pleases  to  cease  1  For  the  rest, 
looking  at  such  a  world  and  such  a  family,  at 
these  prison-houses,  mountains  of  divorce- 
papers,  and  the  staggering  state  of  French 
statesmen,  a  Friend  of  Men  may  pretty  natu- 
rally ask  himself,  Am  not  I  a  strong  old  Mar- 
quis, then,  whom  all  this  has  not  driven  into 
Bedlam, — not  into  Hypochondria,  dyspepsia 
even  ■?  The  Heavens  are  bounteous,  and  make 
the  back  equal  to  the  burden. 

Out  of  all  which  circumstances,  and  of  such 
struggle  against  them,  there  has  come  forth 
this  Marquis  de  Mirabeau,  shaped  (it  was  the 
shape  he  could  arrive  at)  into  one  of  the  most 
singular  Sublime  Pedants  that  ever  stepped 
the  soil  of  France.  Solemn  moral  rigour,  as 
of  some  antique  Presbyterian  Ruling  Elder: 
heavy  breadth,  dull  heat,  choler  and  pride  as 
of  an  old  "Bozzyof  Auchinleck;"  then  a 
high  flown  euphuistic  courtesy,  the  airiest 
mincing  ways,  suitable  to  your  French  Seig- 
neur !  How  the  two  divine  missions  (for  both 
seem  to  him  divine)  of  Riquetti  and  Man  of 
Genius  (or  World-schoolmaster)  blend  them- 
selves; and  philosophism,  chivalrous  euphu- 
ism, presbyterian  ruling-elderism,  all  in  such 
strength,  have  met,  to  give  the  world  assur- 
ance of  a  man !  There  never  entered  the 
brain  of  Hogarth,  or  of  rare  old  Ben,  such  a 
piece  of  Humour  (high  meeting  with  low,  and 
laughter  with  tears)  as,  in  this  brave  old 
Riquetti,  Nature  has  presented  us  ready-made. 
For  withal  there  is  such  genius  in  him ;  rich 
depth  of  character;  indestructible  cheerful- 
ness and  health  breaking  out  (in  spite  of  these 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


divorce-papers)  ever  and  anon, — like  strong 
sunlight  in  thundery  weather.  We  have  heard 
of  the  "  strife  of  Fate  with  Freewill"  produc- 
ing Greek  Tragedies,  but  never  heard  it  till 
now  produce  such  astonishing  comico-tragical 
French  Farces.  Blessed  old  Marquis, — or 
else  accursed !  He  is  there,  with  his  broad 
bull-brow ;  with  the  huge  cheek  bones ;  those 
deep  eyes,  glazed  as  in  weariness  ;  the  lower 
visage  puckered  into  a  simpering  graciosity, 
which  would  pass  itself  off  for  a  kind  of  smile. 
What  to  do  with  him  1  Welcome,  thou  tough 
old  Marquis,  with  thy  better  and  thy  worse ! 
There  is  stuff  in  thee,  (very  different  from 
moonshine  and  formula;)  and  stuff  is  stuff, 
were  it  never  so  crabbed. 

Besides  the  old  Marquis  de  Mirabeau,  there 
is  a  Brother,  the  Bailli  de  Mirabeau:  a  man 
who,  serving  as  Knight  of  Malta,  governing  in 
Guadaloupe,  fighting  and  doing  hard  sea-duty, 
has  sown  his  wild  oats  long  since ;  and  settled 
down  here,  in  the  old  "  Castle  of  Mirabeau  on 
its  sheer  rock,"  (for  the  Marquis  usually  lives 
at  Bignon,  another  estate  within  reach  of 
Paris,)  into  one  of  the  worthiest  quiet  uncles 
and  house-friends.  It  is  very  beautiful,  this 
mild  strength,  mild  clearness  and  justice  of 
the  brave  Bailli,  in  contrast  with  his  brother's 
nodosity;  whom  he  comforts,  defends,  ad- 
monishes, even  rebukes ;  and  on  the  whole 
reverences  (both  as  head  Riquetti  and  as 
World-schoolmaster)  beyond  all  living  men. 
The  frank  true  love  of  these  two  brothers  is 
the  fairest  feature  in  Mirabeaudom ;  indeed 
the  only  feature  which  is  always  fair.  Letters 
pass  continually :  in  letter  and  extract  we  here, 
from  time  to  time,  witness  (in  these  Eight 
chaotic  Volumes)  the  various  personages 
speak  their  dialogue,  unfold  their  farce-tragedy. 
The  Fils  Adoptif  admits  mankind  into  this 
strange  household,  though  stingily,  uncom- 
fortably, and  all  in  darkness,  save  for  his  own 
capricious  dark-lantern.  Seen  or  half  seen, 
it  is  a  stage ;  as  the  whole  world  is.  What 
with  personages,  what  with  destinies,  no 
stranger  house-drama  was  enacting  on  the 
Earth  at  that  time. 

Under  such  auspices,  which  were  not  yet 
ripened  into  events  and  fatalities,  but  yet  were 
inevitably  ripening  towards  such,  did  Gabriel 
Honore,  at  the  Mansion  of  Bignon,  between 
Sens  and  Nemours,  on  the  9th  day  of  March, 
1749,  first  see  the  light.  He  was  the  fifth 
child;  the  second  male  child;  yet  born  heir, 
the  first  having  died  in  the  cradle.  A  magni- 
ficent "  enormous"  fellow,  as  the  gossips  had 
to  admit,  almost  with  terror:  the  head  espe- 
cially great;  "two  grinders"  in  it,  already 
shot ! — Rough-hewn,  truly,  yet  with  bulk,  with 
limbs,  vigour  bidding  fair  to  do  honour  to  the 
line.  The  paternal  Marquis  (to  whom  they 
said,  "  N'ayez  pas  peur,"  Don't  be  frightened) 
gazed  joyful,  we  can  fancy,  and  not  fearful,  on 
this  product  of  his;  the  stiff  pedant  features 
relaxing  into  a  veritable  smile.  Smile,  O  pa- 
ternal Marquis  :  the  future  indeed  "  veils  sor- 
row and  joy,"  one  knows  not  in  what  propor- 
tion ;  but  here  is  a  new  Riquetti,  whom  the 
gods  send ;  with  the  rudiments  in  him,  thou 
wouldst  guess,  of  a  very  Hercules,  fit  for 
62 


Twelve  Labours,  which  surely  are  themselves 

the  best  joys.  Look  at  the  oaf,  how  he  sprawls. 
No  stranger  Riquetti  ever  sprawled  under  our 
Sun:  it  is  as  if,  in  this  thy  man-child, Destiny 
had  swept  together  all  the  wildnesses  and 
strengths  of  the  Riquetti  lineage,  and  flung 
him  forth  as  her  finale  in  that  kind.  Not 
without  a  vocation !  He  is  the  last  of  the 
Riquettis  ;  and  shall  do  work  long  memorable 
among  mortals. 

Truly,  looking  now  into  the  matter,  we 
might  say,  in  spite  of  the  gossips,  that  on  this 
whole  Planet,  in  those  years,  there  was  hardly 
born  such  a  man-child  as  this  same,  in  the 
"  Mansion-house  of  Bignon,  not  far  from 
Paris,"  whom  they  named  Gabriel  Honore. 
Nowhere,  we  say,  came  there  a  stouter  or 
braver  into  this  Earth;  whither  they  come 
marching  by  the  legion  and  the  myriad,  out 
of  Eternity  and  Night ! — Except,  indeed,  what 
is  notable  enough,  one  other  that  arrived  some 
few  months  later,  at  the  town  of  Frankfort  on 
the  Maine,  and  got  christened  Johann  Wolfgang 
Goethe.  Then,  again,  in  some  ten  years  "more, 
there  came  another  still  liker  Gabriel  Honore 
in  his  brawny  ways.  It  was  into  a  mean  hut 
that  this  one  came,  an  infirm  hut,  (which  the 
wind  blew  down  at  the  time,)  in  the  shire  of 
Ayre,  in  Scotland:  him  they  named  Robtvt 
Burns.  These,  in  that  epoch,  were  the  Well- 
born of  the  World ;  by  whom  the  world's 
history  was  to  be  carried  on.  Ah!  could  the 
well-born  of  the  world  be  always  rightly  bred, 
rightly  entreated  there,  what  a  world  were  it  1 
But  it  is  not  so ;  it  is  the  reverse  of  so.  And 
then  few  (like  that  Frankfort  one)  can  peace- 
ably vanquish  the  world,  with  its  black  im- 
broglios ;  and  shine  above  it,  in  serene  help 
to  it,  like  a  sun !  The  most  can  but  Titani- 
cally  vanquish  it,  or  be  vanquished  by  it: 
hence,  instead  of  light,  (stillest  and  strongest 
of  things,)  we  have  but  lightning;  red  fire,  and 
oftentimes  conflagrations,  which  are  very 
woful. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  Marquis  Mirabeau  de- 
termined to  give  his  son,  and  heir  of  all  the 
Riquettis,  such  an  education  as  no  Riquetti  had 
yet  been  privileged  with.  Being  a  world- 
schoolmaster,  (and  indeed  a  Martinus  Scriblerus, 
as  we  here  find,  more  ways  than  one,)  this  was 
not  strange  in  him ;  but  the  results  were  very 
lamentable.  Considering  the  matter  now,  at 
this  impartial  distance,  you  are  lost  in  wonder 
at  the  good  Marquis ;  know  not  whether  to 
laugh  at  him,  or  weep  over  him ;  and  on  the 
whole  are  bound  to  do  both.  A  more  suflicient 
product  of  Nature  than  this  "  enormous  Ga- 
briel," as  we  said,  need  not  have  been  wished 
for:  "beating  his  nurse,"  but  then  loving  her, 
and  loving  the  whole  world ;  of  large  desire, 
truly,  but  desire  towards  all  things,  the  highest 
and  the  lowest:  in  other  words,  a  large  mass 
of  life  in  him,  a  large  man  waiting  there !  Does 
he  not  rummage  (the  rough  cub,  now  tenfold 
rougher  by  the  effect  of  small-pox)  in  all 
places,  seeking  something  to  know :  dive  down 
to  the  most  unheard-of  recesses  for  papers  to 
readl  Does  he  not,  spontaneously,  give  his 
hat  to  a  peasant-boy  whose  head-gear  was  de- 
fective 1  He  writes  the  most  sagacious  things, 
in  his  fifth  year,  extempore,  at  table ;  setting 


4W 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


forth  what  "  Monskur  MoV^  (Mr.  Me)  is  bound 
to  do.  A  rough  strong  genuine  soul,  of  the 
frankest  open  temper;  full  of  loving  fire  and 
strength;  looking  out  so  brisk  with  his  clear 
hazel  eyes,  with  his  brisk  sturdy  bulk,  what 
might  not  fair  breeding  have  done  for  him  ! 
On  so  many  occasions,  one  feels  as  if  he  need- 
ed nothing  in  the  world  but  to  be  well  let  alone. 

But  no;  the  scientific  paternal  hand  must 
interfere,  at  every  turn,  to  assist  Nature:  the 
young  lion's  whelp  has  to  grow  up  all  bestrap- 
ped,  bemuzzled  in  the  most  extraordinary  man- 
ner: shall  wax  and  unfold  himself  by  theory 
of  education,  by  square  and  rule, — going  punc- 
tual, all  the  way,  like  Harrison  Clockwork,  ac- 
cording to  the  theoretic  program  ;  or  else — !  0 
Marquis,  world-schoolmaster,  what  theory  of 
education  is  this  ?  No  lion's  whelp  or  young 
Mirabeau  will  go  like  clockwork,  but  far  other- 
wise. "  He  that  spareth  the  rod  hateth  the  child ;" 
that  on  its  side  is  true  :  and  yet  Nature,  too,  is 
strong:  "Nature  will  comerunningback,  though 
thou  expel  her  with  afork!"  Inone  point  of  view 
there  is  nothing  more  Hogarthian  comic  than 
this  long  Peter  Peeble's  ganging  plea  of  "Mar- 
quis Mirabeau  versus  Nature  and  others:"  yet 
in  a  deeper  point  of  view  it  is  but  too  serious. 
Candid  history  will  say  that  whatsoever  of 
worst  it  was  in  the  power  of  art  to  do,  against 
this  young  Gabriel  Honore,  was  done.  Not 
with  unkind  intentions  ;  nay,  with  intentions 
which,  at  least,  began  in  kindness.  How  much 
better  was  Burns's  education,  (though  this,  too, 
went  on  under  the  grimmest  pressures,)  on  the 
wild  hill-side,  by  the  brave  peasant's  hearth, 
with  no  theory  of  education  at  all,  but  poverty, 
toil,  tempest,  and  the  handles  of  the  plough  ! 

At  bottom,  the  Marquis's  wish  and  purpose 
was  not  complex,  but  simple.  That  Gabriel 
Honore  de  Riquetti  shall  become  the  very 
same  man  that  Victor  de  Riquetti  is ;  perfect 
as  he  is  perfect:  this  will  satisfy  the  fond  fa- 
ther's heart,  and  nothing  short  of  this.  Better 
exemplar,  truly,  were  hard  to  find ;  and  yet,  0 
Victor  de  Riquetti,  poor  Gabriel,  on  his  side, 
wishes  to  be  Gabriel  and  not  Victor !  Stifl^er 
loving  Pedant  never  had  a  more  elastic  loving 
Pupil.  Offences  (of  mere  e^as.'i<,t!y,  mere  natural 
springing-up,  for  most  part)  accumulate  by 
addition:  Madame  Pailly  and  the  confidential 
servants,  on  this  as  on  all  matters,  are  busy. 
The  household  itself  is  darkening,  the  mistress 
of  it  gone ;  the  Lawsuits  (and  by-and-by  Di- 
vorce-Lawsuits) have  begun.  Worse  will  grow 
worse,  and  ever  worse,  till  Rhadamanthus- 
Scriblerus  Marquis  de  Mirabeau,  swaying 
vainly  the  sceptre  of  order,  see  himself  envi- 
roned by  a  waste  chaos  as  of  Bedlam.  Stiff" is 
he ;  elastic  (and  yet  still  loving,  reverent)  is 
his  son  and  pupil.  Thus  cruelty,  and  yearn- 
ings that  must  be  suppressed ;  indignant  re- 
volt, and  hot  tears  of  penitence,  alternate,  in 
the  strangest  way,  between  the  two ;  and  for 
long  years  our  young  Alcides  has  (by  Destiny, 
his  own  Demon,  and  Juno  de  Pailly)  Labours 
enough  imposed  on  him. 

But,  to  judge  what  a  task  was  set  this  poor 
paternal  Marquis,  let  us  listen  to  the  following 
successive  utterances  from  him ;  which  he 
emits,  in  letter  after  letter,  mostly  into  the  ear 
of  his  Brother  the  good  Bailli.  Cluck,  cluck,— 


is  it  not  as  the  sound  of  an  agitated  parent- 
fowl,  now  in  terror,  now  in  anger,  at  the  brood 
it  has  brought  out "? 

"  'This  creature  promises  to  be  a  very  pret- 
ty subject.'  '  Talent  in  plenty,  and  cleverness, 
but  more  faults  still  inherent  iu  the  substance 
of  him.'  'Only  just  come  into  life,  and  the 
extravasation  {cxtravascment)  of  the  thing  al- 
ready visible!  A  spirit  cross-grained,  fantas- 
tic, iracund,  incompatible,  tending  towards 
evil  before  knowing  it,  or  being  capable  of  it.' 
'A  high  heart  under  the  jacket  of  a  boy;  it 
has  a  strange  instinct  of  pride  this  creature  ; 
noble  withal;  the  embryo  of  a  shaggy-headed 
bully  and  killcow,  that  would  swallow  all  the 
world,  and  is  not  twelve  years  old  yet.'  'A 
type,  profoundly  inconceivable,  of  baseness, 
sheer  dull  grossness,  {platitude  absoluc,)  and  the 
quality  of  your  dirty,  rough-crusted  caterpillar, 
that  will  uncrust  itself  or  fly.'  'An  intelli- 
gence, a  memory,  a  capacity,  that  strike  you, 
that  astonish,  that  frighten  you.'  *A  nothing 
bedizened  with  crotchets.  May  fling  dust  in 
the  eyes  of  silly  women,  but  will  never  be  the 
fourth  part  a  man,  if  by  good  luck  he  be  any 
thing.'  '  One  whom  3^ou  may  call  ill-bnrn, 
this  elder  lad  of  mine ;  who  bodes,  at  least 
hitherto,  as  if  he  could  become  nothing  but  a 
madman  :  almost  invincibly  maniac,  with  all 
the  vile  qualities  of  the  maternal  stock  over 
and  above.  As  he  has  a  great  many  masters, 
and  all,  from  the  confessor  to  the  comrade,  are 
so  many  reporters  for  me,  I  see  the  nature  of 
the  beast,  and  don't  think  we  shall  ever  do  any 
good  with  him.' " 

In  a  word,  ofl!ences  (of  elasticity  or  expan- 
sivity) have  accumulated  to  such  height,  in 
the  lad's  fifteenth  year,  that  there  is  a  determi- 
nation taken,  on  the  part  of  Rhadamanthus- 
Scriblerus,  to  pack  him  out  of  doors,  one  way 
or  the  other.  After  various  plannings,  the  plan 
of  one  Abbe  Choquenard's  Boarding-school  is 
fallen  upon  :  the  rebellious  Expansive  shall  to 
Paris  ;  there,  under  ferula  and  short-commons, 
contract  himself  and  consider.  Farther,  as  the 
name  Mirabeau  is  honourable  and  right  ho- 
nourable, he  shall  not  have  the  honour  of  it; 
never  again,  but  be  called  Pierre  Bufficre,  till 
his  ways  decidedly  alter.  This  Pierre  Bvffiere 
was  the  name  of  an  estate  of  his  mother's  in 
the  Limousin  :  sad  fuel  of  those  smoking  law- 
suits which  at  length  blazed  out  as  divorce- 
lawsuits.  Wearing  this  melancholy  nick-name 
of  Peter  Bufliere,  as  a  perpetual  badge,  had 
poor  Gabriel  Honore  to  go  about  for  a  number 
of  years;  like  a  misbehaved  soldier  with  his 
eyebrows  shaven  ofl^;  alas,  only  a  fifteen- 
years'  recruit  yet,  too  young  for  that ! 

Nevertheless,  named  or  shorn  of  his  name, 
Peter  or  Gabriel,  the  youth  himself  was  still 
there.  At  Choquenard's  Boarding-school,  as 
always  afterwards  in  life,  he  carries  with  him, 
he  unfolds  and  employs,  the  qualities  which 
Nature  gave,  which  no  shearing  or  shaving  of 
art  and  mistreatment  could  take  away.  The 
Fils  Jdoptif  gives  a  grand  list  of  studies  fol- 
lowed, acquisitions  made  :  ancient  languages, 
("and  we  have  a  thousand  proofs  of  his  inde- 
fatigable tenacity  in  this  respect;")  modern 
languages,  English,  Italian,  German, Spanish; 
then  "passionate  study  of  mathematics;"  de- 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


491 


sign  pictorial  and  geometrical ;  music,  so  as 
to  read  it  at  sight,  nay,  to  compose  in  it ;  sing- 
ing, to  a  high  degree ;  "  equitation,  fencing, 
dancing,  swimming,  and  tennis :"  if  only  the 
half  of  which  were  true,  can  we  say  that 
Pierre  Buffiere  spent  his  time  illl  What  is 
more  precisely  certain,  the  disgraced  Buffiere 
worked  his  way  very  soon  into  the  good  affec- 
tions of  all  and  sundry,  in  this  House  of  Dici- 
pline,  who  came  in  contact  with  him  ;  school- 
fellows, teachers,  the  Abbe  Choquenard  him- 
self. For,  said  the  paternal  Marquis,  he  has 
the  tongue  of  the  old  Serpent !  In  fact,  it  is 
very  notable  how  poor  Buffiere,  Comte  de  Mi- 
rabeau,  revolutionary  King  Riquetti,  or  what- 
ever else  they  might  call  him,  let  him  come, 
under  what  discommendation  he  might,  into 
any  circle  of  men,  was  sure  to  make  them  his 
ere  long.  To  the  last,  no  man  could  look  into 
him  with  his  own  eyes,  and  continue  to  hate 
him.  He  could  talk  men  over,  then  1  Yes,  O 
Reader:  and  he  could  act  men  over:  for  at 
bottom,  that  was  it.  The  large  open  soul  of 
the  man,  purposing  deliberately  no  paltry,  un- 
kindly, or  dishonest  thing  towards  any  crea- 
ture, was  felt  to  be  withal  a  brother's  soul.  De- 
faced by  black  drossy  obscurations  very  many ; 
but  yet  shining  out,  lustrous,  warm;  in  its 
troublous  etfulgence,  great !  That  a  man  be 
loved  the  better  by  men  the  nearer  they  come 
to  him  :  is  not  this  the  fact  of  all  facts  1  To 
know  what  extent  of  prudential  diplomacy 
(good,  indifferent,  and  even  bad)  a  man  has, 
ask  public  opinion,  journalistic  rumour,  or  at 
most  the  persons  he  dines  with  :  to  know  what 
of  real  worth  is  in  him,  ask  infinitely  deeper 
and  farther ;  ask,  first  of  all,  those  who  have 
tried  by  experiment ;  who,  were  they  the  fool- 
ishest  pe<iple,  can  answer  pertinently  here  if 
anywhere.  "  Those  at  a  distance  esteem  of 
me  a  little  worse  than  I;  those  near  at  hand  a 
little  better  than  I:"  so  said  the  good  Sir 
Thomas  Browne ;  so  will  all  men  say  who 
have  much  to  say  on  that. 

The  Choquenard  Military  Boarding-School 
having,  if  not  fulfilled  its  functions,  yet  ceased 
to  be  a  house  of  penance,  and  failed  of  its  func- 
tion. Marquis  Mirabeau  determinded  to  try  the 
Army.  Nay,  it  would  seem,  the  wicked  mother 
has  been  privily  sending  him  money;  which 
he,  the  traitor,  has  accepted !  To  the  army 
therefore.  And  so  Pierre  Buffiere  has  a  basnet 
on  his  big  head  ;  the  shaggy  pock-pitted  visage 
looks  martially  from  under  horse-hair  and 
clear  metal;  he  dresses  rank,  with  tight  bridle- 
hand  and  drawn  falchion,  in  the  town  of 
Saintes,  as  a  bold  volunteer  dragoon.  His  age 
was  but  eighteen  as  yet,  and  some  months. 

The  people  of  Saintes  grew  to  like  him 
amazingly;  would  even  "have  lent  him  money 
to  any  extent."  His  Colonel,  one  De  Lambert, 
proved  to  be  a  martinet,  of  sharp  sour  temper  : 
the  shaggy  visage  of  Buffiere,  radiant  through 
its  seaminess  with  several  things,  had  not 
altogether  the  happiness  to  content  him. 
Furthermore  there  was  an  Archer  (BailiflT)  at 
Saintes,  who  had  a  daughter:  she,  foolish 
minx,  liked  the  Buffiere  visage  belter  even  than 
the  Colonel's !  For  one  can  fancy  what  a 
pleader  Buffiere  was,  in  this  great  cause ;  with 
the  tongue  of  the  old  serpent.    It  was  bis  first 


amourette;  plainly  triumphant:  the  beginning 
of  a  quite  unheard-of  career  in  that  kind.  The 
aggrieved  Colonel  emitted  "  satires,"  through 
the  mess-rooms;  this  bold  volunteer  dragoon 
was  not  the  man  to  give  him  worse  than  he 
brought :  matters  fell  into  a  very  unsatisfactory 
state  between  them.  To  crown  the  whole, 
Buffiere  went  one  evening  (contrary  to  wont, 
now  and  always)  to  the  gaming-table,  and 
lost  four  louis.  Insubordination,  Gambling, 
Archer's  daughter:  Rhadamanthus  thunder 
from  Bignon:  Buffiere  doffs  his  basnet,  flies 
covertly  to  Paris.  Negotiation  there  now  was ; 
confidential  spy  to  Saintes;  correspondence, 
fulmination  :  Dupont  de  Nemours  as  daysman 
between  a  Colonel  and  a  Marquis,  both  in 
high  wrath, — Buffiere  to  pay  the  piper!  Con- 
fidential spy  takes  evidence ;  the  whole  atrocity 
comes  to  light :  what  wilt  thou  do,  O  Marquis, 
with  this  devil's  child  of  thine  1  Send  him  to 
Surinam;  let  the  tropical  heats  and  rain  tame 
the  hot  liver  of  him  ! — so  whispered  paternal 
Brutus-justice  and  Pailly;  but  milder  thoughts 
prevailed.  Lettre  de  Cachet  and  the  Isle  of 
Rhe  shall  be  tried  first.  Thither  fares  poor 
Buffiere;  not  with  Archers'  daughters,  but  with 
Archers ;  amid  the  dull  rustle  and  autumnal 
brown  of  the  falling  leaves  of  1768,  his  nine- 
teenth autumn.  It  is  his  second  Hercules'  La- 
bour; the  Choquenard  Boarding-house  was 
the  first.  Bemoaned  by  the  loud  Atlantic  he 
shall  sit  there,  in  winter  season,  under  ward 
of  a  Bailli  d'Aulan,  governor  of  the  place,  and 
said  to  be  a  very  Cerberus. 

At  Rhe  the  old  game  is  played  :  in  few  weeks, 
the  Cerberus  Bailli  is  Buffiere's ;  baying,  out 
of  all  his  throats,  in  Buffiere's  behalf!  What 
"  sorcery"  is  this  that  the  rebellious  prodigy 
has  in  him,  O  Marquis  1  Hypocrisy,  cozenage 
which  no  governor  of  strong  places  can  resist! 
Nothing  short  of  the  hot  swamps  of  Surinam 
will  hold  him  quiet,  then  1  Happily  there  is 
fighting  in  Corsica;  Paoli  fighting  on  his  last 
legs  there;  and  Baron  deVaux  wants  fresh 
troops  against  him.  Buffiere,  though  he  likes 
not  the  cause,  will  go  thither  gladly;  and  fight 
his  very  best:  how  happy  if,  by  any  fighting, 
he  can  conquer  back  his  baptismal  name,  and 
some  gleam  of  paternal  tolerance!  After 
much  soliciting,  his  prayer  is  acceded  to: 
Buffiere,  with  the  rank  now  of  "  Sub-lieutenant 
of  Foot,  in  the  Legion  of  Lorraine,"  gets  across 
the  country  to  Toulon,  in  the  month  of  April ; 
and  enters  "on  the  plain  which  furrows  itself 
without  plough"  (euphuistic  for  ocean:)  "God 
grant  he  may  not  have  to  row  there  one  day,** 
—in  red  cap,  as  convict  galley-slave  !  Such 
is  the  paternal  benediction  and  prayer;  which 
was  realized.  Nay,  Buffiere,  it  would  seem, 
before  quitting  Rochelle,  indeed  "hardly  yet 
two  hours  out  of  the  fortress  of  Rhe,"  had 
fallen  into  a  new  atrocity, — his  first  duel;  a 
certain  quondam  messmate  (discharged  for 
swindling)  having  claimed  acquaintance  with 
him  on  the  streets  ;  which  claim  Buffiere  saw 
good  to  refuse ;  and  even  to  resist,  when  de- 
manded at  the  sword'^s  point !  The  "  Corsican 
Buccaneer"  (jUbusiicr  Corse)  that  he  is  ! 

The  Corsican  Buccaneer  did,  as  usual,  a 
giant's  or  two  giants'  work  in  Corsica ;  fight- 
ing, writing,  loving;  "eight  hours  a  day  of 


4sn 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


study;"  and  gained  golden  opinions  from  all 
manner  of  men  and  women.  It  was  his  own 
notion  that  Nature  had  meant  him  for  a  soldier; 
he  felt  so  equable  and  at  home  in  that  busi- 
ness,— the  wreck  of  discordant  death-tumult, 
and  roar  of  cannon  serving  as  a  fine  regulatory 
marching-music  for  him.  Doubtless  Nature 
meant  him  for  a  Man  of  Action  ;  as  she  means 
all  great  souls  that  have  a  strong  body  to  dwell 
in:  but  Nature  will  adjust  herself  to  much. 
In  the  course  of  twelve  months,  (in  May,  1770,) 
Bufliere  gets  back  to  Toulon ;  with  much  manu- 
script in  his  pocket;  his  head  full  of  military 
and  all  other  lore,  "like  a  library  turned  topsy- 
turvy ;"  his  character  much  risen,  as  we  said, 
with  every  one.  The  brave  Bailli  Mirabeau, 
though  almost  against  principle,  cannot  refuse 
to  see  a  chief  nephew,  as  he  passes  so  near 
the  old  Castle  on  the  Durance:  the  good  uncle 
is  charmed  with  him;  finds,  "under  features 
terribly  seamed  and  altered  from  what  they 
were,"  (bodily  and  mentally,)  all  that  is  royal 
and  strong,  nay,  an  "expression  of  something 
refined,  something  gracious;"  declares  him, 
after  several  days  of  incessant  talk,  to  be  the 
best  fellow  on  earth,  (if  well  dealt  with,)  who 
will  shape  into  statesman,  generalissimo,  pope, 
what  thou  pleasest  to  desire !  Or,  shall  we 
give  poor  Buffiere's  testimonial  in  mess-room 
dialect;  in  its  native  twanging  vociferosity, 
and  garnished  with  old  oaths, — which,  alas, 
have  become  for  us  almost  old  prayers  now, — 
the  vociferous  Moustachio-figures,  whom  they 
twanged  through,  having  all  vanished  so  long 
since  :  '•  Morbleu,  Monsieur,  VAbbe;  c'est  un  gar- 
gon,  diablement  vif;  mais  c'est  un  bon  gargon, 
qui  a  de  V esprit  comme  trois  cent  mille  diables  ;  et 
parbleu,  un  hommo  tres  braved 

Moved  by  all  manner  of  testimonials  and 
entreaties  from  uncle  and  family,  the  rigid 
Marquis  consents,  not  without  difficulty,  to  see 
this  anomalous  Peter  Buffiere  of  his  ;  and  then, 
after  solemn  deliberation,  even  to  un-Peter 
him,  and  give  him  back  his  name.  It  was  in 
September  that  they  met;  at  Aiguesperse,  in 
the  Limousin  near  the  lands  of  Pierre  Bovffiere. 
Soft  ruth  comes  stealing  through  the  Rhada- 
manihine  heart;  tremblings  of  faint  hope  even, 
which,  however,  must  veil  itself  in  austerity 
and  rigidity.  The  Marquis  writes:  "I perorate 
him  very  much;"  observe  "  my  man,  how  he 
droops  his  nose,  and  looks  fixedly,  a  sign  that 
he  is  reflecting ;  or  whirls  away  his  head,  hid- 
ing a  tear:  serious,  now  mild, now  severe,  we 
give  it  him  alternately;  it  is  thus  I  manage 
the  mouth  of  this  fiery  animal."  Had  he  but 
read  the  Ephemerides,  the  Economigucs,  the 
Precis  des  Elemens  ("  the  most  laboured  book  I 
have  done, though  I  wrote  it  in  such  health:") 
had  he  but  got  grounded  in  my  Political  Eco- 
nomy !  Which,  however,  he  does  not  take  to 
with  any  heart.  On  the  contrary,  he  unhappily 
finds  it  hollow,  pragmatical,  a  barren  jingle 
of  formulas;  pedantic  even;  unnutritive  as 
the  east  wind.  Blasphemous  words;  which 
(or  the  like  of  them)  any  eavesdropper  has  but 
to  report  to  "  the  Master !" — And  yet,  after  all, 
is  it  not  a  brave  Gabriel  this  rough-built  young 
Hercules;  and  has  finished  handsomely  his 
Second  Labour  1  The  head  of  the  fellow  is 
"a  wind-mill  and  fire-mill  of  ideas."    The 


War-oflice  makes  him  captain,  and  he  is  pas* 
sionate  for  following  soldiership :  but  then, 
unluckily, your  Alexander  needs  such  tools; — 
a  whole  world  for  workshop!  "Where  are 
the  armies  and  herring-shoals  of  men  to  come 
from  ?  Does  he  think  I  have  money,"  snuffles 
the  old  Marquis,  "  to  get  him  up  battles  like 
Harlequin  and  Scaramouch  ?"  The  fool !  he 
shall  settle  down  into  rurality;  first,  however, 
though  it  is  a  risk,  see  a  little  of  Paris. 

At  Paris,  through  winter,  the  brave  Gabriel 
carries  all  before  him ;  shines  in  saloons,  in 
the  Versailles  CEil-de-Boeuf ;  dines  with  your 
Duke  of  Orleans,  (young  Chartres,  not  yet  be- 
come Egalite,  hob-nobbing  with  him ;)  dines 
with  your  Guemenes,  Broglies,  and  mere 
Grandeurs  ;  and  is  invited  to  hunt.  Even  the 
old  women  are  charmed  with  him,  and  rustle 
in  their  satins :  such  a  light  has  not  risen  in  the 
(Eil-de-BoBuf  for  some  while.  Grant,  O  Mar- 
quis, that  there  are  worse  sad-dogs  than  this. 
The  Marquis  grants  partially;  and  yet,  and 
yet !  Few  things  are  notabler  than  these  suc- 
cessive surveys  by  the  old  Marquis,  critically 
scanning  his  young  Count: — 

"'I  am  on  my  guard;  remembering  how 
vivacity  of  head  may  deceive  you  as  to  a  cha- 
racter of  morass  {de  tourbe :)  but,  all  considered 
one  must  give  him  store  of  exercise;  what  the 
devil  else  to  do  with  such  exuberance,  intel- 
lectual and  sanguineous  I  I  know  no  woman 
but  the  Empress  of  Russia  with  whom  this 
man  were  good  to  marry  yet.'  *  Hard  to  find 
a  dog  (drole)  that  had  more  talent  and  action 
in  the  head  of  him  than  this  ;  he  would  reduce 
the  devil  to  terms.'  *  Thy  nephew  Whirlwind 
(VOuragan)  assists  me;  yesterday  the  valet 
Luce,  who  is  a  sort  of  privileged  simpleton, 
said  pleasantly, "  Confess,  M.  le  Comte,  a  man's 
body  is  very  unhappy  to  carry  a  head  like 
that."  '  '  The  terrible  gift  of  familiarity  (as  Pope 
Gregory  called  it !)  He  turns  the  great  people 
here  round  his  finger.'  Or  again,  though  all 
this  is  some  years  afterwards:  'They  have 
never  done  telling  me  that  he  is  easy  to  set 
a-rearing;  that  you  cannot  speak  to  him  re- 
proachfully but  his  eyes,  his  lips,  his  colour 
testify  that  all  is  giving  way ;  on  the  other  hand, 
the  smallest  word  of  tenderness  will  make  him 
burst  into  tears,  and  he  would  fling  himself 
into  the  fire  for  you.*  'I  pass  my  life  in 
cramming  him  (a  le  bourrer)  with  principles, 
with  all  that  I  know ;  for  this  man,  ever  the 
same  as  to  his  fundamental  properties,  has  done 
nothing  by  these  long  and  solid  studies  but  aug- 
ment the  rubbish-heap  in  his  head,  which  is  a 
library  turned  tops)'-turvy ;  and  then  his  talent 
for  dazzling  by  superficials,  for  he  has  swal- 
lowed  all  formulas,  and  cannot  substantiate  any 
thing.'  '  A  wicker-basket,  that  lets  all  through  ; 
disorder  born;  credulousasanurse;  indiscreet; 
a  liar'  (kind  of  white  liar)  'by  exaggeration, 
affirmation,  eff'rontery,  without  need,  and  merely 
to  tell  histories;  a  confidence  that  dazzles  you 
on  everything;  cleverness  and  talent  without 
limit.  For  the  rest,  the  vices  have  infinitely 
less  root  in  him  than  the  virtues  ;  all  is  facility, 
impetuosity,  ineffectuality,  (not  for  want  of 
fire,  but  of  plan ;)  wrong-spun,  ravelled  {de- 
favfile)  in  character:  a  mind  that  meditates  in 
the  vague,  and  builds  of  soap-bells.'    'Spite 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


403 


of  the  bitter  ugliness,  the  intercadent  step,  the 
trenchant  breathless  blown-up  precipitation, 
and  the  look,  or,  to  say  better,  the  atrocious 
eyebrow  of  this  man  when  he  listens  and  re- 
flects, something  told  me  that  it  was  all  but  a 
scarecrow  of  old  cloth,  this  ferocious  outward 
garniture  of  his ;  that,  at  bottom,  here  was  per- 
haps the  man  in  all  France  least  capable  of 
deliberate  wickedness.'  '  Pie  and  jay  by  in- 
stinct.' 'Wholly  reflex  and  reverberance  (tout 
de  reflet  et  de  reverbere)  ;  drawn  to  the  right  by 
his  heart,  to  the  left  by  his  head,  which  he 
carries  four  paces  from  him.'  'May  become 
the  Coryphaeus  of  the  Time.'  'A  blinkard 
(myope)  precipitancy,  born  with  him,  which 
makes  him  take  the  quagmire  for  firm  earth — ' " 

Cluck,  cluck, — in  the  name  of  all  the  gods, 
what  prodigy  is  this  I  have  hatched  ?  Web- 
footed,  broad-billed;  which  will  run  and  drown 
itself,  if  Mercy  and  the  parent-fowl  prevent 
not! 

How  inexpressibly  true,  meanwhile,  is  this 
that  the  old  Marquis  says :  "  He  has  swal- 
lowed all  formulas"  (il  a  hume,  toutes  les  formules) 
and  made  away  with  them  !  Formulas,  indeed, 
if  we  think  of  it,  Formulas  and  Gabriel  Honore 
had  been,  and  were  to  be,  at  death-feud  from 
first  to  last.  What  formulas  of  this  formalized 
(established)  world  had  been  a  kind  one  to 
Gabriel]  His  soul  could  find  no  shelter  in 
them,  they  were  unbelievable;  his  body  no 
solacement,  they  were  tyrannical,  unfair.  If 
there  were  not  pabulum  and  substance  be- 
yond formulas,  and  in  spite  of  them,  then 
wo  to  him !  To  this  man  formulas  would 
yield  no  existence  or  habitation,  if  it  were  not 
in  the  Isle  of  Rhe  and  such  places ;  but  threat- 
ened to  choke  the  life  out  of  him :  either 
formulas  or  he  must  go  the  wall;  and  so,  after 
a  tough  fight,  they^  as  it  proves,  will  go.  So 
cunningly  thrifty  is  Destiny;  and  is  quietly 
shaping  her  tools  for  the  work  they  are  to  do, 
while  she  seems  but  spoiling  and  breaking 
them!  For,  consider,  O  Marquis,  whether 
France  herself  will  not,  by-and-by,  have  to 
swallow  a  formula  or  two  1  This  sight  thou 
lookest  on  from  the  baths  of  Mount  d'Or,  does 
it  not  bode  something  of  that  kindl  A  sum- 
mer day  in  the  year  1777: — 

"  *  O  Madame  !  the  narrations  I  would  give 
you  if  I  had  not  a  score  of  letters  to  answer, 
on  dull  sad  business!  I  would  paint  to  you 
the  votive  feast  of  this  town,  which  took  place 
on  the  14th.  The  savages  descending  in  tor- 
rents from  the  Mountains, — our  people  ordered 
not  to  stir  out.  The  curate  with  surplice  and 
stole  ;  public  justice  in  periwig  ;  Marerhausse, 
sabre  in  hand,  guarding  the  place,  before  the 
bagpipes  were  permitted  to  begin.  The  dance 
interrupted,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after,  by 
battle;  the  cries  and  fierce  hissings  of  the 
children,  of  the  infirm,  and  other  onlookers, 
ogling  it,  tarring  it  on,  as  the  mob  does  when 
dogs  fight.  Frightful  men,  or  rather  wild  crea- 
tures of  the  forest,  in  coarse  woollen  jupes  and 
broad  girths  of  leather,  studded  with  copper 
nails;  of  gigantic  stature,  heightened  by  the 
high  sabots;  rising  still  higher  on  tip-toe,  to 
look  at  the  battle;  beating  time  to  it;  rubbing 
their  sides  with  their  elbows :  their  face  hag- 
gard, covered  with  their  long  greasy  hair;  top 


of  the  visage  waxing  pale,  bottom  of  it  twisting 
itself  into  the  rudiments  of  a  cruel  laugh,  a 
ferocious  impatience. — And  these  people  pay 
the  taille!  And  you  want  to  take  from  them 
their  salt  too!  And  you  know  not  what  you 
strip  bare,  or,  as  you  call  it,  govern ;  what, 
with  the  heedless,  cowardly  squirt  of  your  pen, 
you  will  think  you  can  continue  stripping  with 
impunity  for  ever,  till  the  Catastrophe  come ! 
Such  sights  recall  deep  thoughts  to  one.  'Poor 
Jean-Jacques!'  I  said  to  myself;  'they  that 
sent  thee,  and  thy  System,  to  copy  music  among 
such  a  People  as  these  same,  have  confuted 
thy  System  but  ill !'  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
these  thoughts  were  consolatory  for  a  man  who 
has  all  his  life  preached  the  necessity  of  solac- 
ing the  poor,  of  universal  instruction  ;  who  has 
tried  to  show  what  such  instruction  and  such 
solacement  ought  to  be,  if  it  would  form  a 
barrier  (the  sole  possible  barrier)  between  op- 
pression and  revolt ;  the  sole  but  the  infallible 
treaty  of  peace  between  the  high  and  the  low! 
Ah,  Madame  !  this  government  by  blind-man's- 
buff;  stumbling  along  too  far,  will  end  by  the 

GENERAL  OVEHTURX.'  " 

Prophetic  Marquis  !^Might  other  nations 
listen  to  thee  better  than  France  did:  for  it 
concerns  them  all!  But  now  is  it  not  curious 
to  think  how  the  whole  world  might  have  gone 
so  differently,  but  for  this  very  prophet  1  Had 
the  young  Mirabeau  had  a  father  as  other  men 
have ;  or  even  no  father  at  all !  Consider  him, 
in  that  case,  rising  by  natural  gradation,  by 
the  rank,  the  opportunity,  the  irrepressible 
buoyant  faculties  he  had,  step  after  step,  to 
official  place, — to  the  chief  oflScial  place;  as  in 
a  time  when  Turgots,  Neckers,  and  men  of 
ability,  were  grown  indispensable,  he  was  sure 
to  have  done.  By  natural  witchery  he  be- 
witches Marie  Antoinette  ;  her  most  of  all,  with 
her  quick  susceptive  instincts,  her  quick  sense 
for  whatever  was  great  and  noble,  her  quick 
hatred  for  whatever  was  pedantic,  Neckerish, 
Fayettish,  and  pretending  to  be  great.  King 
Louis  is  a  nullity;  happily  then  reduced  to  be 
one:  there  would  then  have  been  at  the  summit 
of  France  the  one  French  man  who  could  have 
grappled  with  that  great  question ;  who,  yield- 
ing and  refusing,  managing,  guiding,  and,  in 
short,  seeing  and  daring  what  was  to  be  done, 
had  perhaps  saved  France  her  Revolution; 
remaking  her  by  peaceabler  methods !  But 
to  the  Supreme  Powers  it  seemed  not  so. 
Once  after  a  thousand  years  all  nations  were 
to  see  the  great  Conflagration  and  Self-com- 
bustion of  a  Nation,— and  learn  from  it  if  they 
could.  And  now,  for  a  Swallower  of  Formulas, 
was  there  a  better  schoolmaster  on  earth  than 
this  very  Friend  of  Men ;  a  better  education 
conceivable  than  this  which  Alcides-Mirabeaii 
had?  Trust  in  heaven,  good  reader,  for  the 
fate  of  nations,  for  the  fall  of  a  sparrow. 

Gabriel  Honore  has  acquitted  himself  so  well 
in  Paris,  turning  the  great  people  round  his 
thumb,  with  that  "/o«rf  gaillard"  (basis  of 
gayety,)  with  that  terrible  don  de  la  familiaritd; 
with  those  ways  he  has.  Neither,  in  the  quite 
opposite  Man-of-busincss  department,  when 
summer  comes  and  rurality  with  it,  is  he  found 
wanting.  In  the  summer  of  the  year,  the  old 
2T 


494 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Friend  of  Men  despatches  him  to  the  Limousin,  ] 
to  his  own  estate  of  Pierre  Buffiere,  or  his 
wife's  own  estate,  (under  the  law-balance  about 
this  time ;)  to  see  whether  any  thing  can  be 
done  for  men  there.  Much  is  to  be  done  there ; 
the  Peasants,  short  of  all  things,  even  of 
victuals,  here  as  everywhere,  wear  "  a  settled 
souffre-douleur  (pain-stricken)  look,  as  if  they 
reckoned  that  the  pillage  of  men  was  an  inevi- 
table ordinance  of  Heaven,  to  be  put  up  with 
like  the  wind  and  the  hail."  Here,  in  the 
solitude  of  the  Limousin,  Gabriel  is  still 
Gabriel:  he  rides,  he  writes,  and  runs;  eats 
out  of  the  poor  people's  pots;  speaks  to 
them,  redresses  them ;  institutes  a  court  of 
Villager  Praudhommes  (good  men  and  true), — 
once  more  carries  all  before  him.  Confess,  O 
Rhadamanthine  Marquis,  we  say  again,  that 
there  are  worse  sad-dogs  than  this  !  **  He  is," 
confesses  the  Marquis,  *'  the  Demon  of  the  Im- 
possible," {le  ddmon  de  la  chose  impossible.) 
Most  true  this  also :  impossible  is  a  word  not  in 
his  dictionary.  Thus  the  same  Gabriel  Honore, 
long  afterwards,  (as  Dumont  will  witness,) 
orders  his  secretary  to  do  some  miracle  or 
other,  miraculous  within  the  time.  The  secre- 
tary answers,  "  Monsieur,  it  is  impossible," 
"Impossible!"  answers  Gabriel:  ''  Ne  me  diles 
Jamais  ce  bete  de  mot/'  (Never  name  to  me  that 
blockhead  of  a  word !)  Really,  one  would  say, 
a  good  fellow,  were  he  well  dealt  with, — though 
still  broad-billed,  and  with  latent  tendencies  to 
take  the  water.  The  following  otherwise  in- 
significant Letter,  addressed  to  the  Bailli,  seems 
to  us  worth  copying.  Is  not  his  young  Lord- 
ship, if  still  in  the  dandy-state  and  style-of- 
mockery,  very  handsome  in  it ;  standing  there 
in  the  snowl  It  is  of  date  December,  1771, 
and  far  onwards  on  the  road  towards  Mirabeau 
Castle : 

"  Fradi  bello  satisque  repulsi  ductores  Danaum  : 
here,  dear  uncle,  is  a  beginning  in  good  Latin, 
which  means  that  I  am  broken  with  fatigue, 
not  having,  this  whole  week,  slept  more  than 
sentinels  do ;  and  sounding,  at  the  same  time, 
with  the  wheels  of  my  vehicle,  most  of  the  ruts 
and  jolts  that  lie  between  Paris  and  Marseilles. 
Ruts  deep  and  numerous.  Moreover,  my  axle 
broke  between  Mucreau,  Romane,  Chambertin, 
and  Beaune;  the  centre  of  four  wine  districts; 
what  a  geographical  point,  if  I  had  had  the  wit 
to  be  a  drunkard!  The  mischief  happened 
towards  five  in  the  evening ;  my  lackey  had 
gone  on  before.  There  fell  nothing  at  the  time 
but  melted  snow;  happily  it  afterwards  took 
some  consistency.  The  neighbourhood  of 
Beaune  made  me  hope  to  find  genius  in  the 
natives  of  the  country:  I  had  need  of  good 
counsel;  the  devil  counselled  me  at  first  to 
swear,  but  that  whim  passed,  and  I  fell  by  pre- 
ference into  the  temptation  of  laughing;  for  a 
holy  priest  came  jogging  up,  wrapt  to  the  chin ; 
against  the  blessed  visage  of  whom  the  sleet 
was  beating,  which  made  him  cut  so  singular 
a  face,  that  I  think  this  was  the  thing  drove  me 
from  swearing.  The  holy  man  inquired, 
seeing  my  chaise  on  its  beam-ends,  and  one  of 
the  wheels  wanting,  whether  any  thing  had  be- 
fallen rael  I  answered,  'there  was  nothing 
falling  here  but  snow.'  *  Ah,'  said  he,  in- 
geniously, *  it  is    your  chaise,  then,  that  is 


broken.'  I  admired  the  sagacity  of  the  man, 
and  begged  him  to  double  his  pace,  with  his 
horse's  permission,  (who  was  also  making  a 
pleasant  expression  of  countenance,  as  the 
snow  beat  on  his  nose,)  and  to  be  so  good  as 
give  notice  at  Chaigny  that  I  was  there.  He 
assured  me  he  would  tell  it  to  the  post-mistress 
herself,  she  being  his  cousin ;  that  she  was  a 
very  amiable  woman,  married  three  years  ago 
to   one   of  the   honestest  men   of  the   place, 

nephew  to  the  king's  procureur  at :  in 

fine,  after  giving  me  all  the  outs  and  ins  of 
himself,  the  curate,  of  his  cousin,  his  cousin's 
husband,  and  I  know  not  whom  more,  he  was 
pleased  to  give  his  spurs  to  his  horse,  which 
thereupon  gave  a  grunl,  and  went  on.  I  forgot 
to  tell  you  that  I  had  sent  the  postilion  off  to 
Mucreau,  which  he  knew  the  road  to,  fur  he 
went  thither  daily,  he  said,  to  have  a  glass;  a 
thing  I  c  uld  well  believe,  or  even  two  glasses. 
The  man  was  but  tipsified  when  he  went ;  happi- 
ly when  he  returned,  which  was  very  late,  he  was 
drunk.  I  walked  sentry  :  several  Beaune  men 
passed,  all  of  whom  asked  me,  if  any  thing  had 
befallen  ?  I  answered  one  of  them,  that  it  was 
an  experiment ;  that  I  had  been  sent  from  Paris 
to  see  whether  a  chaise  would  run  with  one 
wheel ;  mine  had  come  so  far,  but  I  was  going 
to  write  that  two  wheels  were  preferable.  At 
this  moment  my  worthy  friend  struck  his  shin 
against  the  other  wheel ;  clapped  his  hand  on 
the  hurt  place ;  swore,  as  I  had  near  done  ;  and 
then  said,  smiling,  *  Ah,  Monsieur,  there  is  the 
other  wheel !'  *  The  devil  there  is  !'  said  I,  as 
if  astonished.  Another,  after  examining  long, 
with  a  very  capable  air,  informed  me,  *  Mafoi, 
Monsieur !  it  is  your  esn'  (meaning  essieu,  or 
axle)  *  that  is  broken.'  " 

Mirabeau's  errand  to  Provence,  in  this 
winter  season,  was  several-fold.  To  look  after 
the  Mirabeau  estates ;  to  domesticate  himself 
among  his  people  and  peers  in  that  region  ; — 
perhaps  to  choose  a  wife.  Lately,  as  we  saw, 
the  old  Marquis  could  think  of  none  suitable, 
if  it  were  not  the  Empress  Catharine.  But 
Gabriel  has  ripened  astonishingly  since  that, 
under  this  sunshine  of  paternal  favour, — the 
first  gleam  of  such  weather  he  has  ever  had. 
Short  of  the  Empress,  it  were  very  well  to 
marry,  the  Marquis  now  thinks,  provided  your 
bride  had  money.  A  bride,  not  with  money, 
yet  with  connections,  expectations,  is  found; 
and  by  stormy  eloquence  (Marquis  seconding) 
is  carried:  wo  worth  the  hour!  Her  portrait, 
by  the  seconding  Marquis  himself,  is  not  very 
captivating:  "  Marie-Emilie  de  Covet,  only 
daughter  of  the  Marquis  de  Marignane,  in  her 
eighteenth  year  then;  she  had  a  very  ordinary 
face,  even  a  vulgar  one  at  the  first  glance ; 
brown,  nay,  almost  tawny  (mauricaud);  fine 
eyes,  fine  hair;  teeth  not  good,  but  a  prettyish 
continual  smile;  figure  small,  but  agreeable, 
though  leaning  a  little  to  one  side:  showed 
great  sprightliness  of  mind,  ingenuous,  adroit, 
delicate,  lively,  sportful;  one  of  the  most 
essentially  pretty  characters."  This  brown, 
almost  tawny,  little  woman  (much  of  a  fool 
too)  Mirabeau  gets  to  wife  (on  the  '22d  of  June, 
1772:)  with  her,  and  with  a  pension  of  3,000 
francs  from  his  father-in-law,  and  one  of  6,000 
from  his  own  father,  (r>ay  500/.  in  all,)  and  rich 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


495 


expectancies,  he  shall  sit  down,  in  the  bottom 
of  Provence,  by  his  own  hired  hearth,  in  the 
town  of  Aix,  and  bless  Heaven. 

Candour  will  admit  that  this  young  Alex- 
ander (just  beginning  his  twenty-fourth  year) 
might  grumble  a  little,  seeing  only  one  such 
world  to  conquer.  However,  he  had  his  books, 
he  had  his  hopes  ;  health,  faculty;  a  Universe 
(whereof  even  the  town  of  Aix  formed  part) 
all  rich  with  fruit  and  forbidden-fruit  round 
him ;  the  unspeakable  "  seed-field  of  Time" 
wherein  to  sow:  he  said  to  himself,  "Go  to,  I 
will  be  wise."  And  yet  human  nature  is  frail. 
One  can  judge,  too,  whether  the  old  Marquis, 
now  coming  into  decided  lawsuit  with  his 
wife,  was  of  a  humour  to  forgive  peccadilloes. 
The  terrible,  hoarsely  calm,  Rhadamanthine 
way  in  which  he  expresses  himself  on  this 
matter  of  the  lawsuit  to  his  Brother,  and 
enjoins  silence  from  all  mortals  but  him,  might 
affect  weak  nerves ;  wherefore,  contrary  to 
purpose,  we  omit  it.  O,  just  Marquis?  In 
fact,  the  Riquetti  household,  at  this  time,  can 
do  little  for  frail  human  nature;  except,  per- 
haps, make  it  fall  faster.  The  Riquetti  house- 
hold is  getting  scattered ;  not  always  led 
asunder,  but  driven  and  hurled  asunder:  the 
tornado  times  for  it  have  begun.  One  daugh- 
ter is  Madame  du  Saillant,  (still  living,)  a 
judicious  sister:  another  is  Madame  de  Cabris, 
not  so  judicious  ;  for,  indeed,  her  husband  has 
lawsuits,  (owing  to  "defamatory  couplets" 
proceeding  from  him;)  she  gets  "insulted  on 
the  public  promenade  of  Grasse,"  by  a  certain 
Baron  de  Villeneuve-Moans,  whom  some  de- 
famatory couplet  had  touched  upon ; — all  the 
parties  in  the  business  being  focls.  Nay,  poor 
woman,  she,  by-and-by,  we  find,  takes  up  with 
prelernuptial  persons  ;  with  a  certain  Brainson 
in  epaulettes,  described  candidly,  by  the  Fils 
Jdoptif,  as  "  a  man  who" — is  not  fit  to  be  de- 
scribed. 

A  young  heir-apparent  of  all  the  Mirabeaus 
is  required  to  make  some  figure;  especially  in 
marrying  himself.  The  present  young  heir- 
apparent  has  nothing  to  make  a  figure  with 
but  bare  500/.  a  year,  and  very  considerable 
debts.  Old  Mirabeau  is  hard  as  the  Mosaic 
rock,  and  no  wand  proves  miraculous  on  him ; 
for  trousseaus,  cadeaus,  foot-washings,  festivities, 
and  house-heatings,  he  does  simply  not  yield 
one  sous.  The  heir  must  himself  yield  them. 
He  does  so,  and  handsomely :  but,  alas,  the 
500/.  a  year,  and  very  considerable  debts  ? 
Quit  Aix  and  dinner-giving  ;  retire  to  the  old 
Chateau  in  the  gorge  of  two  valleys  !  Devised 
and  done.  But  now,  a  young  wife  used  to  the 
delicacies  of  life,  ought  she  not  to  have  some 
suite  of  rooms  done  up  for  her?  Upholsterers 
hammer  and  furbish;  with  effect;  not  without 
bills.  Then  the  very  considerable  .Tew-debts  ! 
Poor  Mirabeau  sees  nothing  for  it,  but  to  run 
to  the  father-in-law  with  tears  in  his  eyes ;  and 
conjure  him  to  make  those  "  rich  expectations" 
in  some  measure  fruitions.  Forty  thousand 
francs ;  to  such  length  will  the  father-in-law, 
moved  by  these  tears,  by  this  fire-eloquence, 
table  ready  money  ;  provided  old  Marquis 
Mirabeau,  who  has  some  provisional  rever- 
sionary interest  in  the  thing,  will  grant  quit- 
tance.   Old  Marquis  Mirabeau,  written  to  in 


the  most  impassioned,  persuasive  manner, 
answers  by  a  letter,  of  the  sort  they  call  Sealed 
Letter,  (lettre  de  cachet,)  ordering  the  impas- 
sioned Persuasive,  under  his  Majesty's  hand 
and  seal,  to  bundle  into  Coventry,  as  we  should 
say;  into  Manosque.as  the  Sealed  Letter  says  ! 
— Farewell,  thou  old  Chateau,  with  thy  uphol- 
stered rooms,  on  thy  sheer  rock,  by  the  angry- 
flowing  Durance :  welcome,  thou  miserable 
little  borough  of  Manosque,  since  hither  Fate 
drives  us!  In  Manosque, too, a  man  can  live, 
and  read ;  can  write  an  Essai  sur  le  Despotisme, 
(and  have  it  printed  in  Switzerland,  1774;) 
full  of  fire  and  rough  vigour,  and  still  worth 
reading. 

The  Essay  on  Despotism,  with  so  little  of  the 
Ephemerides  and  Quesnay  in  it,  could  find  but 
a  hard  critic  in  the  old  Marquis  ;  snuffling  out 
something  (one  fancies)  about  "Reflex  and 
reverberance ;"  formulas  getting  swallowed; 
rash  hairbrain  treating  matters  that  require 
age  and  gravity; — however,  let  it  pass.  Un- 
happily there  came  other  ofl^ences.  A  certain 
gawk,  named  Chevalier  de  Gassaud,  accus- 
tomed to  visit  in  the  house  at  Manosque,  sees 
good  to  commence  a  kind  of  theoretic  flirtation 
with  the  little  brown  Wife,  which  she  theoreti- 
cally sees  good  to  return.  Billet  meets  billet; 
glance  follows  glance,  crescendo  allegro; — till 
the  husband  opens  his  lips,  volcano-like,  with 
a  proposal  to  kick  Chevalier  de  Gassaud  out 
of  doors.  Chevalier  de  Gassaud  goes  unkick- 
ed,  but  not  without  some  explosion  or  eclat. 
there  is  like  to  be  a  duel;  only  that  Gassaud, 
knowing  what  a  sword  this  Riquetti  wears, 
will  not  fight;  and  his  father  has  to  plead  and 
beg.  Generous  Count,  kill  not  my  poor  son  : 
alas,  already  this  most  lamentable  explosion 
itself  has  broken  off  the  finest  marriage  settle- 
ment, and  now  the  family  will  not  hear  of  him ! 
The  generous  Count,  so  pleaded  with,  not  only 
flings  the  duel  to  the  winds,  but  gallops  off, 
(forgetful  of  the  letlre  de  cachet,)  half  desperate, 
to  plead  with  the  marriage-family ;  to  preach 
with  them,  and  pray,  till  they  have  taken  poor 
Gassaud  into  favour  again.  Prosperous  in 
this,  (for  what  can  resist  such  pleading?)  he 
may  now  ride  home  more  leisurely,  with  the 
consciousness  of  a  right  action  for  once. 

As  we  said,  this  ride  of  his  lies  beyond  the 
limits  fixed  in  the  royal  Sealed  Letter;  but  no 
one  surely  will  mind  it,  no  one  will  report  it. 
A  beautiful  summer  evening:  O,  poor  Gabriel, 
it  is  the  last  peaceably  prosperous  ride  thou 
shalt  have  for  long, — perhaps  almost  ever  m 
the  world  !  For  lo !  who  is  this  that  comes 
curricling  through  the  level  yellow  sun-light; 
like  one  of  Respectability,  keeping  his  gig] 
By  Day  and  Night !  it  is  that  base"  Baron,  de 
Villeneuve-Moans,  who  insulted  sister  Cabris 
in  the  Promenade  of  Grasse  !  Human  nature, 
without  time  for  reflection,  is  liable  to  err. 
The  swift-rolling  gig  is  already  in  contact  with 
one,  the  horse  rearing  against  your  horse ;  and 
you  dismount,  almost  without  knowing.  Satis- 
faction which  gentlemen  expect.  Monsieur! 
No?  Do  I  hear  rightly  No?  In  that  case. 
Monsieur, — and  this  wild  Gabriel,  (horresco 
re/crens!)  clutches  the  respectable  Villeneuve- 
Moans;  and  horsewhips  him  there,  not  em- 
blematically only,  but  practically,  on  the  king's 


496 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


highway :  seen  of  some  peasants  !  Here  is  a 
message  for  Rumour  to  blow  abroad. 

Rumour  blows, — to  Paris  as  elsewhither: 
for  answer,  (on  the  26th  of  June,  1774,)  there 
arrives  a  fresh  Sealed  Letter,  of  more  em- 
phasis ;  there  arrive  with  it  grim  catchpoles 
and  their  chaise :  the  Swallower  of  Formulas, 
snatched  away  from  wife,  child,  (then  dying,) 
and  last  shadow  of  a  home  even  in  exile,  is 
trundling  towards  Marseilles  ;  towards  the 
Castle  of  If,  which  frowns  out  among  the 
waters  in  the  roadstead  there  !  Girt  with  the 
blue  Mediterranean ;  within  iron  stanchions ; 
cut  off  from  pen,  paper,  and  friends,  and  men, 
except  the  Cerberus  of  the  place,  who  is 
charged  to  be  very  sharp  with  him,  there  shall 
he  sit :  such  virtue  is  in  a  Sealed  Letter ;  so 
has  the  grim  old  Marquis  ordered  it.  Our 
gleam  of  sunshine,  then,  is  darkening  mise- 
rably down  1  Down,  O  thou  poor  Mirabeau, 
to  thick  midnight !  Surely  Formulas  are  all 
too  cruel  on  thee :  thou  art  getting  really  into 
war  with  formulas,  (terriblest  of  wars;)  and 
thou,  by  God's  help  and  the  devil's,  wilt  make 
away  with  them, — in  the  terriblest  manner! 
From  this  hour,  we  say,  thick  and  thicker 
darkness  settles  round  poor  Gabriel ;  his  life- 
path  growing  ever  painfuller;  alas,  growing 
ever  more  devious,  beset  by  ignes  fatui,  and 
lights  not  of  heaven.  Such  Alcides'  Labours 
have  seldom  been  allotted  to  any  man. 

Check  thy  hot  frenzy,  thy  hot  tears,  poor 
Mirabeau;  adjust  thyself  as  it  may  be;  for 
there  is  no  help.  Autumn  becomes  loud  win- 
ter, revives  into  gentle  spring :  the  waves  beat 
round  this  Castle  of  If,  at  the  mouth  of  Mar- 
seilles harbour;  girdling  in  the  unhappiest 
man.  No,  not  the  unhappiest:  poor  Gabriel 
has  such  a  ^\fond  gaillard"  (basis  of  joy  and 
gayety;)  there  is  a  deep  fiery  life  in  him, 
which  no  blackness  of  destiny  can  quench. 
The  Cerberus  of  If,  M.  Dallegre,  relents,  as  all 
Cerberuses  do  with  him ;  gives  paper ;  gives 
sympathy  and  counsel.  Nay,  letters  have  al- 
ready been  introduced;  "buttoned  in  some 
scoundrel's  gaiters,"  the  old  Marquis  says  ! 
On  Sister  du  Saillant's  kind  letter  there  fall 
"  tears ;"  nevertheless  you  do  not  always  weep. 
You  do  better;  write  a  brave  Col  de  Argent's 
Memoirs  (quoted  from  above ;)  occupy  your- 
self with  projects  and  efforts.  Sometimes, 
alas,  you  do  worse,  though  in  the  other  direc- 
tion,— where  Canteen-keepers  have  pretty 
wives!  A  mere  peccadillo  this  of  the  frail 
fair  Cantiniere,  (according  to  the  Fils  AdojUif;) 
of  which  too  much  was  made  at  the  time. — 
Nor  are  juste'r  consolations  wanting;  sisters 
and  brothers  bidding  you  be  of  hope.  Our 
readers  have  heard  Count  Mirabeau  designated 
"as  the  elder  of  my  lads:"  what  if  we  now 
exhibited  the  younger  for  one  moment?  The 
Maltese  Chevalier  de  Mirabeau,  a  rough  son 
of  the  sea  in  those  days :  he  also  is  a  sad  dog, 
but  has  the  advantage  of  not  being  the  elder. 
He  has  started  from  Malta,  from  a  sick  bed, 
and  got  hither  to  Marseilles,  in  the  dead  of 
winter;  the  link  of  Nature  drawing  him,  shag- 
gy sea-monster  as  he  is. 

"  It  was  a  rough  wind  ;  none  of  the  boatmen 
would  leave  the  quay  with  me:  I  induced  two 
of  them,  more  by  bullying  than  by  money ;  for 


thou  knowest  I  have  no  money,  and  am  well 
furnished,  thank  God,  with  the  gift  of  speak- 
ing or  stuttering.  I  reach  the  Castle  of  If: 
gates  closed ;  and  the  Lieutenant,  as  M.  Dalle- 
gre was  not  there,  tells  me  quite  sweetly  that 
I  must  return  as  I  came.  '  Not,  if  you  please, 
till  I  have  seen  Gabriel.' — '  It  is  not  allowed.' 
— *I  will  write  to  him.' — 'Not  that  either.' — 
'Then  I  will  wait  for  M.  Dallegre.' — 'Just 
so ;  but  for  four-and-twenty  hours,  not  more.' 
Whereupon  I  take  my  resolution;  go  to  la 
Mouret,"  (canteen-keeper's  pretty  wife ;)  "  we 
agree  that  so  soon  as  the  tattoo  is  beat,  I  shall 
see  this  poor  devil.  I  get  to  him,  in  fact ;  not 
like  a  paladin,  but  like  a  pickpocket  or  a  gal- 
lant, which  thou  wilt ;  and  we  unbosom  our- 
selves. They  had  been  afraid  that  he  would 
heat  my  head  to  the  temperature  of  his  own  : 
Sister  Cabris,  they  do  him  little  justice  ;  I  can 
assure  thee  that  while  he  was  telling  me  his 
story,  and  when  my  rage  broke  out  in  these 
words :  '  Though  still  weakly,  I  have  two 
arms,  strong  enough  to  break  M.  Villeneuve- 
Moans's,  or  his  cowardly  persecuting  brother's 
at  least,'  he  said  to  me,  ^  Mon  ami,  thou  wilt 
ruin  us  both.'  And,  I  confess,  this  considera- 
tion alone,  perhaps,  hindered  the  execution  of 
a  project,  which  could  not  have  profited, 
which  nothing  but  the  fermentation  of  a  head 
such  as  mine  could  excuse." — Vol.  ii.  p.  43. 

Reader,  this  tarry  young  Maltese  chevalier 
is  the  Vicomte  de  Mirabeau,  or  Younger  Mira- 
beau ;  whom  all  men  heard  of  in  the  Revolu- 
tion time, — oftenest  by  the  more  familiar  name 
of  MirabeavrTonneau,  or  Barrel  Mirabeau,  from 
his  bulk,  and  the  quantity  of  drink  he  usually 
held.  It  is  the  same  Barrel  Mirabeau  who,  in 
the  States-General,  broke  his  sword,  because 
the  Noblesse  gave  in,  and  chivalry  was  now 
ended:  for  in  politics  he  was  directly  the  op- 
posite of  his  elder  brother;  and  spoke  consi- 
derably as  a  public  man,  making  men  laugh, 
(for  he  was  a  wild  surly  fellow,  with  much 
wit  in  him  and  much  liquor;) — then  went  in- 
dignantly across  the  Rhine,  and  drilled  Emi- 
grant Regiments;  but  as  he  sat  one  morning 
in  his  tent,  sour  of  stomach  doubtless  and  of 
heart,  meditating  in  Tartarean  humour  on  the 
turn  things  took,  a  certain  captain  or  subaltern 
demands  admittance  on  business;  is  refused; 
again  demands,  and  then  again,  till  the  Colo- 
nel Viscount  Barrel  Mirabeau,  blazing  up  into 
a  mere  burning  brandy-barrel,  clutches  his 
sword,  and  tumbles  out  on  this  canaille  of  an 
intruder, — alas,  on  the  canaille  of  an  intruder's 
sword's  point,  (who  drew  with  swift  dexterity,) 
and  dies,  and  it  is  all  done  with  him !  That 
was  the  fifth  act  of  Barrel  Mirabeau's  life- 
tragedy,  (unlike,  and  yet  like,  this  first  act  in 
the  Castle  of  If;)  and  so  the  curtain  fell,  the 
Newspapers  calling  it  "  apoplexy"  and  "  alarm- 
ing accident." 

Brother  and  sisters,  the  little  brown  Wife, 
the  Cerberus  of  If,  all  solicit  for  a  penitent  un- 
fortunate sinner.  The  old  Marquis's  ear  is 
deaf  as  that  of  Destiny.  Solely,  by  way  of 
variation,  not  of  alleviation,  (especially  as  the 
If  Cerberus  too  has  been  bewitched,)  he  has 
this  sinner  removed,  in  May  next,  after  some 
nine  months'  space,  to  the  Castle  of  Joux;  an 
"old  Owl's  nest,  with  a  ^evf  invalids,"  among 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


497 


the  Jura  Mountains.  Instead  of  melancholy 
main,  let  him  now  try  the  melancholy  granites, 
(still  capped  with  snow  at  this  season,)  with 
their  mists  and  owlets ;  and  on  the  whole  ad- 
just himself  as  if  for  permanence  or  continu- 
ance there ;  on  a  pension  of  1,200  francs,  fifty 
pounds  a  year,  since  he  could  not  do  with  five 
hundred !  Poor  Mirabeau  ; — and  poor  Mira- 
beau's  Wife  1  Reader,  the  foolish  little  brown 
woman  tires  of  soliciting;  her  child  being 
buried,  her  husband  buried  alive,  and  her  little 
brown  self  being  still  above  ground  and  under 
twenty,  she  takes  to  recreation,  theoretic  flirta- 
tion ;  ceases  soliciting,  begins  successful  for- 
getting. The  marriage,  cut  asunder  that  day 
the  catchpole  chaise  drew  up  at  Manosque, 
will  never  come  together  again,  in  spite  of  ef- 
forts; but  flow  onwards  in  two  separate 
streams,  to  lose  itself  in  the  frightfullest  sand- 
deserts.  Husband  and  wife  never  more  saw 
each  other  with  eyes. 

Not  far  from  the  melancholy  Castle  of  Joux 
lies  the  little  melancholy  borough  of  Pontar- 
lier;  whither  our  Prisoner  has  leave,  on  his 
parole,  to  walk  when  he  chooses.  A  melan- 
choly little  borough  ;  yet  in  it  is  a  certain  Mon- 
nier  Household ;  whereby  hangs,  and  will  hang, 
a  tale.  Of  old  M.  Monnier,  respectable  legal 
President,  now  in  his  seventy-fifth  year,  we 
shall  say  less  than  of  his  wife,  Sophie  Mon- 
nier, (once  de  Ruffey,  from  Dijon,  sprung  from 
legal  Presidents  there,)  Avho  is  still  but  short 
way  out  of  her  teens.  Yet  she  has  been  mar- 
ried (or  seemed  to  be  married)  four  years: 
one  of  the  loveliest  sad-heroic  women  of  this 
or  any  district  of  country.  What  accursed 
freak  of  Fate  brought  January  and  May  to- 
gether here  once  again  ?  Alas,  it  is  a  custom 
there,  good  reader!  Thus  the  old  Naturalist 
BuflJbn,  who,  at  the  age  of  sixty-three,  (what  is 
called  "the  St.  Martin's  summer  of  incipient 
dotage  and  new  myrtle  garlands,"  which  visits 
some  men,)  went  ransacking  the  country  for  a 
young  wife,  had  very  nearly  got  this  identical 
Sophie  ;  but  did  get  another,  known  as  Madame 
de  Buffbn,  well  known  to  Philip  Egalite,  having 
turned  out  ill.  Sophie  de  Ruffey  loved  wise 
men,  but  not  at  that  extremely  advanced  pe- 
riod of  life.  However,  the  question  for  her 
is:  Does  she  love  a  Convent  better]  Her 
mother  and  father  are  rigidly  devout,  and 
rigidly  vain  and  poor:  the  poor  girl,  sad- 
heroic,  is  probably  a  kind  of  freethinker.  And 
now,  old  President  Monnier  "  quarrelling  with 
his  daughter;  and  then  coming  over  to  Pontar- 
lier  with  gold-bags,  marriage-settlements,  and 
the  prospect  of  dying  soon?"  It  is  that  same 
miserable  tale,  often  sung  against,  often 
spoken  against;  very  miserable  indeed. — But 
fancy  what  an  effect  the  fiery  eloquence  of  a 
Mirabeau  produced  in  this  sombre  Household: 
one's  young  girl-dreams  incarnated,  most  un- 
expectedly, in  this  wild  glowing  mass  of  man- 
hood, (though  rather  ugly;)  old  Monnier  him- 
self gleaming  up  into  a  kind  of  vitality  to  hear 
him !  Or  fancy  whether  a  sad-heroic  face, 
glancing  on  you  with  a  thankfulness  like  to  be- 
come glad-heroic,  were  not 1     Mirabeau 

felt,  by  known  symptoms,  that  the  sweetest, 
fatalest  incantation  was  stealing  over  him, 
63 


which  could  lead  only  to  the  devil,  for  all  par- 
ties interested.  He  wrote  to  his  wife,  entreat- 
ing, in  the  name  of  Heaven,  that  she  would 
come  to  him  :  thereby  might  the  "  sight  of  his 
duties"  fortify  him;  he  meanwhile  would  at 
least  forbear  Pontarlier.  The  wife  "  answered 
by  a  few  icy  lines,  indicating,  in  a  covert  way, 
that  she  thought  me  not  in  my  wits."  He 
ceases  forbearing  Pontarlier;  sweeter  is  it 
than  the  Owl's  nest:  he  returns  thither,  with 

sweeter  and  ever  sweeter  welcome ;  and  so ! 

Old  Monnier  saw  nothing,  or  winked  hard; 
— not  so  our  old  foolish  Commandant  of  the 
Castle  of  Joux.  He,  though  kind  to  his  pri- 
soner formerly,  "had  been  making  some  pre- 
tensions to  Sophie  himself;  he  was  but  forty  or 
five-and-forty  years  older  than  I ;  my  ugliness 
was  not  greater  than  his ;  and  I  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  an  honest  man."  Green-eyed 
Jealousy,  in  the  shape  of  this  old  ugly  Com- 
mandant, warns  Monnier  by  letter;  also,  on 
some  thin  pretext,  restricts  Mirabeau  hence- 
forth to  the  four  walls  of  Joux.  Mirabeau  flings 
back  such  restriction  in  an  indignant  Letter 
to  this  green-eyed  Commandant ;  indignantly 
steps  over  into  Switzerland,  which  is  but  a  few 
miles  off"; — returns,  however,  in  a  day  or  two, 
(it  is  dark  January,  1776,)  covertly  to  Pontar- 
lier. There  is  an  explosion,  what  they  call 
eclat.  Sophie  Monnier,  sharply  dealt  with, 
resists ;  avows  her  love  for  Gabriel  Honore ; 
asserts  her  right  to  love  him,  her  purpose  to 
continue  doing  it.  She  is  sent  home  to  Dijon  ; 
Gabriel  Honore  covertly  follows  her  thither. 
Explosions  :  what  a  continued,  series  of  ex- 
plosions,— through  winter,  spring,  summer! 
There  are  tears,  devotional  exercises,  threaten- 
ings  to  commit  suicide;  there  are  stolen  in- 
terviews, perils,  proud  avowals,  and  lowly  con- 
cealments. He  on  his  part,  "voluntarily 
constitutes  himself  prisoner;"  and  does  other 
haughty,  vehement  things;  some  Command* 
ants  behaving  honourably,  and  some  not :  one 
Commandant  (old  Marquis  Mirabeau  of  the 
Chateau  of  Bignon)  getting  ready  his  thunder- 
bolts in  the  distance !  "  I  have  been  lucky 
enough  to  obtain  Mont  St.  Michel,  in  Norman- 
dy," says  the  old  Marquis  :  "  I  think  that  pri- 
son good,  because  there  is  first  the  castle  itself, 
then  a  ring-work  all  round  the  mountain ;  and, 
after  that,  a  pretty  long  passage  among  the 
sands,  where  you  need  guides,  to  avoid  being 
drowned  in  the  quicksands."  Yes,  it  rises  there, 
that  Mountain  of  St.  Michel,  and  Mountain  of 
Misery  ;  towering  sheer  up,  like  a  bleak  Pisgah 
with  outlooks  only  into  Desolation,  sand,  salt- 
water, and  Despair.*  Fly,  thou  poor  Gabriel 
Honore  !  Thou  poor  Sophie,  return  to  Ponlar- 
lier ;  for  Convent-walls  too  are  cruel ! 

Gabriel  flies ;  and  indeed  there  fly  with  him 
sister  Cabris  and  her  preternuptial  epauletted 
Brianson,  who  are  already  in  flight  for  their 
own  behoof:  into  deep  thickets  and  covered 
ways,  wide  over  the  South-west  of  France. 
Marquis  Mirabeau,  thinking  with  a  fond  sor- 
row of  Mont  St.  Michel  and  its  quicksands, 
chooses  the  two  best  bloodhounds  the  Police  of 
Paris  has,  (Inspector  Brugniere  and  another)  ; 
and,  unmuzzling  them,  cries:  Hunt! — "Mon- 
sieur, we  have  done  all  that  the  human  mind 
*  See  Memoires  de  Madame  de  Genlis,  iii.  SOI. 
2t2 


498 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


(Vesprit  humain)  can  imagine,  and  this  when 
the  heats  are  so  excessive,  and  we  are  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  and  our  legs  swoln." 

No :  all  that  the  human  mind  can  imagine 
is  ineffectual.  On  the  twenty-third  night  of 
August,  (l''"^6,)  Sophie  de  Monnier,  in  man's 
clothes,  is  scaling  the  Monnier  garden-wall  at 
Pontarlier;  is  crossing  the  Swiss  marches, 
wrapped  in  a  cloak  of  darkness,  borne  on  the 
wings  of  love  and  despair.  Gabriel  Honore, 
wrapped  in  the  like  cloak,  borne  on  the  like 
vehicle,  is  gone  with  her  to  Holland, — thence- 
forth a  broken  man. 

"  Crime  for  ever  lamentable,"  ejaculates  the 
Fils  jldoptif;  "of  which  the  world  has  so 
spoken,  and  must  for  ever  speak !"  There 
are,  indeed,  many  things  easy  to  be  spoken 
of  it ;  and  also  some  things  not  easy  to  be 
spoken.  Why,  for  example,  thou  virtuous  Fils 
Adoptif,  was  that  of  the  Canteen-keeper's  wife 
at  If  such  a  peccadillo,  and  this  of  the  legal 
President's  wife  such  a  crime,  lamentable  to 
that  late  date  of  "for  ever?"  The  present  re- 
viewer fancies  them  to  be  the  same  crime. 
Again,  might  not  the  first  grand  criminal  and 
sinner  in  this  business  be  legal  President  Mon- 
nier, the  distracted,  spleen-stricken,  moon- 
stricken  old  man ; — liable  to  trial,  with  non- 
acquittal  or  difficult  acquittal,  at  the  great  Bar 
of  Nature  herself?  And  then  the  second  sin- 
ner in  it?  and  the  third  and  the  fourth  ?  "He 
that  is  without  sin  among  you  !" — One  thing, 
therefore,  the  present  reviewer  will  speak,  in 
the  words  of  old  Samuel  Johnson :  My  dear 
Fils  Jtdoptif,  my  dear  brethren  of  Mankind, 
"  endeavour  to  clear  your  mind  of  Cant !"  It 
is  positively  the  prime  necessity  for  all  men, 
and  all  women  and  children,  in  these  days, 
who  would  have  their  souls  live,  (were  it  even 
feebly,)  and  not  die  of  the  detestablest  as- 
phyxia ;  as  in  carbonic  vapour,  the  more  hor- 
rible (for  breathing  of)  the  more  clean  it  looks. 

That  the  Parlement  of  Besangon  indicted  Mi- 
rabeau  for  rapt  et  vol,  abduction  and  robbery  ; 
that  they  condemned  him  "in  contumacious 
absence,"  and  went  the  length  of  beheading  a 
Paper  Eifigy  of  him,  was  perhaps  extremely 
suitable ; — but  not  to  be  dwelt  on  here.  Neither 
do  we  pry  curiously  into  the  garret-life  in  Hol- 
land and  Amsterdam ;  being  straitened  forroom. 
The  wild  man  and  his  beautiful  sad-heroic 
woman  lived  out  their  romance  of  reality,  as 
well  as  was  expected.  Hot  tempers  go  not  al- 
ways softly  together ;  neither  did  the  course  of 
true  love,  either  in  wedlock  or  in  elopement, 
ever  run  smooth.  Yet  it  did  run,  in  this  in- 
stance, copious,  if  not  smooth ;  with  quarrel 
and  reconcilement,  tears  and  heart-effusion; 
sharp  tropical  squalls,  and  also  the  gorgeous 
effulgence  and  exuberance  of  general  tropical 
weather.  It  was  like  a  little  Paphos  islet  in 
the  middle  of  blackness  ;  the  very  danger  and 
-despair  that  environed  it  made  the  islet  bliss- 
ful;— even  as  in  virtue  of  death,  life  to  the 
fretfuUest  becomes  tolerable,  becomes  sweet, 
death  being  so  nigh.  At  any  hour,  might  not 
kini^^'s  exempt  or  other  dread  alguazil  knock  at 
our  garret  establishment,  (here  "  in  the  Kalbes- 
trand,  at  Lequesne  the  tailor's,")  and  dissolve 
it?  Gabriel  toils  for  Dutch  booksellers  ;  bear- 
ing  their  heavy  load ;    translating    Watsofi's 


Philip  Second;  doing  endless  Gibeonite  work: 
earning,  however,  his  gold  louis  a  day.  Sophie 
sews  and  scours  beside  him,  with  her  soft  fin- 
gers, not  grudging  it :  in  hard  toils,  in  trem- 
bling joys  begirt  with  terrors,  with  one  terror, 
that  of  being  parted, — their  days  roll  swiftly  on. 
For  eight  tropical  months  ! — Ah,  at  the  end  of 
some  eight  months,  (14th  May,  1777,)  enter  the 
alguazil !  He  is  in  the  shape  of  Brugniere,  our 
old  slot-hound  of  the  South-west ;  the  swelling 
of  his  legs  is  fallen  now;  this  time  the  human 
mind  has  been  able  to  manage  it.  He  carries 
Kings  orders,  High  Mightiness'  sanctions; 
sealed  parchments.  Gabriel  Honore  shall 
be  carried  this  way,  Sophie  that ;  Sophie,  like 
to  be  a  mother,  shall  behold  him  no  more. 
Desperation,  even  in  the  female  character,  can 
go  no  farther:  she  will  kill  herself  that  hour, 
as  even  the  slot-hound  believes, — had  not  the 
very  slot-hound,  in  mercy,  undertaken  that 
they  should  have  some  means  of  correspond- 
ence ;  that  hope  should  not  utterly  be  cut  away. 
With  embracings  and  interjections,  sobbings 
that  cannot  be  uttered,  they  tear  themselves 
asunder,  stony  Paris  now  nigh  :  Mirabeau  to- 
wards his  prison  of  Vincennes  ;  Sophie  to  some 
milder  Convent-parlour  relegation,  there  to 
await  what  Fate,  very  minatory  at  this  time, 
will  see  good  to  bring. 

Conceive  the  giant  Mirabeau  locked  fast, 
then,  in  Doubting-castle  of  Vincennes  ;  his  hot 
soul  surging  up,  wildly  breaking  itself  against 
cold  obstruction ;  the  voice  of  his  despair  re- 
verberated on  him  by  dead  stone  walls.  Fallen 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  the  ambitious  haughty 
man ;  his  fair  life-hopes  from  without  all 
spoiled  and  become  foul  ashes;  and  from 
within, — what  he  has  done,  what  he  has  parted 
with  and  wrjdone  !  Deaf  as  Destiny  is  a  Rha- 
damanthine  father;  inaccessible  even  to  the  at- 
tempt at  pleading.  Heavy  doors  have  slammed 
to;  their  bolts  growling  Wo  to  thee!  Great 
Paris  sends  eastward  its  daily  multitudinous 
hum ;  in  the  evening  sun  thou  seest  its 
weathercocks  glitter,  its  old  grim  towers  and 
fuliginous  life-breath  all  gilded:  and  thou? — 
Neither  evening  nor  morning,  nor  change  of 
day  nor  season,  brings  deliverance.  For- 
gotten of  Earth;  not  too  hopefully  remem- 
bered of  Heaven  !  No  passionate  Pater-Pec- 
cavi  can  move  an  old  Marquis ;  deaf  he  as 
Destiny.  Thou  must  sit  there. — For  forty-two 
months,  by  the  great  Zodiacal  Horologe  !  The 
heir  of  the  Riquettis,  sinful,  and  yet  more 
sinned  against,  has  worn  out  his  wardrobe; 
complaints  that  his  clothes  get  looped  and 
windowed,  insufficient  against  the  weather. 
His  eyesight  is  failing;  the  family  disorder, 
nephritis,  afflicts  him;  the  doctors  declare 
horse-exercise  essential  to  preserve  life. 
Within  the  walls  then !  answers  the  old 
Marquis.  Count  de  Mirabeau  "rides  in  the 
garden  of  forty  paces;"  with  quick  turns, 
hamperedly,  overlooked  by  donjons  and  high 
stone  barriers. 

And  yet  fancy  not  Mirabeau  spent  his  time 
in  mere  wailing  and  raging.     Far  from  that! — 

To  whine,  put  finger  i'  the  eye,  and  sob, 

Because  he  had  ne'er  another  tub, 
was  in  no  case  Mirabeau's  method,  more  than 
Diogenes's.     Other  such  wild-glowing  Mass 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


499 


of  Life,  which  you  might  beat  with  Cyclops' 
hammers,  (and,  alas,  not  beat  the  dross  out  of,) 
was  not  in  Europe  at  that  time.  Call  him  not 
the  strongest  man  then  living ;  for  light,  as  we 
said,  and  not  fire,  is  the  strong  thing;  yet  call 
him  strong  too,  very  strong ;  and  for  tough- 
ness, tenacity,  vivaciousness,  and  a  fond  gail- 
lard,  call  him  toughest  of  all.  Raging  pas- 
sions, ill-governed ;  reckless  tumult  from 
within,  merciless  oppression  from  without; 
ten  men  might  have  died  of  what  this  Gabriel 
Honore  did  not  yet  die  of.  Police-captain 
Lenoir  allowed  him,  in  mercy  and  according 
to  engagement,  to  correspond  with  Sophie ; 
the  condition  was  that  the  letters  should  be 
seen  by  Lenoir,  and  be  returned  into  his  keep- 
ing. Mirabeau  corresponded ;  in  fire  and  tears, 
copiously,  not  Werter-like,  but  Mirabeau-like. 
Then  he  had  penitential  petitions,  Pater-Pec- 
cavis  to  write,  to  get  presented  and  enforced; 
for  which  end  all  manner  of  friends  must  be 
urged:  correspondence  enough.  Besides,  he 
could  read,  though  very  limitedly :  he  could 
even  compose  or  compile ;  extracting,  not  in 
the  manner  of  the  bee,  from  the  very  Bible 
and  Dom  Calmet,  a  Bihlion  Eroticon,  which  can 
be  recommended  to  no  woman  or  man.  The 
pious  FUs  Adoftif  drops  a  veil  over  his  face 
at  this  scandal ;  and  says  lamentably  that  there 
is  nothing  to  be  said.  As  for  Correspondence 
with  Sophie,  it  lay  in  Lenoir's  desk  forgotten ; 
but  was  found  there  by  Manuel,  Procureur  of 
the  Commune  in  1792,  when  so  many  desks 
flew  open;  and  by  him  given  to  the  world.  A 
book  which  fair  sensibility  (rather  in  a  private 
way)  loves  to  weep  over:  not  this  reviewer, 
to  any  considerable  extent;  not  at  all  here,  in 
his  present  strait  for  room.  Good  love-letters 
of  their  kind  notwithstanding.  But  if  any 
thing  can  swell  farther  the  tears  of  fair  sensi- 
bility over  Mirabeau's  "  Correspondence  of  Vin- 
cennes,"  it  must  be  this :  the  issue  it  ended  in. 
After  a  space  of  years  these  two  lovers, 
wrenched  asunder  in  Holland,  and  allowed  to 
correspond  that  they  might  not  poison  them- 
selves, met  again:  it  was  under  cloud  of 
night;  in  Sophie's  apartment,  in  the  country  ; 
Mirabeau,  "  disguised  as  a  porter,"  had  come 
thither  from  a  considerable  distance.  And 
they  flew  into  each  other's  arms;  to  weep 
their  child  dead,  their  long  unspeakable  woes? 
Not  at  all.  They  stood,  arms  stretched  ora- 
lorically,  calling  one  another  to  account  for 
causes  of  jealousy;  grew  always  louder,  arms 
set  a-kimbo ;  and  parted  quite  loud,  never  to 
meet  more  on  earth.  In  September,  1789, 
Mirabeau  had  risen  to  be  a  world's  wonder: 
and  Sophie,  far  from  him,  had  sunk  out  of  the 
world's  sight,  respected  only  in  the  little  town 
of  Gien.  On  the  9ih  night  of  September,  Mira- 
beau might  be  thundering  in  the  Versailles 
Salle  des  Menus,  to  be  reported  of  all  Journals 
on  the  morrow;  and  Sophie,  twice  disap- 
pointed of  new  marriage,  the  sad-heroic  tem- 
per darkened  now  into  perfect  black,  was  re- 
clining, self-tied  to  her  sofa,  with  a  pan  of 
charcoal  burning  near;  to  die  as  the  unhappy 
die.  Said  we  not,  "  the  course  of  true  love 
never  did  run  smooth  ]" 

However,  after  two-and-forty  months,  and 
negotiations,  and  more  intercessions  than  in 


Catholic  countries  will  free  a  soul  out  of  pur- 
gatory, Mirabeau  is  once  more  delivered  from 
the  strong  place:  not  into  his  own  home, 
(home,  wife,  and  the  whole  Past  are  far  parted 
from  him;)  not  into  his  father's  home;  but 
forth ; — hurled  forth,  to  seek  his  fortune  Ish- 
mael-like  in  the  wide  hunting-field  of  the  world. 
Consider  him,  O  Reader;  thou  wilt  find  him 
very  notable.  A  disgraced  man,  not  a  broken 
one;  ruined  outwardly,  not  ruined  inwardly; 
not  yet,  for  there  is  no  ruining  of  him  on  that 
side.  Such  a  buoyancy  of  radical  fire  and. 
fond  gaillard  he  has ;  with  his  dignity  and 
vanity,  levity,  solidity,  with  his  virtues  and  his 
vices, — what  a  front  he  shows  !  You  would 
say,  he  bates  not  a  jot,  in  these  sad  circum- 
stances, of  what  he  claimed  from  Fortune,  but 
rather  enlarges  it:  his  proud  soul,  so  galled, 
deformed  by  manacles  and  bondage,  flings 
away  its  prison-gear,  bounds  forth  to  the  fight 
again,  as  if  victory,  after  all,  were  certain. 
Post-horses  to  Pontarlier  and  the  Besan9on 
Parlement;  that  that  "sentence  by  contu- 
macy" be  annulled,  and  the  Paper  Efligy  have 
its  Head  stuck  on  again  !  The  wild  giant, 
said  to  be  "absent  by  contumacy,"  sits  volun- 
tarily in  the  Pontarlier  Jail ;  thunders  in  plead- 
ings which  make  Parlementeers  quake,  and 
all  France  listen  ;  and  the  Head  reunites  it- 
self to  the  Paper  Effigy  with  apologies.  Mon- 
nier  and  the  De  Ruffeys  know  who  is  the  most 
impudent  man  alive :  the  world  with  astonish- 
ment, Avho  is  one  of  the  ablest.  Even  the  old 
Marquis  snuffles  approval,  though  with  quali- 
fication. Tough  old  Man,  he  has  lost  his  own 
world-famous  Lawsuit  and  other  lawsuits,  with 
ruinous  expenses;  has  seen  his  fortune  and 
projects  fail,  and  even  letlres  de  cachet  turn  out 
not  always  satisfactory  or  sanatory;  where- 
fore he  summons  his  children  about  him ;  and, 
really  in  a  very  serene  way,  declares  himself 
invalided,  fit  only  for  the  chimney-nook  now; 
to  sit  patching  his  old  mind  together  again, 
(a  rebouter  sa  tete,  d  se  recoudre  piece  a  piece ;) 
advice  and  countenance  they,  the  deserving 
part  of  them,  shall  always  enjoy;  but  Icttres  de 
cachet,  or  other  the  like  benefit  and  guidance, 
not  any  more.  Right  so,  thou  best  of  old 
Marquises  !  There  he  rests  then,  like  the  still 
evening  of  a  thundery  day ;  thunders  no  more ; 
but  rays  forth  many  a  curiously-tinted  light- 
beam  and  remark  on  life ;  serene  to  the  last. 
Among  Mirabeau's  small  catalogue  of  virtues, 
(very  small  of  formulary  and  conventional 
virtues,)  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  he  loved 
this  old  father  warmly  to  the  end  ;  and  forgave 
his  cruelties,  or  forgot  them  in  kind  interpre- 
tation of  them. 

For  the  Pontarlier  paper  efl!igy,  therefore,  it 
is  well :  and  yet  a  man  lives  not  comfortably 
without  money.  Ah,  were  one's  marriage  not 
disrupted;  for  the  old  father-in-law  will  soon 
die ;  those  rich  expectations  were  then  fruitions ! 
The  ablest,  not  the  most  shame-faced  man  in 
France,  is  off,  next  spring  (1783,)  to  Aix;  stir- 
ring Parlement  and  Heaven  and  Earth  there, 
to  have  his  wife  back.  How  he  worked ;  with 
what  nobleness  and  courage,  (according  to 
the  Fils  Adoptif:)  giant's  work !  The  sound 
of  him  is  spread  over  France  and  over  the 
world;  English  travellers  (high  foreign  lord- 


600 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ships)  turning  aside  to  Aix;  and  "multitudes 
gathered  even  on  the  roofs"  to  hear  him,  the 
Court-house  being  crammed  to  bursting!  De- 
mosthenic fire  and  pathos  ;  penitent  husband 
calling  for  forgiveness  and  restitution: — "cc 
rCest  qu'un  claque-dents  et  unfol"  rays  forth  the  old 
Marquis  from  the  chimney-nook :  "  a  chatter- 
teeth  and  madman  1"  The  world  and  Parle- 
ment  thought  not  that ;  knew  not  what  to  think, 
if  not  that  this  was  the  questionablest  able  man 
they  had  ever  heard;  and,  alas,  still  farther, — 
that  his  cause  was  untenable.  No  wife  then ; 
and  no  money  !  From  this  second  attack  on 
Fortune,  Mirabeau  returns  foiled,  and  worse 
than  before  ;  resourceless,  for  now  the  old 
Marquis,  too,  again  eyes  him  askance.  He 
must  hunt  Ishmael-like,  as  we  said.  Whatso- 
ever of  wit  or  strength  he  has  within  himself 
will  stand  true  to  him;  on  that  he  can  count; 
unfortunately  on  almost  nothing  but  that. 

Mirabeau's  life  for  the  next  five  years,  which 
creeps  troublous,  obscure,  through  several  of 
these  Eight  Volumes,  will  probably,  in  the 
One  right  Volume  which  they  hold  imprisoned, 
be  delineated  briefly.  It  is  the  long-drawn 
practical  improvement  of  the  sermon  already 
preached  in  Rhe,  in  If,  in  Joux,  in  Holland,  in 
Vincennes,  and  elsewhere.  A  giant  man  in 
the  flower  of  his  years,  in  the  winter  of  his 
prospects,  has  to  see  how  he  will  reconcile 
these  two  contradictions.  With  giant  energies 
and  talents,  with  giant  virtues  even,  he,  burn- 
ing to  unfold  himself,  has  got  put  into  his 
hands,  for  implements  and  means  to  do  it  with, 
disgrace,  contumely,  obstruction;  character 
elevated  only  as  Haman  was ;  purse  full  only 
of  debt-summonses;  household,  home,  and 
possessions,  as  it  were,  sown  with  salt;  Ruin's 
plough-share  furrowing  too  deeply  himself  and 
all  that  was  his.  Under  these,  and  not  under 
other  conditions,  shall  this  man  now  live  and 
struggle.  Well  might  he  "weep"  long  after- 
wards, (though  not  given  to  the  melting  mood,) 
thinking  over,  with  Dumont,  how  his  life  had 
been  blasted,  by  himself,  by  others ;  and  was 
now  so  defaced  and  thunder-riven,  no  glory 
could  make  it  whole  again.  Truly,  as  we 
often  say,  a  weaker,  and  yet  very  strong  man, 
might  have  died, — by  hypochondria,  by  brandy, 
or  by  arsenic :  but  Mirabeau  did  not  die.  The 
world  is  not  his  friend,  nor  the  world's  law 
and  formula  ]  It  will  be  his  enemy  then  ;  his 
conqueror  and  master  not  altogether.  There 
are  strong  men  who  can,  in  case  of  necessity, 
make  way  with  formulas,  (hmner  les  fornmles,) 
and  yet  find  a  habitation  behind  them :  these 
are  the  very  strong;  and  Mirabeau  was  of 
these.  The  world's  esteem  having  gone  quite 
against  him,  and  most  circles  of  society,  with 
their  codes  and  regulations,  pronouncing  little 
but  anathema  on  him,  he  is  nevertheless  not 
lost ;  he  does  not  sink  to  desperation  ;  not  to  dis- 
honesty, or  pusillanimity,  or  splenetic  aridity. 
Nowise !  In  spite  of  the  world,  he  is  a  living 
strong  man  there  :  the  world  cannot  take  from 
him  his  just  consciousness  of  himself,  his  warm 
open-hearted  feeling  towards  others;  there 
are  still  limits,  on  all  sides,  to  which  the  world 
and  the  devil  cannot  drive  him.  The  giant, 
we  say !     How  he  stands,  like  a  mountain ; 


thunder-riven,  but  broad-based,  rooted  in  the 
Earth's  (in  Nature's)  own  rocks ;  and  will  not 
tumble  prostrate  !  So  true  is  it  what  a  moralist 
has  said :  "  One  could  not  wish  any  man  to 
fall  into  a  fault;  yet  is  it  often  precisely  after 
a  fault,  or  a  crime  even,  that  the  morality 
which  is  in  a  man  first  unfolds  itself,  and  what 
of  strength  he  as  a  man  possesses,  now  when 
all  else  is  gone  from  him." 

Mirabeau,  through  these  dim  years,  is  seen 
wandering  from  place  to  place ;  in  France, 
Germany,  Holland,  England;  finding  no  rest 
for  the  sole  of  his  foot.  It  is  a  life  of  shifts 
and  expedients,  au  jour  le  jour.  Extravagant 
in  his  expenses,  thriftless,  swimming  in  a 
welter  of  debts  and  difficulties  ;  for  which  he 
has  to  provide  by  fierce  industry;  by  skill  in 
financiership.  The  man's  revenue  is  his  wits ; 
he  has  a  pen  and  a  head ;  and,  happily  for 
him,  "  is  the  demon  of  the  impossible."  At  no 
time  is  he  without  some  blazing  project  or 
other,  which  shall  warm  and  illuminate  far 
and  wide ;  which  too  often  blazes  out  inefl^ec- 
tual ;  which  in  that  case  he  replaces  and  re- 
news, for  his  hope  is  inexhaustible.  He  writes 
pamphlets  unweariedly  as  a  steam-engine : 
On  the  Opening  of  the  Scheldt,  and  Kaiser  Joseph : 
On  the  Order  of  Cincinnatus  and  Washington : 
on  Count  Cagliostro,  and  the  Diamond  Necklace. 
Innumerable  are  the  helpers  and  journeymen 
(respectable  Mauvillons,  respectable  Dumonts) 
whom  he  can  set  working  for  him  on  such 
matters ;  it  is  a  gift  he  has.  He  writes  Books, 
in  as  many  as  eight  volumes,  which  are  pro- 
perly only  a  larger  kind  of  Pamphlets.  He 
has  polemics  with  Caron  Beauniarchais  on 
the  water-company  of  Paris ;  lean  Caron  shoot- 
ing sharp  arrows  into  him,  which  he  responds 
to  demoniacally,  "flinging  hills  with  all  their 
woods."  He  is  intimate  with  many  men  ;  his 
"terrible  gift  of  familiarly,"  his  joyous  courtier- 
ship  and  faculty  of  pleasing,  do  not  forsake 
him  :  but  it  is  a  questionable  intimacy,  granted 
to  the  man's  talents,  in  spite  of  his  character: 
a  relation  which  the  proud  Riquetti,  not  the 
humbler  that  he  is  poor  and  ruined,  correctly 
feels.  With  still  more  women  is  he  intimate ; 
girt  with  a  whole  system  of  intrigues,  in  that 
sort,  wherever  he  abide;  seldom  travelling 
without  a — wife  (let  us  call  her)  engaged  by 
the  year,  or  during  mutual  satisfaction.  On 
this  large  department  of  Mirabeau's  history, 
what  can  you  say,  except  that  his  incontinence 
was  great,  enormous,  entirely  indefensible  1 
If  any  one  please  (which  we  do  not)  to  be  pre- 
sent, with  the  Fils  Jdopfif,  at  "the  avtopsie" 
and  post-morlem  examination,  he  will  see  curious 
documents  on  this  head;  and  to  what  depths 
of  penalty  Nature,  in  her  just  self-vindication, 
can  sometimes  doom  men.  The  Fils  Adoplif 
is  very  sorry.  To  the  kind  called  unfortunate- 
females,  it  would  seem,  nevertheless,  this  un- 
fortunate-male had  an  aversion  amounting 
to  complete  nolo-tangere. 

The  old  Marquis  sits  apart  in  the  chimney- 
nook,  observant:  what  this  roaming,  unresting, 
rebellious  Titan  of  a  Count  may  ever  prove  of 
use  fori  If  it  be  not,  0  Marquis,  for  the 
general  Overturn,  Culbute  Generale?  He  is 
swallowing  Formulas;  getting  endless  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Realities  of  things  anu 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


501 


men :  in  audacity,  in  recklessness,  he  will  not, 
it  is  like,  be  wanting.  The  old  Marquis  rays 
out  curious  observations  on  life; — yields  no 
effectual  assistance  of  money. 

Ministries  change  and  shift;  but  never,  in 
the  new  deal,  does  there  turn  up  a  good  card 
for  Mirabeau.  Necker  he  does  not  love,  nor 
is  love  lost  between  them.  Plausible  Calonne 
hears  him  Stentor-like  denouncing  stock-job- 
bing, (Denoncia^ion  de  VjSgiotage :)  communes 
with  him,  corresponds  with  him ;  is  glad  to 
get  him  sent,  in  some  semi-ostensible  or  spy- 
diplomatist  character,  to  Berlin ;  in  any  way 
to  have  him  sopped  and  quieted.  The  Great 
Frederic  was  still  on  the  scene,  though  now 
very  near  the  side-scenes :  the  wiry  thin  Drill- 
serjeant  of  the  World,  and  the  broad  burly 
Mutineer  of  the  World, glanced  into  one  another 
with  amazement;  the  one  making  entrance, 
the  other  making  exit.  To  this  Berlin  busi- 
ness we  owe  panaphlets ;  we  owe  Correspond- 
ences, ("  surreptitiously  published" — with  con- 
sent ;)  we  owe  (brave  Major  Mauvillon  serving 
as  hodman)  the  Monarchie  Prussienne,  a  Pam- 
phlet in  some  eight  octavo  Volumes,  portions 
of  which  are  still  well  worth  reading. 

Generally,  on  first  making  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  Mirabeau  as  a  writer  or 
speaker,  one  is  not  a  little  surprised.  Instead 
of  Irish  oratory,  with  tropes  and  declamatory 
fervid  feeling,  such  as  the  rumour  one  has 
heard  gives  prospect  of,  you  are  astonished  to 
meet  a  certain  hard  angular  distinctness,  a 
totally  unornamented  force  and  massiveness: 
clear  perspicuity,  strong  perspicacity,  convic- 
tion that  wishes  to  convince, — this  beyond  all 
things,  and  instead  of  all  things.  You  would 
say  the  primary  character  of  those  utterances, 
nay,  of  the  man  himself,  is  sincerity  and  in- 
sight; strength,  and  the  honest  use  of  strength. 
Which,  indeed,  it  is,  O  Reader!  Mirabeau's 
spiritual  gift  will  be  found  on  examination  to 
be  verily  an  honest  and  a  great  one;  far  the 
strongest,  best  practical  intellect  of  that  time; 
entitled  to  rank  among  the  strong  of  all  times. 
These  books  of  his  ought  to  be  riddled,  like 
this  book  of  the  Fils  Jdoptif.  There  is  pre- 
cious matter  in  them;  too  good  to  lie  hidden 
among  shot  rubbish.  Hear  this  man  on  any 
subject,  you  will  find  him  worth  considering. 
He  has  words  in  him,  rough  deliverances; 
such  as  men  do  not  forget.  As  thus  :  "  I  know 
but  three  ways  of  living  in  this  world:  by 
wages  for  work  ;  by  begging ;  thirdly,  by 
stealing,  (so  named,  or  not  so  named.)"  Again : 
"  Malebranche  saw  all  things  in  God ;  and  M. 
Necker  sees  all  things  in^Necker!"  There 
are  nicknames  of  Mirabeau's  worth  whole 
treatises.  "Grandison-Cromwell  Lafayette:" 
write  a  volume  on  the  man,  as  many  volumes 
have  been  written,  and  try  to  say  more!  It  is 
the  best  likeness  yet  drawn  of  him, — by  a 
flourish  and  two  dots.  Of  such  inexpressible 
advantage  is  it  that  a  man  have  "  an  eye,  in- 
stead of  a  pair  of  spectacles  merely ;"  that, 
seeing  through  the  formulas  of  things,  and 
even  "  making  away"  with  many  a  formula, 
he  sees  into  the  thing  itself,  and  so  know  it 
and  be  master  of  it! 

As  the  years  roll  on,  and  that  portentous 
decade  of  the  Eighties  (or  "Era  of  Hope") 


draws  towards  completion,  and  it  becomes 
ever  more  evident  to  Mirabeau  that  great 
things  are  in  the  wind,  we  find  his  wanderings, 
as  it  were,  quicken.  Suddenly  emerging  out 
of  Night  and  Cimmeria,  he  dashes  down  on 
the  Paris  world,  time  after  time ;  flashes  into 
it  with  that  fire-glance  of  his;  discerns  that 
the  time  is  not  yet  come;  and  then  merges 
back  again.  Occasionally  his  pamphlets  pro- 
voke a  fulmination  and  order  of  arrest,  where- 
fore he  must  merge  the  faster.  Nay,  your 
Calonne  is  good  enough  to  signify  it  before- 
hand :  On  such  and  such  a  day  I  shall  order 
you  to  be  arrested;  pray  make  speed  there- 
fore. When  the  Notables  meet,  in  the  spring 
of  1787,  Mirabeau  spreads  his  pinions,  alights 
on  Paris  and  Versailles ;  it  seems  to  him  he 
ought  to  be  secretary  of  those  Notables.  No ! 
friend  Dupont  de  Nemours  gets  it :  the  time 
is  not  yet  come.  It  is  still  but  the  time  of 
"  Crispin-Catiline"  d'Espremenil,  and  other 
such  animal-magnetic  persons.  Nevertheless, 
the  Reverend  Talleyrand,  judicious  Dukes, 
liberal  noble  friends  not  a  few,  are  sure  that 
the  time  will  come.     Abide  thy  time. 

Hark !  On  the  27th  of  December,  1788,  here 
finally  is  the  long-expected  announcing  itself: 
royal  Proclamation  definitively  convoking  the 
States-General  for  May  next !  Need  we  ask 
whether  Mirabeau  bestirs  himself  now;  whe- 
ther or  not  he  is  off  to  Provence,  to  the  As- 
sembly of  Noblesse  there,  with  all  his  faculties 
screwed  to  the  sticking-place?  One  strong 
dead-lift  pull,  thou  Titan ;  and  perhaps  thou 
carriest  it  !  How  Mirabeau  wrestled  and 
strove  under  these  auspices;  speaking  and 
contending  all  day,  writing  pamphlets,  para- 
graphs, all  night;  also  suffering  much, gather- 
ing his  wild  soul  together,  motionless  under 
reproaches,  under  drawn  swords  even,  lest  his 
enemies  throw  him  off  his  guard;  how  he 
agitates  and  represses,  unerringly  dexterous, 
sleeplessly  unwearied,  and  is  a  "  demon  of  the 
impossible,"  let  all  readers  fancy.  With  "  a 
body  of  Noblesse  more  ignorant,  greedier, 
more  insolent  than  any  I  have  ever  seen,"  the 
Swallower  of  Formulas  was  like  to  have  rough 
work.  We  must  give  his  celebrated  flinging 
up  of  the  handful  of  dust,  when  they  drove 
him  out  by  overwhelming  majority: — 

"What  have  I  done  that  was  so  criminal] 
I  have  wished  that  my  Order  were  wise  enough 
to  give  to-day  what  will  infallibly  be  wrested 
from  it  to-morrow ;  that  it  should  receive  the 
merits  and  glory  of  sanctioning  the  assemblage 
of  the  Three  Orders,  which  all  Provence  loudly 
demands.  This  is  the  crime  of  your  'enemy 
of  peace  !'  Or  rather  I  have  ventured  to  be- 
lieve that  the  people  might  be  in  the  right. 
Ah,  doubtless,  a  patrician  soiled  with  such  a 
thought  deserves  vengeance  !  But  I  am  still 
guiltier  than  you  think ;  for  it  is  my  belief  that 
the  people  which  complains  is  always  in  the 
right;  that  its  indefatigable  patience  invariably 
waits  the  uttermost  excesses  of  oppression, 
before  it  can  determine  on  resisting;  that  it 
never  resists  long  enough  to  obtain  complete 
redress  ;  and  does  not  sufliciently  know  that  to 
strike  its  enemies  into  terror  and  submission, 
it  has  only  to  stand  still,  that  the  most  inno- 
cent as  the  most  invincible  of  all  powers  is 


502 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  power  of  refusing  to  do.  I  believe  after 
this  manner:  punish  the  enemy  of  peace! 

"  But  you,  ministers  of  a  God  of  peace,  who 
are  ordained  to  bless  and  not  to  curse,  and  yet 
have  launched  your  anathema  on  me,  without 
even  the  attempt  at  enlightening!:  me,  at  rea- 
soning with  me  !  And  you,  'friends  of  peace,' 
who  denounce  to  the  people,  with  all  vehe- 
mence of  hatred,  the  one  defender  it  has  yet 
found,  out  of  its  own  ranks; — who,  to  bring 
about  concord,  are  filling  capital  and  province 
with  placards  calculated  to  arm  the  rural  dis- 
tricts against  the  towns,  if  your  deeds  did  not 
refute  your  writings ; — who,  to  prepare  ways 
of  conciliation,  protest  against  the  royal  Re- 
gulation for  convoking  the  Stales-General, 
because  it  grants  the  people  as  many  deputies 
as  both  the  other  orders,  and  against  all  that 
the  coming  National  Assembly  shall  do,  unless 
its  laws  secure  the  triumph  of  your  preten- 
sions, the  eternity  of  your  privileges  !  Disin- 
terested *  friends  of  peace  !'  I  have  appealed 
to  your  honour,  and  summon  you  to  slate  what 
expressions  of  mine  have  offended  against 
either  the  respect  we  owe  lo  the  royal  authority 
or  to  the  nation's  right?  Nobles  of  Provence, 
Europe  is  attentive;  weigh  well  your  answer. 
Men  of  God,  beware;  God  hears  you  ! 

"  And  if  you  do  not  answer,  but  keep  silence, 
shutting  yourselves  up  in  the  vague  declama- 
tions you  have  hurled  at  me,  then  allow  me  to 
add  one  word. 

"  In  all  countries,  in  all  times,  aristocrats 
have  implacably  persecuted  the  people's 
friends  ;  and  if,  by  some  singular  combination 
of  fortune,  there  chanced  to  arise  such  a  one 
in  their  own  circle,  it  was  he  above  all  whom 
they  struck  at,  eager  to  inspire  wider  terror  by 
the  elevation  of  their  victim.  Thus  perished 
the  last  of  the  Gracchi  by  the  hands  of  the 
patricians  ;  but,  being  struck  with  the  mortal 
stab,  he  flung  dust  towards  Heaven,  and  called 
on  the  Avenging  Deities;  and  from  this  dust 
sprang  Marius, — Mariiis  not  so  illustrious  for 
exterminating  the  Cirnbri  as  for  overturning 
in  Rome  the  tyranny  of  the  Noblesse!" 

There  goes  some  foolish  story  of  Mirabeau 
having  now  opened  a  cloth-shop  in  Marseilles, 
to  ingratiate  himself  v/ith  the  Third  Estate ; 
whereat  we  have  often  laughed.  The  image 
of  Mirabeau  measuring  out  drapery  to  man- 
kind, and  deftly  snipping  at  tailors'  measures, 
has  something  pleasant  for  the  mind.  So,  that 
though  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  truth  in  this 
story,  the  very  lie  may  justly  sustain  itself  for 
a  while,  in  the  character  of  lie.  Far  other- 
wise was  the  reality  there  :  "voluntary  guard 
of  a  hundred  men ;"  Provence  crowding  by 
the  ten  thousand  round  his  chariot  wheels  ; 
explosions  of  rejoicing  musketry,  heaven- 
rending  acclamation ;  "  people  paying  two 
louis  for  a  place  at  the  window !"  Hunger 
itself  (very  considerable  in  those  days)  he 
can  pacify  by  speech.  Violent  meal  mobs 
at  Marseilles  and  at  Aix,  unmanageable  by 
fire-arms  and  governors,  he  smooths  down 
by  the  word  of  his  mouth  ;  the  governor  soli- 
citing him,  though  unloved.  It  is  as  a  Roman 
Triumph,  and  more.  He  is  chosen  deputy  for 
two  places;  has  to  decline  ]\)larseilles,  and 
honour  Aix.    Let  his  enemies  look  and  won- 


der, and  sigh  forgotten  by  him.  For  this  Mira- 
beau too  the  career  at  last  opens. 

At  last!  Does  not  the  benevolent  Reader, 
though  never  so  unambitious,  sympathize  a 
little  with  this  poor  brother  mortal  in  such  a 
case?  Victory  is  always  joyful ;  but  to  think 
of  such  a  man,  in  the  hour  when,  after  twelve 
Hercules'  Labours,  he  does  finally  triumph  ! 
So  long  he  fought  with  the  many-headed  coil 
of  Lernean  serpents;  and,  panting,  wrestled 
and  wrang  with  it  for  life  or  death, — forty  long 
stern  years;  and  now  he  has  it  under  his 
heel  !  The  mountain  tops  are  scaled,  are 
scaled ;  where  the  man  climbed,  on  sharp 
flinty  precipices,  slippery,  abysmal;  in  dark- 
ness, seen  by  no  kind  eye, — amid  the  brood 
of  dragons ;  and  the  heart,  many  times,  was 
like  to  fail  within  him,  in  his  loneliness,  in  his 
extreme  need  :  yet  he  climbed,  and  climbed, 
glueing  his  footsteps  in  his  blood;  and  now, 
behold,  Hyperion-like  he  has  scaled  it,  and  on 
the  summit  shakes  his  glittering  shafts  of  war  ! 
What  a  scene  and  new  kingdom  for  him;  all 
bathed  in  auroral  radiance  of  Hope ;  far- 
stretching,  solemn,  joyful:  what  wild  Mem- 
non's  music,  from  the  depths  of  Nature,  comes 
toning  through  the  soul  raised  suddenly  out 
of  strangling  death  into  victory  and  life !  The 
very  bystander,  we  think,  might  weep,  with 
this  Mirabeau,  tears  of  joy. 

Which,  alas,  will  become  tears  of  sorrow  ! 
For  know,  O  Son  of  Adam,  (and  Son  of  Lu- 
cifer, with  that  accursed  ambition  of  thine,) 
that  they  are  all  a  delusion  and  piece  of  de- 
monic necromancy,  these  same  auroral  splen- 
dours, enchantments  and  Memnon's  tones ! 
The  thing  thou  as  mortal  wantest  is  equili- 
brium, (what  is  called  rest  or  peace.;)  which, 
God  knows,  thou  wilt  never  get  so.  Happy 
they  that  find  it  without  such  searching.  But 
in  some  twenty-three  months  more,  of  blazing 
solar  splendour  and  conflagration,  this  Mira- 
beau will  be  ashes  ;  and  lie  opaque,  in  the 
Pantheon  of  great  men  (or  say,  French-Pan- 
therm  of  considerable,  or  even  of  considered, 
and  small-noisy  men,) — at  rest  nowhere,  save 
on  the  lap  of  his  mother  earth.  There  are  to 
whom  the  gods,  in  their  bounty,  give  glory : 
but  far  oftener  it  is  given  in  wrath,  as  a  curse 
and  a  poison;  disturbing  the  whole  inner 
health  and  industry  of  the  man ;  leading  on- 
ward through  dizzy  staggerings  and  tarantula 
jiggings, — towards  no  saint's  shrine.  Truly, 
if  Death  did  not  intervene  ;  or  still  more  hap- 
pily, if  Life  and  the  Public  were  not  a  block- 
head, and  sudden  unreasonable  oblivion  were 
not  to  follow  that  sudden  unreasonable  glory, 
and  beneficently,  though  most  painfully,  damp 
it  down, — one  sees  not  where  many  a  poor 
glorious  man,  still  more  many  a  poor  glorious 
woman,  (for  it  falls  harder  on  the  distin- 
guished-female,) could  terminate, — far  short 
of  Bedlam. 

On  the  4th  day  of  May,  1789,  Madame  de 
StaiJl,  lookiiig  from  a  window  in  the  main 
street  of  Versailles,  amid  an  assembled  world, 
as  the  Deputies  walked  in  procession  from  the 
church  of  Notre-Dame  to  that  of  Saint  Louis, 
to  hear  High  Mass,  and  be  constituted  States- 
General,  saw  this:  "Among  these  Nobles  who 


MEMOIRS  OF  MIRABEAU. 


503 


had  been  deputed  to  the  Third  Estate,  above 
all  others,  the  Comte  de  Mirabeau.  The  opi- 
nion men  had  of  his  genius  was  singularly 
augmented  by  the  fear  entertained  of  his  im- 
morality; and  yet  it  was  this  very  immorality 
which  straitened  the  influence  his  astonishing 
faculties  were  to  secure  him.  You  could  not 
but  look  long  at  this  man,  when  once  you  had 
noticed  him  :  his  immense  black  head  of  hair 
distinguished  him  among  them  all ;  you  would 
have  said  his  force  depended  on  it,  like  that 
of  Samson  :  his  face  borrowed  new  expression 
from  its  very  ugliness;  his  whole  person  gave 
you  the  idea  of  an  irregular  power,  but  a 
power  such  as  you  would  figure  in  a  Tribune 
of  the  People."  Mirabeau's  history  through 
the  first  twenty-three  months  of  the  Revolution 
falls  not  to  be  written  here :  yet  it  is  well 
worth  writing  somewhere.  The  Constituent 
Assembly,  when  his  name  was  first  read  out, 
received  it  with  murmurs;  not  knowing  what 
they  murmured  at !  This  honourable  member 
they  were  murmuring  over  was  the  member 
of  all  members;  the  august  Constituent,  with- 
out him,  were  no  Constituent  at  all.  Very 
notable,  truly,  is  his  procedure  in  this  section 
of  world-history :  by  far  the  notablest  single 
element  there  :  none  like  to  him,  or  second  to 
him.  Once  he  is  seen  visibly  to  have  saved, 
as  with  his  own  force,  the  existence  of  the 
Constituent  Assembly;  to  have  turned  the 
whole  tide  of  things:  in  one  of  those  moments 
which  are  cardinal ;  decisive  for  centuries. 
The  royal  Declaration  of  the  J'wmiy-lhird  of 
June  is  promulgated:  there  is  military  force 
enough  ;  there  is  then  the  king's  express  order 
to  disperse,  to  meet  as  separate  Third  Estate 
on  the  morrow.  Bastilles  and  scaffolds  may 
be  the  penalty  for  disobeying.  Mirabeau  dis- 
obeys ;  lifts  his  voice  to  encourage  others,  all 
pallid,  panic-stricken,  to  disobey.  Supreme 
Usher  De  Breze  enters,  with  the  king's  re- 
newed order  to  depart.  "Messieurs,"  said  De 
Breze,  "you  heard  the  king's  order?"  The 
Swallower  of  Formulas  bellows  out  these 
words,  that  have  become  memorable:  "Yes, 
Monsieur,  we  heard  what  the  king  was  advised 
to  say;  and  you,  who  cannot  be  interpreter  of 
his  meaning  to  the  States-General ;  you,  who 
have  neither  vote  nor  seat,  nor  right  of  speech 
here,  you  are  not  the  man  to  remind  us  of  it. 
Go,  ?flonsieur,  tell  those  who  sent  you  that  we 
are  here  by  will  of  the  Nation  ;  and  that  no- 
thing but  the  force  of  bayonets  can  drive  us 
hence!"  And  poor  De  Breze  vanishes, — 
back  foremost,  the  Fils  Jldapt if  says. 

But  this,  cardinal  moment  though  it  be,  is 
perhaps  intrinsically  among  his  smaller  feats. 
In  general,  we  would  say  once  more  with  em- 
phasis, He  has  "  hi'nie  toules  les  fornudes.'^  He 
goes  through  the  Revolution  like  a  substance 
and  a  force,  not  like  a  formula  of  one.  While 
innumerable  barren  Sie}'eses  and  Constitution- 
pedants  are  building,  with  such  hammering 
and  troweling,  their  august  paper  constitution, 
(which  endured  eleven  months,)  this  man 
looks  not  at  cobwebs  and  Sodal-Conlrads,  but 
at  things  and  men ;  discerning  what  is  to  be 
done, — proceeding  straight  to  do  it.  He  shi- 
vers out  Usher  De  Brezu,  back  foremost,  when 
that  is   the  problem.    "Marie  Antoinette  is 


charmed  with  him,"  when  it  comes  to  that. 
He  is  the  man  of  the  Revolution,  while  he 
lives;  king  of  it;  and  only  with  life,  as  we 
compute,  would  have  quitted  his  kingship  of 
it.  Alone  of  all  these  Twelve  Hundred,  there 
is  in  him  the  faculty  of  a  king.  For,  indeed, 
have  we  not  seen  how  assiduously  Destiny 
had  shaped  him  all  along,  as  with  an  express 
eye  to  the  work  now  in  handl  O  crabbed  old 
Friend  of  Men,  whilst  thou  wert  bolting  this 
man  into  Isles  of  Rhe,  Castles  of  If,  and  train- 
ing him  so  sharply  to  be  thyse]^,  not  himself,— 
how  little  knewest  thou  what  thou  wert  doing! 
Let  us  add,  that  the  brave  old  Marquis  lived 
to  see  his  son's  victory  over  Fate  and  men, 
and  rejoiced  in  it ;  and  rebuked  Barrel  Mira- 
beau for  controverting  such  a  Brother  Gabriel. 
In  the  invalid  chimney-nook  at  Argenteuil, 
near  Paris,  he  sat  raying  out  curious  observa- 
tions to  the  last ;  and  died  three  days  before 
the  Bastille  fell,  precisely  when  the  Culbute 
Generale  was  bursting  out. 

But  finally,  the  iwenty-three  allotted  months 
are  over.  Madame  de  Station  the  4th  of  May, 
1789,  saw  the  Roman  Tribune  of  the  People, 
and  Samson  with  his  long  black  hair:  and  on 
the  4th  of  April,  1791,  there  is  a  Funeral  Pro- 
cession extending  four  miles:  king's  ministers, 
senators,  national  guards,  and  all  Paris, — 
torchlight,  wail  of  trombones  and  music,  and 
the  tears  of  men ;  mourning  of  a  whole  people, 
— such  mourning  as  no  modern  people  ever 
saw  for  one  man.  This  Mirabeau's  work  then 
is  done.  He  sleeps  with  the  primeval  giants. 
He  has  gone  over  to  the  majority:  ^biit  aa 
plures. 

In  the  way  of  eulogy  and  dyslogy,  and  sum- 
ming up  of  character,  there  many  doubtless  be 
a  great  many  things  set  forth  concerning  this 
Mirabeau;  as  already  there  has  been  much 
discussion  and  arguing  about  him,  better  and 
worse  :  which  is  proper  surely  ;  as  about  all 
manner  of  new  things,  were  they  much  less 
questionable  than  this  new  giant  is.  The  pre- 
sent reviewer,  meanwhile,  finds  it  suitabler  to 
restrict  himself  and  his  exhausted  readers  to 
the  three  following  moral  reflections. 

Moral  reilection/rs^ — that,  in  these  centuries 
men  are  not  born  demi-gods  and  perfect  cha- 
racters, but  imperfect  ones,  and  mere  blamable 
men,  namely,  environed  with  such  short-com- 
ing and  confusion  of  their  own,  and  then  with 
such  adscititious  scandal  and  misjudgment, 
(got  in  the  work  they  did,)  that  they  resemble 
less  demi-gods  than  a  sort  of  god-devils, — very 
imperfect  characters  indeed.  The  demi-god 
arrangement  were  the  one  which,  at  first  sight, 
this  reviewer  might  be  inclined  to  prefer. 

Moral  reflection  second, — however,  that  pro- 
bably men  were  never  born  demi-gods  in  any 
century,  but  precisely  god-devils  as  we  see; 
certain  of  whom  do  become  a  kind  of  demi- 
gods !  How  many  are  the  men,  not  censured, 
misjudged,  calumniated  only,  but  tortured, 
crucified,  hung  on  gibbets, — not  as  god-devils 
even,  but  as  devils  proper;  who  have  never- 
theless grown  to  seem  respectable,  or  infinitely 
respectable!  For  the  thing  which  was  not 
they,  which  was  not  any  thing,  has  fallen  away 
piecemeal;  and  become  avowedly  babble  and 


604 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


confused  shadow,  and  no-thing:  the  thing,  which 
was  they,  remains.  Depend  on  it,  Harmodius 
and  Aristogiton,  as  clear  as  they  now  look, 
had  illegal  plottings,  conclaves  at  the  Jacobins' 
Church  (of  Athens)  ;  and  very  intemperate 
things  were  spoken,  and  also  done.  Thus  too, 
Marcus  Brutus  and  the  elder  Junius,  are  they 
not  palpable  Heroes  1  Their  praise  is  in  all 
Debating  Societies ;  but  didst  thou  read  what 
the  Morning  Papers  said  of  those  transactions 
of  theirs,  the .  week  after?  Nay,  Old  Noll, 
whose  bones  were  dug  up  and  hung  in  chains, 
here  at  home,  as  the  just  emblem  of  himself 
and  his  deserts,  (the  offal  of  Creation,  at  that 
time,)  has  not  he  too  got  to  be  a  very  respect- 


able grim  bronze-figure,  though  it  is  yet  only 
a  century  and  half  since;  of  whom  England 
seems  proud  rather  than  otherwise  ] 

Moral  reflection  third,  and  last, — that  neither 
thou  nor  we,  good  Reader,  had  any  hand  in 
the  making  of  this  Mirabeau  ; — else  who  knows 
but  we  had  objected,  in  our  wisdom  1  But  it 
was  the  Upper  Powers  that  made  him,  without 
once  consulting  us;  they  and  not  we,  so  and 
not  otherwise !  To  endeavour  to  understand 
a  little  what  manner  of  Mirabeau  he,  so  made, 
might  be:  this  we,  according  to  opportunity, 
have  done;  and  therefore  do  now,  with  a  lively 
satisfaction,  take  farewell  of  him,  and  leave 
him  to  fare  as  he  can. 


PARLIAMENTARY  HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH 
REVOLUTION.* 

[London  and  Westminster  Review,  1837.] 


It  appears  to  be,  if  not  stated  in  words,  yet 
tacitly  felt  and  understood  everywhere,  that 
the  event  of  these  modern  ages  is  the  French 
Revolution.  A  huge  explosion  bursting  through 
all  formulas  and  customs;  confounding  into 
wreck  and  chaos  the  ordered  arrangements  of 
earthly  life;  blotting  out,  one  may  say,  the 
very  firmament  and  skyey  load-stars, — though 
only  for  a  season.  Once  in  the  fifteen  hundred 
years  such  a  thing  was  ordained  to  come.  To 
those  who  stood  present  in  the  actual  midst 
of  that  smoke  and  thunder,  the  effect  might 
well  be  too  violent:  blinding  and  deafening, 
into  confused  exasperation,  almost  into  mad- 
ness. These  on-lookers  have  played  their  part, 
were  it  with  the  printing-press  or  with  the 
battle-cannon,  and  are  departed :  their  work, 
such  as  it  was,  remaining  behind  them; — 
where  the  French  Revolution  also  remains. 
And  now,  for  us  who  have  receded  to  the  dis- 
tance of  some  half-century,  the  explosion  be- 
comes a  thing  visible,  surveyable:  we  see  its 
flame  and  sulphur-smoke  blend  with  the  clear 
air,  (far  under  the  stars ;)  and  hear  its  uproar 
as  part  of  the  sick  noise  of  life, — loud  indeed, 
yet  imbosomed  too,  as  all  noise  is,  in  the  in- 
finite of  silence.  It  is  an  event  which  can  be 
looked  on ;  which  may  still  be  execrated,  still 

♦  Histoire  Parlementaire  de  la  Revolution  Frangaise,  ou 
Journal  des  AssevibUes  JVationales  depuis  1789  jusqu'en 
1815  ;  contenant  la  JVarrafion  des  Evenemevs,  les  Dehats, 
^c.  4-c.  (Parliamentary  History  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, or  Journal  of  the  National  Assemblies  from  1789 
to  1815:  containintr  a  Narrative  of  the  Occurrences; 
Debates  of  the  Assemblies;  Discussions  in  the  chief 
Popular  Societies,  especially  in  that  of  the  Jacobins ; 
Records  of  the  Commune  of  Paris  ;  Sessions  of  the 
Revolutionary  Tribunal ;  Reports  of  the  leading  Politi- 
cal Trials  ;  Detail  of  the  Annual  Budgets ;  Picture  of 
the  Moral  Movement,  extracted  from  the  Newspapers, 
Pamphlets,  &:c.,  of  each  Period  ;  preceded  by  an  In- 
troduction on  the  History  of  France  till  the  Convocation 
of  the  States-General.)  By  P.  J.  B.  Buchez  and  P.  C. 
Roux.     (Tomes  1"— as^e  et  seq.— Pans,  1S33— 1836.) 


be  celebrated  and  psalmodied  ;  but  which  it 
were  better  now  to  begin  understanding. 
Really  there  are  innumerable  reasons  why  we 
ought  to  know  this  same  French  Revolution  as 
it  was :  of  which  reasons  (apart  altogether 
from  that  of  "Philosophy  teaching  by  Experi- 
ence," and  so  forth)  is  there  not  the  best  sum- 
mary in  this  one  reason,  that  we  so  wish  to 
know  it?  Considering  the  qualities  of  the 
matter,  one  may  perhaps  reasonably  feel  that 
since  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  or  earlier,  there 
is  no  chapter  of  history  so  well  worth  study- 
ing. 

Stated  or  not,  we  say,  this  persuasion  is 
tacitly  admitted,  and  acted  upon.  In  these 
days  everywhere  you  find  it  one  of  the  most 
pressing  duties  for  the  writing  guild,  to  pro- 
duce history  on  history  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. In  France  it  would  almost  seem  as  if 
the  young  author  felt  that  he  must  make  this 
his  proof-shot,  and  evidence  of  craftsmanship : 
accordingly  they  do  fire  off  Histoires,  Precis  of 
Histoires,  Annales,  Fastes,  (to  say  nothing  of 
Historical  Novels,  Gil  Blaases,  Bantons,  Bar^ 
naves,  Gravgeneuves,)  in  rapid  succession,  with 
or  without  effect.  At  all  events  it  is  curious 
to  look  upon  :  curious  to  contrast  the  picturing 
of  the  same  fact  by  the  men  of  this  generation 
and  position  with  the  picturing  of  it  by  the 
men  of  the  last.  From  Barruel  and  Fantin 
Desodoards  to  Thiers  and  Mignet  there  is  a 
distance  !  Each  individual  takes  up  the  Phe- 
nomenon according  to  his  own  point  of  vision, 
to  the  structure  of  his  optic  organs; — gives, 
consciously,  some  poor  crotchetty  picture  of 
several  things ;  unconsciously  some  picture 
of  himself  at  least.  And  the  Phenomenon,  for 
its  part,  subsists  there,  all  the  while,  unal- 
tered; waiting  to  be  pictured  as  often  as  you 
like,  its  entire  meaning  not  to  be  compressed 
into  any  picture  drawn  by  man. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


505 


Thiers's  History,  in  ten  volumes  foolscap- 
octavo,  contains,  if  we  remember  rightly,  one 
reference ;  and  that  to  a  book,  not  the  page  or 
chapter  of  a  book.  It  has,  for  these  last  seven 
or  eight  years,  a  wide  or  even  high  reputa- 
tion ;  which  latter  it  is  as  far  as  possible  from 
meriting.  A  superficial  air  of  order,  of  clear- 
ness, calm  candour,  is  spread  over  the  work ; 
but  inwardly, it  is  waste,  inorganic:  no  human 
head  that  honestly  tries  can  conceive  the 
French  Revolution  so.  A  critic  of  our  ac- 
quaintance undertook,  by  way  of  bet,  to  find 
four  errors  per  hour  in  Thiers  :  he  won  amply 
on  the  first  trial  or  two.*  And  yet,  readers 
(we  must  add)  taking  all  this  along  with  them, 
may  peruse  Thiers  with  comfort  in  certain 
circumstances,  nay,  even  with  profit ;  for  he 
is  a  brisk  man  of  his  sort;  and  does  tell  you 
much,  if  you  knew  nothing. 

Mignet's,  again,  is  a  much  more  honestly 
written  book ;  yet  also  an  eminently  unsatis- 
factory one.  His  two  volumes  contain  far 
more  meditation  and  investigation  in  them 
than  Thiers's  ten:  their  degree  of  preferability 
therefore  is  very  high ;  for  it  has  been  said, 
"Call  a  book  diffuse,  and  you  call  it  in  all 
senses  bad;  the  writer  could  not  find  the  right 
word  to  say,  and  so  said  many  more  or  less 
wrong  ones;  did  not  hit  the  nail  on  the  head, 
only  smote  and  bungled  about  it  and  about  it." 
Mignet's  book  has  a  compactness,  a  rigour,  as 
if  riveited  with  iron  rods  :  this  also  is  an  image 
of  what  symmetry  it  has ; — symmetry,  if  not 
of  a  living  earth-born  Tree,  yet  of  a  firm  well- 
manufactured  Gridiron.  Without  life,  with- 
out colour  or  verdure :  that  is  to  say,  Mignet's 
genius  is  heartily  prosaic ;  you  are  too  happy 
that  he  is  not  a  quack  as  well !  It  is  very  mor- 
tifying also  to  study  his  philosophical  reflec- 
tions :  how  he  jingles  and  rumbles  a  quantity 
of  mere  abstractions  and  dead  logical  formu- 
las, and  calls  it  Thinking; — rumbles  and  rum- 
bles, till  he  judges  there  may  be  enough;  then 
begins  again  narrating.     As  thus: — 

"The  Constitution  of  1791  was  made  on 
such  principles  as  had  resulted  from  the  ideas 
and  the  situation  of  France.  It  was  the  work 
of  the  middle  class,  which  chanced  to  be  the 
strongest  then;  for,  as  is  well  known,  what- 
ever force  has  the  lead  will  fashion  the  insti- 
tutions according  to  its  own  aims.  Now  this 
force,  when  it  belongs  to  one,  is  despotism ; 
when  to  several,  it  is  privilege;  when  to  all,  it 
is  right:  which  latter  state  is  the  ultimatum  of 
society,  as  it  was  its  beginning.  France  had 
finally  arrived  thither,  after  passing  through 
feudalism,  which  is  the  aristocratic  institu- 
tion ;  and  then  through  absolutism,  which  is 
the  monarchic  one. 

"The  work  of  the  Constituent  Assembly 
perished  not  so  touch  by  its  own  defects  as  by 
the  assaults  of  factions.  Standing  between 
the  aristocracy  and  the  multitude,  it  was  at- 
tacked by  the  former,  and  stormed  and  won 


♦  "  'Notables  consented  with  eagerness,'  (Vol.  T.,p. 
10;)  whereas  they  properly  did  not  consent  at  nil; 
♦Parliament  recalled  on  the  lOth  of  September,'  (for  the 
15th  ;)  and  then  '  Seance  Royaie  took  place  on  the  20lh 
of  the  same  month,  (19th  of  quite  a  different  month,  not 
the  same,  nor  next  to  the  same;)  '  D'Espremeiiil,  a 
young  Counsellor'  (of  forty  and  odd;)  'Duport.a  young 
man,'  (turned  of  sixty,)  &c.,  &,c. 


64 


by  the  latter.  The  multitude  would  never 
have  become  supreme,  bad  not  civil  war  and 
the  coalition  of  foreign  states  rendered  its  in- 
tervention and  help  indispensable.  To  defend 
the  country  the  multitude  required  to  have  the 
governing  of  it:  thereupon  (alois)  it  made  its 
revolution,  as  the  middle  class  had  made  its. 
The  multitude  too  had  its  Fourteenth  of  July, 
which  was  the  Tenth  of  August ;  its  Constitu- 
ent, which  was  the  Convention ;  its  Govern- 
ment, which  was  the  Committee  of  Salut  Pub- 
lic;  but,  as  we  shall  see,"  &c.  (Chap,  iv., 
vol.  I.,  p.  271.) 

Or  thus ;  for  there  is  the  like  at  the  end  of 
every  chapter : — 

"But  royalty  had  virtually  fallen,  on  the 
Tenth  of  August;  that  day  was  the  insurrec- 
tion of  the  multitude  against  the  middle  class 
and  constitutional  throne,  as  the  Fourteenth 
of  July  had  been  the  insurrection  of  the  mid- 
dle classes  against  the  privileged  classes  and 
an  absolute  throne.  The  Tenth  of  August 
witnessed  the  commencement  of  the  dictato- 
rial and  arbitrary  epoch  of  the  Revolution. 
Circumstances  becoming-more  and  more  diffi- 
cult, there  arose  a  vast  war,  which  required 
increased  energy;  and  this  energy,  unregu- 
lated, inasmuch  as  it  was  popular,  rendered 
the  sway  of  the  lower  class  an  unquiet,  oppres- 
sive, and  cruel  sway."  "It  was  not  any  way 
possible  that  the  Bourgeoisie,  (middle  class,) 
which  had  been  strong  enough  to  strike  down 
the  old  government  and  the  privileged  classes, 
but  which  had  taken  to  repose  after  this  vic- 
tory, could  repulse  the  Emigration  and  united 
Europe.  There  was  needed  for  that  a  new 
shock,  a  new  faith ;  there  was  needed  for  that 
a  new  Class,  numerous,  ardent,  not  yet  fa- 
tigued, and  which  loved  its  Tenth  of  August, 
as  the  Burgherhood  loved  its  Fourteenth  of,'* 
&c.,  &c.     (Ch.  v.,  vol.  I.,  p.  371.) 

So  uncommonly  lively  are  these  Abstractions 
(at  bottom  only  occurrences,  similitudes,  days 
of  the  months,  and  such  like)  as  rumble  here 
in  the  historical  head!  Abstractions  really 
of  the  most  lively,  insurrectionary  character; 
nay,  which  produce  offspring,  and  indeed  are 
oftenest  parricidally  devoured  thereby:  such 
is  the  jingling  and  rumbling  which  calls  itself 
Thinking.  Nearly  so,  though  with  greater 
effect,  might  algebraical  x's  go  rumbling  in 
some  Pascal's  or  Babbage's  mill.  Just  so,  in- 
deed, do  the  Kalmuck  people  pray:  quantities 
of  written  prayers  are  put  in  some  rotary  pip- 
kin or  calabash,  (hung  on  a  tree,  or  going  like 
the  small  barrel-churn  of  agricultural  dis- 
tricts;) this  the  devotee  has  only  to  whirl  and 
churn;  so  long  as  he  whirls,  it  is  prayer; 
when  he  ceases  whirling,  the  prayer  is  done. 
Alas!  this  is  a  sore  error,  very  generally, 
among  French  thinkers  of  the  present  time. 
One  ought  to  add  that  Mignet  takes  his  place 
at  the  head  of  that  brotherhood  of  his ;  that  his 
little  book,  though  abounding  too  in  errors  of 
detail,  better  deserves  what  place  it  has  than 
any  other  of  recent  date. 

The  older  Desodoards,  Barruels,  Lacretelles, 
and  such  like,  exist,  but  will  hardly  profit 
much.  Toulongeon,  a  man  of  talent  and  in 
te^rity,  is  very  vague ;  often  incorrect  for  an 
eyewitness:  his  military  details  used  to  be 
2U 


506 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


reckoned  valuable;  but,  we  suppose,  Jomini 
has  eclipsed  them  now.  The  Abbe  Mont- 
gaillard  has  shrewdness,  decision,  insight ; 
abounds  in  anecdotes,  strange  facts  and  re- 
ports of  facts  :  his  book,  being  written  in  the 
form  of  Annals,  is  convenient  for  consulting. 
For  the  rest,  he  is  acrid,  exaggerated,  occa- 
sionall)'-  altogether  perverse ;  and,  with  his 
hastes  and  his  hatreds,  falls  into  the  strangest 
hallucination  ; — as,  for  example,  when  he 
coolly  records  that  "Madame  de  Stael,  Neck- 
er's  daughter,  was  seen  (on  vil)  distributing 
brandy  to  the  Gardes  Frangaises  in  their  bar- 
racks ;"  that  D'Orleans  Egalite  had  "  a  pair  of 
man-skin  breeches,"  —  leather  breeches,  of 
human  skin,  such  as  they  did  prepare  in  the 
tannery  of  Meudon,  but  too  late  for  D'Orleans. 
The  history  by  Deux  Amis  de  Liberie  (if  the 
reader  secure  the  original  edition)  is,  perhaps, 
worth  all  the  others,  and  offers  (at  least  till 
1792,  after  which  it  becomes  convulsive,  semi- 
fatuous,  in  the  remaining  dozen  volumes)  the 
best,  correctest,  most  picturesque  narrative 
yet  published.  It  is  very  correct,  very  pic- 
turesque; wants  on]y  fore-shorteinvg,  shadow, 
and  compression;  a  work  of  decided  merit: 
the  authors  of  it,  what  is  singular,  appear  not 
to  be  known. 

Finally,  our  English  histories  do  likewise 
abound :  copious  if  not  in  facts,  yet  in  reflec- 
tions on  fiicts.  They  will  prove  to  the  most 
incredulous  that  this  French  Revolution  was, 
as  Chamfort  said,  no  "rose-water  Revolu- 
tion;" that  the  universal  insurrectionary  ab- 
rogation of  law  and  custom  was  managed  in  a 
most  unlawful,  uncustomary  manner.  He  who 
wishes  to  know  how  a  solid  Custos  rotulorum, 
speculating  over  his  port  after  dinner,  inter- 
prets the  phenomena  of  contemporary  univer- 
sal history,  may  look  in  these  books :  he  who 
does  not  wish  that,  need  not  look. 

On  the  whole,  after  all  these  writings  and 
printings,  the  weight  of  which  would  sink  an 
Indiaman,  there  are,  perhaps,  only  some  three 
publications  hitherto  that  can  be  considered 
as  forwarding  essentially  a  right  knowledge 
of  this  matter.  The  first  of  these  is  the 
"  Analyse  du  Moniteur,"  (complete  expository 
Index,  and  Syllabus  of  the  Moniteur  news- 
paper from  1789  to  1799;)  a  work  carrying 
its  significance  in  its  title; — provided  it  be 
faithfully  executed;  which  it  is  well  known  to 
be.  Along  with  this  we  may  mention  the 
series  of  portraits,  a  hundred  in  number,  pub- 
lished with  the  original  edition  of  it:  many 
of  them  understood  to  be  accurate  likenesses. 
The  natural  face  of  a  man  is  often  worth  more 
than  several  biographies  of  him,  as  biogra- 
phies are  written.  These  hundred  portraits 
have  been  copied  into  a  book  called  "  Scenes 
de  la  Revolution,"  (which  contains  other  pic- 
tures, of  small  value,  and  some  not  useless 
writing  by  Chamfort;)  and  are  often  to  be 
found  in  libraries.  A  republication  of  Vernet's 
Caricatures*  would  be  a  most  acceptable  ser- 
vice, but  has  not  been  thought  of  hitherto. 
The  second  work  to  be  counted  here  is  the 
"Choix  des  Rapports,  Opinions,  et  Discours," 
in  some   twenty  volumes,  with  an  excellent 

*  See  Mercier's  Nouveau  Paris,  vol.  iv,  p.  254. 


index:  parliamentary  speeches,  reports,  &c., 
are  furnished  in  abundance ;  complete  illus- 
tration of  all  that  this  Senatorial  province 
(rather  a  wearisome  one)  can  illustrate. 
Thirdhj,  we  have  to  name  the  "  Collection  of 
Memoirs,"  completed  several  years  ago,  in 
above  a  hundred  volumes.  Booksellers  Bau- 
douin,  Editors  Berville  and  Barriere,  have 
done  their  utmost;  adding  notes, explanations, 
rectifications,  with  portraits  also  if  you  like: 
Louvet,  Riouffe,  and  the  two  volumes  of  "  Me- 
moirs on  the  Prisons"  are  the  most  attractive 
pieces.  This  Baudouin  Collection,  therefore, 
joins  itself  to  that  of  Petitot,  as  a  natural  sequel. 
And  now  a  fourth  work,  which  follows  in 
the  train  of  these,  and  deserves  to  be  reckoned 
along  with  them,  is  this  "Histoire  Parle- 
mentaire"  of  Messieurs  Buchez  and  Roux. 
The  authors  are  men  of  ability  and  repute : 
Buchez,  {{"  we  mistake  not,  is  Dr.  Buchez,  and 
practises  medicine  with  acceptance;  Roux  is 
known  as  an  essayist  and  journalist:  they 
once  listened  a  little  to  Saint  Simon,  but  it 
was  before  Saint  Simonism  called  itself  "  a 
religion,"  and  vanished  in  Bedlam.  We  have 
understood  there  is  a  certain  bibliomaniac 
military  gentleman  in  Paris,  who  in  the  course 
of  years  has  amassed  the  most  astonishing 
collection  of  revolutionary  ware  :  books,  pam- 
phlets, newspapers,  even  sheets  and  handbills, 
ephemeral  printings  and  paintings,  such  as 
the  day  brought  them  forth,  lie  there  without 
end.*  Into  this  warehouse  (as  into  all  man- 
ner of  other  repositories)  Messrs.  Buchez 
and  Roux  have  happily  found  access :  the 
"  Histoire  Parlementaire"  is  the  fruit  of  their 
labours  there.  A  number  (two  forming  a 
volume)  is  published  every  fortnight:  we 
have  the  first  twenty-two  volumes  before  us, 
which  bring  down  the  narrative  to  January, 
1793;  there  must  be  several  other  volumes 
out,  which  we  have  not  yet  seen.  Conceive 
a  judicious  compilation  with  such  resources. 
Parliamentary  Debates,  in  summary,or  (where 
the  occasion  warrants  it)  given  at  large;  this 
is  by  no  means  the  most  interesting  part  of 
the  matter:  we  have  excerpts,  notices,  hints 
of  all  imaginable  sorts ;  of  newspapers,  of 
pamphlets,  of  Sectionary  and  Municipal  re- 
cords, of  the  Jacobins'  club,  of  placard-jour- 
nals, nay,  of  placards  and  caricatures.  No 
livelier  emblem  of  the  time,  in  its  actual  move- 
ment and  tumult,  could  be  presented.  The 
editors  connect  these  fragments  by  expositions 
such  as  are  needful;  so  that  a  reader  coming 
unprepared  to  the  work  can  still  know  what 
he  is  about.  Their  expositions,  as  we  can 
testify,  are  handsomely  done:  but  altogether 
apart  from  these,  the  excerpts  themselves  are 
the  valuable  thing.     The  scissors,  in  such  a 


*Tt  is  srenerally  known  that  a  similar  collection,  per- 
haps still  larirer  and  more  curious,  lifs  (buried)  in  the 
British  Museum  here — inaccessible  for  want  of  a  proper 
catalogue.  Some  eighteen  months  asro,  the  respectable 
su!)-lihrarian  seemed  to  he  working  at  such  a  thing  :  by 
respectful  application  to  him.  yon  could  grain  access  to 
his  room,  and  have  the  satisfaction  of  mounting  on  lad- 
ders, and  reading  the  outside  titles  of  his  books,  which 
was  a  great  help.  Otherwise  you  could  not  in  many 
weeks  ascertain  so  much  as  the  table  of  contents  of 
this  repository;  and,  after  days  of  weary  waiting,  dusty 
rummaging,  and  sickness  of  hope  deferred,  gave  up  the 
enterprise  as  a  "game  not  worth  the  candle." 


HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


607 


case,  are  independent  of  the  pen.  One  of  the  ' 
most  interesting  English  biographies  we  have 
is  that  long  thin  folio  on  Oliver  Cromwell, 
published  some  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
where  the  editor  has  merely  dipt  out  from  the 
contemporary  newspapers  whatsoever  article, 
paragraph,  or  sentence  he  found  to  contain  the 
name  of  Old  Noll,  and  printed  them  in  the 
order  of  their  dates.  It  is  surprising  that  the 
like  has  not  been  attempted  in  other  cases. 
Had  seven  of  the  eight  translators  of  Faust, 
and  seventy  times  seven  of  the  four  hundred 
four-score  and  ten  Imaginative  Authors,  but 
thrown  down  the  writing  instrument,  and 
turned  to  the  old  newspaper  files  judiciously 
with  the  cutting  one  ! 

We  can  testify,  after  not  a  little  examina- 
tion, that  the  editors  of  the  "Histoire  Parle- 
mentaire"  are  men  of  fidelity,  of  diligence ; 
that  their  accuracy  in  regard  to  facts,  dates, 
and  so  forth,  is  far  beyond  the  average.  Of 
course  they  have  their  own  opinions,  prepos- 
sessions even :  but  these  are  honest  prepos- 
sessions, which  they  do  not  hide ;  which  one 
can  estimate  the  force  of,  allow  for  the  result 
of.  Wilful  falsification,  did  the  possibility  of 
it  lie  in  their  character,  is  otherwise  out  of 
the  question.  But,  indeed,  our  editors  are 
men  of  earnestness,  of  strict  principle;  of  a 
faith,  were  it  only  in  the  republican  Tricolor. 
Their  democratic  faith,  truly,  is  palpable, 
thorough-going;  as  it  has  a  right  to  be,  in 
these  days,  since  it  likes.  The  thing  you  have 
to  praise,  however,  is  that  it  is  a  quiet  faith, 
never  an  hysterical  one;  never  expresses  it- 
self otherwise  than  with  a  becoming  calm- 
ness, especially  with  a  becoming  brevity. 
The  hoarse  deep  croak  of  Marat,  the  brilliant 
sharp-cutting  gayety  of  Desmoulins,  the  dull 
bluster  of  Prudhomme,  the  cackling  garrulity 
of  Brissot,  all  is  welcomed  with  a  cold  gravity 
and  brevity;  all  is  illustrative,  if  not  of  one 
thing  then  of  another.  Nor  are  the  Royalists 
Royous,  Suleaus,  Peltiers,  forgotten;  "Acts  of 
the  Apostles,"  "King's  Friend,"  nor  "Crow- 
ing of  the  Cock:"  these,  indeed,  are  more 
sparingly  administered;  but  at  the  right  time, 
as  is  promised,  we  shall  have  more.  In  a 
word,  it  may  be  said  of  this  "  Histoire  Parle- 
mentaire,"  that  the  wide  promise  held  out  in 
its  title  page  is  really,  in  some  respectable 
measure,  fulfilled.  With  a  fit  index  to  wind 
it  up,  (which  index  ought  to  be  not  good  only 
but  excellent,  so  much  depends  on  it  here,) 
this  work  bids  fair  to  be  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant yet  published  on  the  History  of  the 
Revolution.  No  library,  that  professes  to  have 
a  collection  in  this  sort,  can  dispense  with  it. 

A  "Histoire  Parlementaire"  is  precisely  the 
house,  or  say,  rather,  the  unbuilt  city,  of  which 
the  single  brick  can  form  a  specimen.  In  so 
rich  a  variety  the  only  ditficulty  is  where 
to  choose.  We  have  scenes  of  tragedy,  of 
comedy,  of  farce,  of  farce-tragedy,  oftenest  of 
all ;  there  is  eloquence,  gravity;  there  is  blus- 
ter, bombast,  and  absurdity:  scenes  tender, 
scenes  barbarous,  spirit-stirring,  and  then 
flatly  wearisome:  a  thing  waste,  incoherent, 
wild  to  look  upon;  but  great  with  the  great- 
ness of  reality ;  for  the  thing  exhibited  is  no 
vision,  but  a  fact.    Let  us,  as  the  first  excerpt, 


give  this  tragedy  of  old  Foulon,  which  all  the 
world  has  heard  of,  perhaps  not  very  accu- 
rately. Foulon's  life-drama,  with  its  hasty 
cruel  sayings  and  mean  doings,  with  its 
thousandfold  intrigues,  and  "  the  people  eating 
grass  if  they  like,"  ends  in  this  miserable  man- 
ner. It  is  the  editors  themselves  who  speak ; 
compiling  from  various  resources  : — 

"  Towards  five  in  the  morning,  (Paris,  22d 
July,  1789,)  M.  Foulon  was  brought  in ;  he  had 
been  arrested  at  Vitry,  near  Fountainbleau,  by 
the  peasants  of  the  place.  Doubtless  this  man 
thought  himself  very  guilty  towards  the  people," 
(say,  very  hateful ;)  "  for  he  had  spread  abroad 
a  report  of  his  death  ;  and  had  even  buried  one 
of  his  servants,  who  happened  to  die  then, 
under  his  own  name.  He  had  afterwards  hid- 
den himself  in  an  estate  of  M.  de  Sartines ;" 
where  he  was  detected  and  seized. 

"  M.  Foulon  was  taken  to  the  Hotel  de  Villa, 
where  they  made  him  wait.  Towards  nine 
o'clock  the  assembled  Committee  had  decided 
that  he  should  be  sent  to  the  Abbaye  prison. 
M.  de  Lafayette  was  sent  for,  that  he  might 
execute  this  order;  he  was  abroad  over  the 
Districts :  he  could  not  be  found.  During 
this  time  a  crowd  collected  in  the  square;  and 
required  to  see  Foulon.  It  was  noon:  M. 
Bailly  came  down  ;  the  people  listened  to  him  ; 
but  still  persisted.  In  the  end  they  penetrated 
into  the  great  hall  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville ;  would 
see  Foulon, '  whom,'  say,  they,  'you  are  want- 
ing to  smuggle  oflffrom  justice.'  Foulon  was 
presented  to  them.  Then  began  this  remarka- 
ble dialogue.  M.  de  la  Poize,  an  Elector: — 
'Messieurs,  every  guilty  person  should  be 
judged.'  'Yes,  judged  directly,  and  then 
hanged.'  M.  Osselin  : — '  To  judge,  one  must 
have  judges ;  let  us  send  M.  Foulon  to  the 
tribunals.'  '  No,  no,'  replied  the  people,  'judge 
him  just  now.'  'Since  you  will  not  have  the 
common  judges,'  said  M.  Osselin,  'it  is  indis- 
pensable to  appoint  others.'  'Well,  judge 
him  yourselves.'  '  We  have  no  right  either 
to  judge  or  to  create  judges ;  name  them  your- 
selves.* *  Well,'  cried  the  people,  *M.  le  Cure 
of  Saint  Etienne  then,  and  M.  le  Cure  of 
Saint-Andre.'  Osselin : — '  Two  judges  are  not 
enough  ;  there  needs  seven.'  Thereupon  the 
people  named  Messrs.  Quatremere,  Varangue, 
&c.  '  Here  are  seven  judges  indeed,'  said  Os- 
selin, 'but  we  still  want  a  clerk.'  'Be  you 
clerk.'  'A  king's  Attorney.'  'Let  it  be  M. 
Duveyrier.'  '  Of  what  crime  is  M.  Foulon  ac- 
cused V  asked  Duveyrier.  *  He  wished  to 
harass  the  people ;  he  said  he  would  make 
them  eat  grass;  he  was  in  the  plot;  he  was 
for  national  bankruptcy;  he  bought  up  corn.' 
The  two  curates  then  rose,  and  declared  that 
they  refused  to  judge ;  the  laws  of  the  church  not 
permitting  them.  'They  are  right,'  said  some; 
'  they  are  cozening  us,'  said  others,  'and  the 
prisoner  all  the  while  is  making  his  escape.'  At 
these  words  there  rose  a  frightful  tumult  in  the 
Hall.  '  Messieurs,'  said  an  Elector,  'name  four 
of  yourselves  to  guard  him.'  Four  men  accord- 
ingly were  chosen  ;  sent  into  the  neighbouring 
apartment,  where  Foulon  was.  '  But  will  you 
judge  then?'  cried  the  crowd.  'Messieurs, 
you  see  there  are  two  judges  wanting.'  'We 
name  M.  Bailly  and  M.  Lafayette.'    'ButM. 


508 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Lafayette  is  absent ;  one  must  either  wait  for 
him,  or  name  some  other.'  *  Well,  then,  name 
directly,  and  do  it  yourself.' 

"  At  length  the  Electors  agreed  to  proceed  to 
judgment ;  Foalon  was  again  brought  in.  The 
foremost  part  of  the  crowd  joined  hands,  and 
formed  a  chain  several  ranks  deep,  in  the  mid^ 
die  of  which  he  was  received.  At  this  moment 
M.  Lafayette  came  in  ;  went  and  took  his  place 
at  the  board  among  the  electors,  and  then  ad- 
dressed to  the  people  a  discourse,  of  which  the 
jlmi  du  Roi  and  the  Records  of  the  Town-hall, 
the  two  authorities  we  borrow  from  here,  give 
different  reports." 

Lafayette's  speech,  according  to  both  ver- 
sions, is  to  the  effect  that  Foulon  is  guilty :  but 
that  he  doubtless  has  accomplices ;  that  he 
must  be  taken  to  the  Abbaye  prison,  and  in- 
vestigated there.  "  Yes,  yes,  to  prison  !  Off 
with  him,  off!"  cried  the  crowd.  The  Deux 
Amis  add  another  not  insignificant  circum- 
stance, that  poor  Foulon  himself,  hearing  this 
conclusion  of  Lafayette's,  clapped  hands ; 
whereupon  the  crowd  said,  "  See !  they  are 
both  in  a  story !"  Our  editors  continue  and 
conclude: — 

"At  this  moment  there  rose  a  great  clamour 
in  the  square.  *  It  is  the  Palais  Royal  coming,' 
said  one ;  *  It  is  the  Faubourg  Saint  Antoine,' 
said  another.  Then  a  well  dressed  person 
(homrne  bien  mis)  advanced  towards  the  board, 
and  said,  *  Vouz  voiis  moquez :  what  is  the  use  of 
judging  a  man  who  has  been  judged  these  thirty 
years?'  At  Ihis  word,  Foulon  was  clutched; 
hurled  out  to  the  square;  and  finally  tied  to  the 
fatal  rope,  which  hung  from  the  Lanterne  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Vannerie.  The  rope 
was  afterwards  cut;  the  head  was  put  on  a 
pike,  and  paraded," — with  "  grass"  in  the  mouth 
of  it,  they  might  have  added  ! — Vol.  ii.  p.  148. 

From  the  "  Revolution  de  France  et  de 
Brabant,"  Camille  Desmoulin's  newspaper 
furnishes  numerous  extracts,  in  the  earlier 
volumes;  always  of  a  remarkable  kind.  This 
Procurcur  Geneiuil  de  la  Lanterne  has  a  place  of 
his  own  in  the  history  of  the  Revolution ; 
there  are  not  many  notabler  persons  in  it  than 
he.  A  light,  harmless  creature,  as  he  says  of 
himself;  "  a  man  born  to  write  verses,"  but 
whom  destiny  had  directed  to  overthrow  bas- 
tilles, and  go  to  the  guillotine  for  doing  that. 
How  such  a  man  will  comport  himself  in  a 
French  Revolution,  as  he  from  time  to  time 
turns  up  there,  is  worth  seeing.  Of  loose,  head- 
long character;  a  man  stuttering  in  speech; 
stuttering,  infirm,  in  conduct  too,  till  one  huge 
idea  laid  hold  of  him :  a  man  for  whom  art, 
fortune,  or  himself,  would  never  do  much,  but 
to  whom  Nature  had  been  very  kind !  One 
meets  him  always  with  a  sort  of  forgiveness, 
almost  of  underhand  love,  as  for  a  prodigal 
son.  He  has  good  gifts,  and  even  acquire- 
ments: elegant  law-scholarship,  quick  sense, 
the  freest  joyful  heart:  a  fellow  of  endless  wit, 
clearness,  soft  lambent  brilliancy ;  on  any 
subject  you  can  listen  to  him,  if  without  ap- 
proving, yet  without  yawning.  As  a  writer,  in 
fact,  there  is  nothing  French  that  we  have 
heard  of  superior  or  equal  to  him  for  these 
fifty  years.  Probably  some  French  editor, 
some  day  or  other,  will  sift  that  journalistic 


rubbish  and  produce  out  of  it,  in  small  neat 
compass,  a  "  Life  and  Remains"  of  this  poor 
Camille.  We  pick  up  three  light  fractions, 
illustrative  of  him  and  of  the  things  he  moved 
in ;  they  relate  to  the  famous  Fifth  of  October, 
(1789,)  when  the  women  rose  in  insurrection 
The  Palais  Royal  and  Marquis  Saint-Huruge 
have  been  busy  on  the  King's  veto,  and  Lally 
Tollendall's  proposal  of  an  upper  house  : — 

"  Was  the  Palais  Royal  so  far  wrong,"  says 
Camille,  "  to  cry  out  against  such  things  1  I 
know  that  the  Palais  Royal  promenade  is 
strangely  miscellaneous ;  that  pickpockets  fre- 
quently employ  the  liberty  of  the  press  there,  and 
many  a  zealous  patriot  has  lost  his  handker- 
chief in  the  fire  of  debate.  But  for  all  that  I 
must  bear  honourable  testimony  to  the  pro- 
menaders  in  this  Lyceum  and  Stoa.  The 
Palais  Royal  garden  is  the  focus  of  patriotism : 
there  do  the  chosen  patriots  rendezvous,  who 
have  left  their  hearths  and  their  provinces  to 
witness  this  magnificent  spectacle  of  the  Re- 
volution of  1789,  and  not  to  witness  without 
aiding  in  it.  They  are  Frenchmen ;  they  have 
an  interest  in  the  Constitution,  and  a  right  to 
concur  in  it.  How  many  Parisians  too,  in- 
stead of  going  to  their  Districts,  find  it  shorter 
to  come  at  once  to  the  Palais  Royal.  Here 
you  have  no  need  to  ask  a  President  if  you 
may  speak,  and  wait  two  hours  till  your  turn 
comes.  You  propose  your  motion;  if  it  find 
supporters,  they  set  you  on  a  chair:  if  you  are 
applauded,  you  proceed  to  the  redaction :  if 
you  are  hissed,  you  go  your  ways.  It  is  very 
much  the  mode  the  Romans  followed ;  their 
Forum  and  our  Palais  Royal  resemble  one 
another." — Vol.  ii.  p.  414. 

Then  a  few  days  further  on — the  celebrated 
military  dinner  at  Versailles,  with  the  white 
cockades,  black  cockades,  and  "  O  Richard!  O 
man  Roi .'"  having  been  transacted : — 

"  Paris,  Sunday,  4th  October.  The  king's  wife 
had  been  so  gratified  with  it,  that  this  brotherly 
repast  of  Thursday  must  needs  be  repeated.  It 
was  so  on  the  Saturday,  and  with  aggrava- 
tions. Our  patience  was  worn  out:  you  may 
suppose  whatever  patriot  observers  there  were 
at  Versailles  hastened  to  Paris  with  the  news, 
or  at  least  sent  off  despatches  containing  them. 
That  same  day  (Saturday  evening)  all  Paris 
set  itself  astir.  It  was  a  lady,  first,  who, 
seeing  that  her  husband  was  not  listened  to  at 
his  District,  came  to  the  bar  of  the  Cafe  de 
Foi,  to  denounce  the  anti-national  cockades. 
M.  Marat  flies  to  Versailles  ;  returns  like 
lightning;  makes  a  noise  like  the  four  blasts 
of  doom,  crying  to  us — Awake,  ye  Dead ! 
Danton,  on  his  side,  sounds  the  alarm  in  the 
Cordeliers.  On  Sunday  this  immortal  Corde- 
liers' District  posts  its  manifesto;  and  that 
very  day  they  would  have  gone  to  Versailles, 
had  not  M.  Crevecoeur,  their  commandant, 
stood  in  the  way.  People  seek  out  their  arms 
however;  sally  out  to  the  streets  in  chase  of 
anti-national  cockades.  The  law  of  reprisals 
is  in  force ;  these  cockades  are  torn  off,  trampled 
under  foot,  with  menace  of  the  Lanter>ie  in  case 
of  relapse.  A  military  gentleman,  picking  up 
his  cockade,  is  for  fastening  it  on  again ;  a 
hundred  canes  start  into  the  air,  saying  veto. 
The  whole  Sunday  passes  in  hunting  down 


HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


609 


the  white  and  the  black  cockades ;  in  holding 
council  at  the  Palais  Royal,  over  the  Faubourg 
Saint  Antoine,  at  the  end  of  bridges,  on  the 
quais.  At  the  doors  of  the  coffee  houses  there 
arise  free  conferences  between  the  Upper 
House,  of  the  coats  that  are  within,  and  the 
Lower  House,  of  jackets  and  wool-caps,  as- 
sembled extra  muros.  It  is  agreed  upon  that 
the  audacity  of  the  aristocrats  increases  ra- 
pidly ;  that  Madame  Villepatour  and  the  queen's 
women  are  distributing  enormous  white  cock- 
ades to  all  comers  in  the  ffiil-de-Baeuf ;  that 
M.  Lecointre,  having  refused  to  take  one  from 
their  hands,  has  all  but  been  assassinated.  It 
is  agreed  upon  that  we  have  not  a  moment  to 
lose;  that  the  boat  which  used  to  bring  us 
fiour  from  Corbeil,  morning  and  evening,  now 
comes  only  once  in  two  days: — do  they  plan 
to  make  their  attack  at  the  moment  when  they 
have  kept  us  for  eight-and-forty  hours  in  a 
fasting  state  ?  It  is  agreed  upon,"  <fec. — Vol. 
iii.  p.  63. 

We  hasten  to  the  catastrophe,  w^hich  arrives 
on  the  morrow.  It  is  related  elsewhere,  in 
another  leading  article  : — 

"At  break  of  day  the  women  rush  towards 
the  Hotel  de  Ville.  All  the  way,  they  recruit 
fresh  hands,  among  their  own  sex,  to  march 
with  them ;  as  sailors  are  recruited  at  London : 
there  is  an  active  press  of  women.  The  Quai 
de  la  Ferraille  is  covered  with  female  crimps. 
The  robust  kitchen-maid,  the  slim  mantua- 
maker,  all  must  go  to  swell  the  phalanx;  the 
ancient  devotee,  tripping  to  mass  in  the  dawn, 
sees  herself  for  the  first  time  carried  off,  and 
shrieks  help!  whilst  more  than  one  of  the 
younger  sort  secretly  is  not  so  sorry  at  going 
without  mother  or  mistress  to  Versailles  to 
pay  her  respects  to  the  august  Assembly.  At 
the  same  time,  for  the  accuracy  of  this  narra- 
tive, I  must  remark  that  these  women,  at  least 
the  battalion  of  them  which  encamped  that 
night  in  the  Assembly  Hall,  and  had  marched 
under  the  flag  of  M.  Maillard,  had  among 
themselves  a  Presidentess  and  Staff;  and  that 
every  woman,  on  being  borrowed  from  her 
mother  or  husband,  was  presented  to  the  Pre- 
sidentess or  some  of  her  aids-de-camp,  who 
engaged  to  watch  over  her  morality,  and  in- 
sure her  honour  for  this  day. 

"  Once  arrived  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  these 
women  piously  begin  letting  down  the  Lan- 
teme;  as,  in  great  calamities,  you  let  down  the 
shrine  of  Saint  Genevieve.  Next  they  are  for 
mounting  into  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  The  Com- 
mandant had  been  forewarned  of  this  move- 
ment: he  knew  that  all  insurrections  have 
begun  by  women,  whose  maternal  bosom  the 
bayonet  of  the  satellites  of  despotism  respects. 
Four  thousand  soldiers  presented  a  front 
bristling  with  bayonets  ;  kept  them  back  from 
the  step :  but  behind  these  women  there  rose 
and  grew  every  moment  a  nucleus  of  men, 
armed  with  pikes,  axes,  bills ;  blood  is  about 
to  flow  on  the  place ;  the  presence  of  these 
Sabine  women  hindered  it.  The  National 
Guard,  which  is  not  purely  a  machine,  as  the 
Minister  of  War  would  have  the  soldier  be, 
makes  use  of  its  reason.  It  discerns  that 
these  women,  now  for  Versailles,  are  going  to 
Vhe  root  of  the  mischief.    The  four  thousand 


Guards,  already  getting  saluted  with  stones, 
think  it  reasonablest  to  open  a  passage  ;  and, 
like  waters  through  a  broken  dike,  the  floods 
of  the  multitude  inundate  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

"  It  is  a  picture  interesting  to  paint,  and  one 
of  the  greatest  in  the  Revolution,  this  same 
army  of  ten  thousand  Judiths  setting  forth  to 
cut  off  the  head  of  Holofernes ;  forcing  the 
Hotel  de  Ville;  arming  themselves  with  what- 
ever they  can  lay  hands  on  ;  some  tying  ropes 
to  the  cannon-trains,  arresting  carts,  loading 
them  with  artillery,  with  powder  and  balls  for 
the  Versailles  National  Guard,  which  is  left 
without  ammunition  ;  others  driving  on  the 
horses,  or  seated  on  cannon,  holding  the  re- 
doubtable match  ;  seeking  for  their  generalis- 
simo, not  aristocrats  with  epaulettes,  but  Con- 
querors of  the  Bastille !" — Vol.  iii.  p.  .110. 

So  far  Camille  on  veto,  scarcity,  and  the 
Insurrection  of  Women,  in  the  end  of  1789. 

We  terminate  with  a  scene  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent complexion,  being  some  three  years 
farther  on,  that  is  to  say,  in  September,  1792 ! 
Felemhi'si,  (anagram  for  Mehee  Fits,)  in  his 
"  Verite  toute  entiere,"  a  pamphlet  really  more 
veracious  than  most,  thus  testifies,  after  a  good 
deal  of-preambling : — 

"I  was  going  to  my  post  about  half  past 
two,"  (Sunday,  the  2d  of  September,  tocsins 
all  ringing,  and  Brunswick  just  at  hand;)  "I 
was  passing  along  the  Rue  Dauphine;  sud- 
denly I  hear  hisses.  I  look,  I  observe  four 
hackney-coaches,  coming  in  a  train,  escorted 
by  the  Federe's  of  the  departments. 

"  Each  of  these  coaches  contained  four  per- 
sons :  they  were  individuals"  (priests)  "  ar- 
rested in  the  preceding  domiciliary  visits. 
Billaud-Varennes,  Procureur-Substitute  of  the 
Commune,  had  just  been  interrogating  them 
at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  ;  and  now  they  were  pro- 
ceeding towards  the  Abbaye,  to  be  provision- 
ally detained  there.  A  crowd  is  gathering; 
the  cries  and  hisses  redouble:  one  of  the  pri- 
soners, doubtless  out  of  his  senses,  takes  fire 
at  these  murmurs,  puts  his  arm  over  the  coach- 
door,  gives  one  of  the  Federe's  a  stroke  over 
the  head  with  his  cane.  The  F6der6,  in  a 
rage,  draws  his  sabre,  springs  on  the  carriage- 
steps,  and  plunges  it  thrice  over  into  the  heart 
of  his  aggressor.  I  saw  the  blood  come  out  in 
great  jets.  •  Kill  every  one  of  them ;  they  are 
scoundrels,  aristocrats  !'  cry  the  people.  The 
Federe's  all  draw  their  sabres,  and  instantly 
kill  the  three  companions  of  the  one  who  had 
just  perished.  I  saw,  at  this  moment,  a  young 
man  in  a  white  nightgown  stretch  himself  out 
of  that  same  carriage :  his  countenance,  ex- 
pressive, but  pale  and  worn,  indicated  that  he 
was  very  sick ;  he  had  gathered  his  staggering 
strength,  and,  though  already  wounded,  was 
crying  still,  '  Grace,  grace,  pardon  T  but  in  vain 
— a  mortal  stroke  united  him  to  the  lot  of  the 
others. 

"  This  coach,  which  was  the  hindmost,  now 
held  nothing  but  corses;  it  had  not  stopped 
during  the  carnage,  which  lasted  about  the 
space  of  two  minutes.  The  crowd  increases, 
crescit  eundo ;  the  yells  redouble.  The  coaches 
are  at  the  Abbaye.  The  corpses  are  hurled 
into  the  court ;  the  twelve  living  prisoners 
dismount  to  enter  the  committee-room.  Two 
2  V  2 


610 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


are  sacrificed  on  alighting;  ten  succeed  in  en- 
tering. The  committee  had  not  had  time  to 
put  the  slightest  question,  when  a  multitude, 
armed  with  pikes,  sabres,  swords,  and  bayonets, 
dashes  in  ;  seizes  the  accused,  and  kills  them. 
One  prisoner,  already  much  wounded,  kept 
hanging  by  the  skirts  of  a  Committee-member, 
and  still  struggled  against  death. 

"Three  yet  remained;  one  of  whom  was  the 
Abbe  Sicard,teacherofthedeaf  and  dumb.  The 
sabres  were  already  over  his  head,  when  Mon- 
not,  the  watchmaker,  flung  himself  before 
them,  crying,  'Kill  me  rather,  and  not  this 
man,  who  is  useful  to  our  country !'  These 
words,  uttered  with  the  fire  and  impetuosity 
of  a  generous  soul,  suspended  death.  Profit- 
ing by  this  moment  of  calm,  Abbe  Sicard  and 
the  other  two  were  got  conveyed  into  the  back 
part  of  the  room." 

Abbe  Sicard,  as  is  well  known,  survived ; 
and  the  narrative  which  he  also  published  ex- 
ists— sufficient  to  prove,  among  other  things, 
that  "Felemhesi"  had  but  two  eyes,  and  his 
own  share  of  sagacity  and  heart ;  that  he  has 
wis-seen,  miscounted,  and,  knowingly  or  un- 
knowingly, misstated  not  a  little, — as  one  poor 
man,  in  these  circumstances,  might.  Felerahe- 
si  continues, — we  only  inverting  his  arrange- 
ment somewhat: — 

"Twelve  scoundrels,  presided  by  Maillard, 
with  whom  they  had  probably  combined  this 
project  beforehand,  find  themselves '  by  chance' 
among  the  crowd ;  and  now,  being  well-known 
one  to  another,  they  unite  themselves  '  in  the 
name  of  the  sovereign  people,'  whether  it  were 
of  their  own  private  audacity,  or  that  they  had 
secretly  received  superior  orders.  They  lay 
hold  of  the  prison  registers,  and  turn  them 
over;  the  turnkeys  fall  a-trembling;  the  jail- 
er's wife  and  the  jailer  faint;  the  prison  is 
surrounded  by  furious  men;  there  is  shouting, 
clamouring :  the  door  is  assaulted,  like  to  be 
forced;  when  one  of  the  Committee-members 
presents  himself  at  the  outer  gate,  and  begs 
audience :  his  signs  obtain  a  moment's  silence  ; 
the  doors  open,  he  advances,  gets  a  chair, 
mounts  on  it,  and  speaks : — '  Comrades,  friends,' 
said  he, 'you  are  good  patriots;  your  resent- 
ment is  just.  Open  war  to  the  enemies  of  the 
common  good  ;  neither  truce  nor  mercy  ;  it  is 
a  war  to  the  death  !  I  feel  like  you  that  they 
must  all  perish  ;  and  yet,  if  you  are  good  citi- 
zens, you  must  love  justice.  There  is  not  one 
of  you  but  would  shudder  at  the  notion  of 
shedding  innocent  blood.'  '  Yes,  yes  !'  reply 
the  people.  *  Well,  then,  I  ask  of  you  if,  with- 
out inquiry  or  investigation,  you  fling  your- 
selves like  mad  tigers  on  your  fellow-men ]' 

Here  the  speaker  was  interrupted  by  one  of 
the  crowd,  who,  with  a  bloody  sabre  in  his 
hand,  his  eyes  glancing  with  rage,  cleaves  the 
press,  and  refutes  him  in  these  terms  :  'Tell  us, 
Monsieur  le  Citoyen,  explain  to  us  then,  would 
the  sacres  gueux  of  Prussians  and  Austrians,  if 
they  were  at  Paris,  investigate  for  the  guilty  1 
Would  they  not  cut  right  and  left,  as  the  Swiss 
on  the  Tenth  of  August  did?  Well,  I  am  no 
speaker,  I  can  stuff"  the  ears  of  no  one  ;  but 
I  tell  you  I  have  a  wife  and  five  children,  whom 
Heave  with  my  section  here  while  I  go  and 
fight  the  enemy  :  but  it  is  not  my  bargain  that 


the  villains  in  this  prison,  whom  other  villains 
outside  will  open  the  doors  to,  shall  go  and 
kill  my  wife  and  children  in  the  meanwhile! 
I  have  three  boys,  who  I  hope  will  be  usefuller 
to  their  country  one  day  than  these  rascals  you 
want  to  save.  Any  way  you  have  but  to  send 
them  out ;  we  will  give  them  arms,  and  fight 
them  number  for  number.  Die  here  or  die  on 
the  frontiers,  I  am  sure  enough  to  be  killed  by 
these  villains,  but  I  mean  to  sell  them  my  life  ; 
and,  be  it  I,  be  it  others,  the  prison  shall  be 
purged  of  these  sacres  gumx  la.*  'He  is  right!' 
responds  the  general  cry." — And  so  the  fright- 
ful "purgation"  proceeds. 

"At  five  in  the  afternoon,  Billaud  Varennes, 
Procureur-Substitut,  arrives;  he  had  on  his 
sash,  and  the  small  puce  coat  and  black  wig 
■jve  are  used  to  see  on  him  :  walking  over  car- 
casses, he  makes  a  short  harangue  to  the  peo- 
ple, and  ends  thus  :  'People,  thou  art  sacrific- 
ing thy  enemies;  thou  art  in  thy  duty.'  This 
cannibal  speech  lends  them  new  animation- 
The  killers  blaze  up,  cry  louder  than  ever  for 
new  victims  : — how  to  staunch  this  new  thirst 
of  blood  ]  A  voice  speaks  from  beside  Billaud ; 
it  was  Maillard's  voice :  '  There  is  nothing 
more  to  do  here  ;  let  us  to  the  C amies  /'  They 
run  thither:  in  five  minutes  more  I  saw  them 
trailing  corpses  by  the  heels.  A  killer,  (I  can- 
not say  a  man,)  in  very  coarse  clothes,  had,  as 
it  would  seem,  been  specially  commissioned 
to  dispatch  the  Abbe  Lenfant;  for,  apprehen- 
sive lest  the  prey  might  be  missed,  he  takes 
water,  flings  it  on  the  corpses,  washes  their 
blood-smeared  faces,  turns  them  over,  and 
seems  at  last  to  ascertain  that  the  Abbe  Len- 
fant is  among  them." — Vol.  xviii.  p.  169. 

This  is  the  September  massacre,  the  last 
scene  we  can  give  as  a  specimen.  Thus,  in 
these  curious  records  of  the  "  Histoire  Parle- 
mentaire,"  as  in  some  Ezekiel  vision  become 
real,  does  scene  after  scene  disclose  itself,  now 
in  rose-light,  now  in  sulphurous  black,  and 
grow  ever  more  fitful,  dream-like, — till  the 
Vendemiaire  scene  come,  and  Napoleon  bloAV 
forth  his  grape-shot,  and  Sansculottism  be  no 
more! 

Touching  the  political  and  metaphysical 
speculations  of  our  two  editors,  we  shall  say 
little.  They  are  of  the  sort  we  lamented  in 
Mignet,  and  generally  in  Frenchmen  of  this 
day — a  jingling  of  formulas;  unfruitful  as 
that  Kalmuck  prayer  !  Perhaps  the  strangest- 
looking  particular  doctrine  we  have  noticed  is 
this  :  that  the  French  Revolution  was  at  bot- 
tom an  attempt  to  realize  Christianity,  and 
fairly  put  it  in  action,  in  our  world.  For  eigh- 
teen centuries  (it  is  not  denied)  men  had  been 
doing  more  or  less  that  way  ;  but  they  set 
their  shoulder  rightly  to  the  wheel,  and  gave 
a  dead-lift,  for  the  first  time  then.  Good  M. 
Roux !  and  yet  the  good  Roux  does  mean 
something  by  this  ;  and  even  something  true. 
But  a  marginal  annotator  has  written  on  our 
copy — "For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Messieurs, 
humez  vos  formuks :"  make  away  with  your 
formulas ;  take  off"  your  facetted  spectacles  ; 
open  your  eyes  a  little  and  look!  There  is, 
indeed,  here  and  there,  considerable  rumbling 
of  the  rotatory  calabash,  which  rattles  and  rum- 
bles concerning  Progress  of  the  Species,  Doc- 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


511 


trine  du  Progres,  Exploitations,  le  Cl.rist,  the 
Verbe,  and  what  not ;  written  in  a  vein  of  deep, 
even  of  intense  seriousness ;  but  profitable, 
one  would  think,  to  no  man  or  woman.  In  this 
style  M.  Roux  (for  it  is  he,  we  understand) 
painfully  composes  a  preface  to  each  volume, 
and  has  even  given  a  whole  introductory  his- 
tory of  France  :  we  read  some  seven  or  eight 
of  his  firstprefaces,  hoping  always  to  get  some 
nourishment;  but  seldom  or  never  cut  him 
open  now.  Fighting  in  that  way,  behind  cover, 
he  is  comparatively  harmless;  merely  wasting 
you  so  many  pence  per  number  :  happily  the 


space  he  takes  is  small.  Whoever  wants  to 
form  for  himself  an  image  of  the  actual  state 
of  French  Meditation,  and  under  what  sur- 
prising shackles  a  French  thinking  man  of 
these  days  finds  himself  gyved,  and  mechan- 
ized, and  reduced  to  the  verge  of  zero,  may 
open  M.  Roux's  Prefaces,  and  see  it  as  in  an 
expressive  summary. 

We  wish  our  two  French  friends  alVspeed 
in  their  business ;  and  do  again  honestly  re- 
commend this  "Histoire  Parlementaire"  to  any 
and  all  of  our  English  friends  who  take  inte- 
rest in  that  subject. 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 

[London  and  Westminster  Review,  1838.] 


American-  Cooper  asserts,  in  one  of  his 
books,  that  there  is  "an  instinctive  tendency 
in  men  to  look  at  any  man  who  has  become 
distinguished."  True,  surely;  as  all  observa- 
tion and  survey  of  mankind,  from  China  to 
Peru,  from  Nebuchadnezzar  to  Old  Hickory, 
will  testify !  Why  do  men  crowd  towards  the 
improved  drop  at  Newgate,  eager  to  catch  a 
sight  1  The  man  about  to  be  hanged  is  in  a 
distinguished  situation.  Men  crowd  to  such 
extent,  that  Greenacre's  is  not  the  only  life 
choked  out  there.  Again,  ask  of  these  leathern 
vehicles,  cabriolets,  neat-flies,  with  blue  men 
and  women  in  them,  that  scour  all  thorough- 
fares, Whither  so  fast?  To  see  dear  Mrs. 
Rigmarole,  the  distinguished  female !  Great 
Mr.  Rigmarole,  the  distinguished  male.  Or, 
consider  the  crowning  phenomenon,  and  sum- 
mary of  modern  civilization,  a  soiree  of  lions. 
Glittering  are  the  rooms,  well-lighted,  thronged ; 
bright  flows  their  undulatory  flood  of  blonde 
gowns  and  dress-coats,  a  soft  smile  dwelling 
on  all  faces ;  for  behold  there  also  flow  the 
lions,  hovering  distinguished:  oracles  of  the 
age,  of  one  sort  or  another.  Oracles  really 
pleasant  to  see;  whom  it  is  worth  while  to  go 
and  see:  look  at  them,  but  inquire  not  of  them, 
depart  rather  and  be  thankful.  For  your  lion- 
soiree  admits  not  of  speech;  there  lies  the  spe- 
ciality of  it.  A  meeting  together  of  human 
creatures ;  and  yet  (so  high  has  civilization 
gone)  the  primary  aim  of  human  meeting,  that 
soul  might  in  some  articulate  utterance  unfold 
itself  to  soul,  can  be  dispensed  with  in  it. 
Utterance  there  is  not:  nay,  there  is  a  certain 
grinningplayof  tongue-fence,  and  make-believe 
of  utterance,  considerably  worse  than  none. 
For  which  reason  it  has  been  suggested,  with  an 
eye  to  sincerity  and  silencQ  in  such  lion-.<^oMeV.<t, 
Might  not  each  lion  be,  for  example,  ticketed, 
as  wine-decanters  are  1  Let  him  carry,  slung 
round  him,  in  such  ornamental  manner  as 
seemed  good,  his  silver  label  with  name  en- 
graved; you  lift  his  label,  and  read  it,  with 


•  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Baronet. 
Vol.  i.— vi.    Cadell.    Ediuburgh,  1837. 


what  farther  ocular  survey  you  find  useful,  and 
speech  is  not  needed  at  all.  0  Fenimore 
Cooper,  it  is  most  true  there  is  "an  instinctive 
tendency  in  men  to  look  at  at  any  man  that  has 
become  distinguished;"  and,  moreover,  an  in- 
stinctive desire  in  men  to  become  distinguished 
and  be  looked  at! 

For  the  rest,  we  will  call  it  a  most  valua- 
ble tendency  this;  indispensable  to  mankind. 
Without  it  where  were  star-and-garter,  and 
significance  of  rank ;  where  were  all  ambition, 
money-getting,  respectability  of  gig  or  no  gig; 
and,  in  a  word,  the  main  impetus  by  which 
society  moves,  the  main  force  by  which  it 
hangs  together  1  A  tendency,  we  say,  of  mani- 
fold results:  of  manifold  origin,  not  ridiculous 
only,  but  sublime; — which  some  incline  to 
deduce  from  the  mere  gregarious  purblind 
nature  of  man,  prompting  him  to  run,  "  as  dim- 
eyed  animals  do,  towards  any  glittering  object, 
were  it  but  a  scoured  tankard,  and  mistake  it 
for  a  solar  luminary,"  or  even,  "  sheep-like,  to 
run  and  crowd  because  many  have  already 
run  !"  It  is,  indeed,  curious  to  consider  how 
men  do  make  the  gods  that  themselves  worship. 
For  the  most  famed  man,  round  whom  all  the 
world  rapturously  huzzahs,  and  venerates'  as 
if  his  like  were  not,  is  the  same  man  whom  all 
the  world  was  wont  to  jostle  into  the  kennels; 
not  a  changed  man,  but  in  every  fibre  of  him 
the  same  man.  Foolish  world,  what  went  ye 
out  to  see  1  A  tankard  scoured  bright ;  and  do 
there  not  lie,  of  the  self-same  pewter,  whole 
barrowfuls  of  tankards,  though  by  worse  fortune 
all  still  in  the  dim  state  1 

And  yet,  at  bottom,  it  is  not  merely  our  gre- 
garious sheep-like  quality,  but  something  better, 
and  indeed  best;  what  has  been  called  "the 
perpetual  fact  of  hero-worship;"  our  inborn 
sincere  love  of  great  men !  Not  the  gilt 
farthing,  for  its  own  sake,  do  even  fools  covet; 
but  the  gold  guinea  which  they  mistake  it  for. 
Veneration  of  great  men  is  perennial  in  the 
nature  of  man  ;  this,  in  all  times,  especially  in 
these,  is  one  of  the  blessedest  facts  predicable 
of  him.  In  all  times,  even  in  these  seemingly 
so  disobedient  times,  "it  remains  a  blessed 


512 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


fact,  so  cunningly  has  nature  ordered  it,  that 
whatsoever  man  ought  to  obey  he  cannot  but  obey. 
Show  the  dullest  clodpole,  show  the  haughtiest 
featherhead,  that  a  soul  higher  than  himself  is 
actually  here;  were  his  knees  stiffened  into 
brass,  he  must  down  and  worship."  So  it  has 
been  written ;  and  may  be  cited  and  repeated 
till  known  to  all.  Understand  it  well,  this  of 
"  hero-worship"  was  the  primary  creed,  and  has 
intrinsically  been  the  secondary  and  ternary, 
and  will  be  the  ultimate  and  final  creed  of  man- 
kind ;  indestructible,  changing  in  shape,  but  in 
essence  unchangeable ;  whereon  politics,  re- 
ligions, loyalties,  and  all  highest  human  inte- 
rests have  been  and  can  be  built,  as  on  a  rock 
that  will  endure  while  man  endures.  Such  is 
hero-worship ;  so  much  lies  in  that  our  inborn 
sincere  love  of  great  men ! — In  favour  of  which 
unspeakable  benefits  of  the  reality,  what  can 
we  do  but  cheerfully  pardon  the  multiplex 
ineptitudes  of  the  semblance, — cheerfully  wish 
even  lion-soirees,  with  labels  for  their  lions  or 
without  that  improvement,  all  manner  of  pros- 
perity] Let  hero-worship  flourish,  say  we; 
and  the  more  and  more  assiduous  chase  after 
gilt  farthings  while  guineas  are  not  yet  forth- 
coming. Herein,  at  lowest,  is  proof  that 
guineas  exist,  that  they  are  believed  to  exist, 
and  valued.  Find  great  men  if  you  can  ;  if  you 
cannot,  still  quit  not  the  search ;  in  defect  of 
great  men,  let  there  be  noted  men,  men,  in 
such  number,  to  such  degree  of  intensity  as  the 
public  appetite  can  tolerate. 

Whether  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  a  great  man, 
is  still  a  question  with  some;  but  there  can  be 
no  question  with  any  one  that  he  was  a  most 
noted  and  even  notable  man.  In  this  gene- 
ration there  was  no  literary  man  with  such  a 
popularity  in  any  country ;  there  have  only 
been  a  few  with  such,  taking  in  all  generations 
and  all  countries.  Nay,  it  is  farther  to  be  ad- 
mitted that  Sir  Walter  Scott's  popularity  was 
of  a  select  sort  rather;  not  a  popularity  of  the 
populace.  His  admirers  were  at  one  time 
almost  all  the  intelligent  of  civilised  countries  ; 
and  to  the  last,  included  and  do  still  include  a 
great  portion  of  that  sort.  Such  fortune  he  had, 
and  has  continued  to  maintain  for  a  space  of 
some  twenty  or  thirty  years.  So  long  the 
observed  of  all  observers ;  a  great  man,  or  only 
a  considerable  man  ;  here  surely,  if  ever,  is  a 
singularly  circumstanced,  is  a  "distinguished" 
man  !  In  regard  to  whom,  therefore,  the  "  in- 
stinctive tendency"  on  other  men's  part  can- 
not be  wanting.  Let  men  look,  where  the 
world  has  already  so  long  looked.  And  now, 
while  the  new,  earnestly  expected  "  Life  by  his 
Son-in-law  and  literary  executor"  again  sum- 
mons the  whole  world's  attention  round  him, 
probably  for  the  last  time  it  will  ever  be  so 
summoned;  and  men  are  in  some  sort  taking 
leave  of  a  notability,  and  about  to  go  their  way, 
and  commit  him  to  his  fortune  on  the  flood  of 
things, — why  should  not  this  periodical  publi- 
cation likewise  publish  its  thought  about  him  1 
Readers  of  miscellaneous  aspect,  of  unknown 
quantity  and  quality,  are  waiting  to  hear  it 
done.  With  small  inward  vocation,  but  cheer- 
fully obedient  to  destiny  and  necessity,  the 
present  reviewer  will  follow  a  multitude  to  do 


evil  or  to  do  no  evil;  will  depend  not  on  the 
multitude,  but  on  himself.  One  thing  he  did 
decidedly  wish;  at  least  to  wait  till  the 
work  were  finished:  for  the  six  promised 
volumes,  as  the  world  knows,  have  flowed 
over  into  a  seventh,  which  will  not  for  some 
weeks  yet  see  the  light.  But  the  editorial 
powers,  wearied  with  waiting,  have  become 
peremptory;  and  declare  that,  finished  or  not 
finished,  they  will  have  their  hands  washed  of 
it  at  this  opening  of  the  year.  Perhaps  it  is 
best.  The  physiognomy  of  Scott  will  not  be 
much  altered  for  us  by  the  seventh  volume; 
the  prior  six  have  altered  it  but  little ; — as,  in- 
deed, a  man  who  has  written  some  two  hundred 
volumes  of  his  own,  and  lived  for  thirty  years 
amid  the  universal  speech  of  friends,  must  have 
already  left  some  likeness  of  himself.  Be  it 
as  the  peremptory  editorial  powers  require. 

First,  therefore,  a  word  on  the  "  Life"  itself. 
Mr.  Lockhart's  known  powers  justify  strict 
requisition  in  his  case.  Our  verdict  in  general 
would  be,  that  he  has  accomplished  the  work 
he  schemed  for  himself  in  a  creditable  work- 
manlike manner.  It  is  true,  his  notion  of 
what  the  work  was  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
very  elevated.  To  picture  forth  the  life  of  Scott 
according  to  any  rules  of  art  or  composition, 
so  that  a  reader,  on  adequately  examining  it, 
might  say  to  himself,  "There  is  Scott,  there 
is  the  physiognomy  and  meaning  of  Scott's  ap- 
pearance and  transit  on  this  earth;  such  was 
he  by  nature,  so  did  the  world  act  on  him,  so 
he  on  the  world,  with  such  result  and  signifi- 
cance for  himself  and  us  :"  this  was  by  no 
manner  of  means  Mr.  Lockhart's  plan.  A  plan 
which,  it  is  rashly  said,  should  preside  over 
every  biography !  It  might  have  been  fulfilled 
with  all  degrees  of  perfection  from  that  of 
the  "Odyssey"  down  to  "Thomas  EUwood"  or 
lower.  For  there  is  no  heroic  poem  in  the 
world  but  is  at  bottom  a  biography,  the  life  of 
a  man :  also,  it  may  be  said,  there  is  no  life 
of  a  man,  faithfully  recorded,  but  is  a  heroic 
poem  of  its  sort,  rhymed  or  unrhymed.  It  is  a 
plan  one  would  prefer,  did  it  otherwise  suit; 
which  it  does  not  in  these  days.  Seven  volumes 
sell  so  much  dearer  than  one ;  are  so  much 
easier  to  write  than  one.  The  "Odyssey,"  for 
instance,  what  were  the  value  of  the  "  Odys- 
sey," sold  per  sheet?  One  paper  of  "Pick- 
wick ;"  or  say,  the  inconsiderable  fraction  of 
one.  This,  in  commercial  algebra,  were  the 
equation :  "  Odyssey"  equal  to  "  Pickwick"  di- 
vided by  an  unknown  integer. 

There  is  a  great  discovery  still  to  be  made 
in  literature,  that  of  paying  literary  men  by 
the  quantity  they  do  not  write.  Nay,  in  sober 
truth, is  not  this  actually  the  rule  in  all  writing; 
and,  moreover,  in  all  conduct  and  acting  1  Not 
what  stands  above  ground,  but  what  lies  un- 
seen under  it,!is  the  root  and  subterrene  element 
it  sprang  from  and  emblemed  forth,  determines 
value.  Under  all  speech  that  is  good  for  any 
thing  there  lies  a  silence  that  is  better.  Silence 
is  deep  as  eternity;  speech  is  shallow  as  time. 
Paradoxical  does  it  seem?  Wo  for  the  age, 
wo  for  the  man,  quack-ridden,  bespeeched,  be- 
spouted,  blown  about  like  barren  Sahara,  to 
whom  this  world-old  truth  were  altogether 
strange  ! — Such  we  say  is  the  rule,  acted  on  or 


MEMOIRS  OP  THE  LIFE  OP  SCOTT. 


618 


not,  recognised  or  not;  and  he  who  departs 
from  it,  what  can  he  do  but  spread  himself 
into  breadth  and  length,  into  superficiality  and 
saleability ;  and,  except  as  filigree,  become 
comparatively  useless  1  One  thinks,  had  but 
the  hogshead  of  thin  wash,  which  sours  in  a 
week  ready  for  the  kennels,  been  distilled,  been 
concentrated !  Our  dear  Fenimore  Cooper, 
whom  we  started  with,  might,  in  that  way, 
have  given  us  one  Natty  Leatherstocking,  one 
melodious  synopsis  of  man  and  nature  in  the 
West,  (for  it  lay  in  him  to  do  it,)  almost  as  a 
Saint  Pierre  did  for  the  islands  of  the  East ; 
and  the  hundred  incoherences,  cobbled  hastily 
together  by  order  of  Colburn  and  Company, 
had  slumbered  in  Chaos,  as  all  incoherences 
ought  if  possible  to  do.  Verily  this  same  ge- 
nius of  diffuse-writing,  of  diffuse-acting,  is  a 
Moloch;  and  souls  pass  through  the  fire  to 
him  more  than  enough.  Surely  if  ever  disco- 
viery  was  valuable  and  needful,  it  were  that 
above  indicated,  of  paying  by  the  work  not  vi- 
sibly done  ! — Which  needful  discovery  we  will 
give  the  whole  projecting,  railwaying,  know- 
ledge-diffusing, march-of-intellect,  and  other- 
wise promotive  and  locomotive  societies  in  the 
Old  and  New  World,  any  required  length  of 
centuries  to  make.  Once  made,  such  disco- 
very once  made,  we  too  will  fling  cap  into  the 
air,  and  shout  lo  Pcean,  the  Devil  is  conquered ; 
and  in  the  meanwhile  study  to  think  it  nothing 
miraculous  that  seven  biographical  volumes 
are  given  where  one  had  been  better ;  and  that 
several  other  things  happen,  very  much  as 
they  from  of  old  were  known  to  do,  and  are 
like  to  continue  doing. 

Mr.  Lockhart's  aim,  we  take  it,  was  not  that 
of  producing  any  such  highflown  work  of  art 
as  we  hint  at :  or  indeed  to  do  much  other  than 
to  print,  intelligibly  bound  together  by  order  of 
time,  and  some  requisite  intercalary  exposition, 
all  such  letters,  documents,  and  notices  about 
Scott  as  he  found  lying  suitable,  and  as  it 
seemed  likely  the  world  would  undertake  to 
read.  His  work,  accordingly,  is  not  so  much 
a  composition,  as  what  we  may  call  a  compila- 
tion well  done.  Neither  is  this  a  task  of  no  dif- 
ficulty ;  this  too  is  a  task  that  may  be  performed 
with  extremely  various  degrees  of  talent:  from 
the  "Life  and  Correspondence  of  Hannah 
More,"  for  instance,  up  to  this  "  Life  of  Scott," 
there  is  a  wide  range  indeed  !  Let  us  take  the 
seven  volumes,  and  be  thankful  that  they  are 
genuine  in  their  kind.  Nay,  as  to  that  of  their 
being  seven  and  not  one,  it  is  right  to  say  that 
the  public  so  required  it.  To  have  doneother 
would  have  shown  little  policy  in  an  author. 
Had  Mr.  Lockhart  laboriously  compressed 
himself,  and  instead  of  well-done  compilation, 
brought  out  the  well-done  composition  in  one 
volume  instead  of  seven,  which  not  many  men 
in  England  are  better  qualified  to  do,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  his  readers  for  the  time  had 
been  immeasurably  fewer.  If  the  praise  of 
magnanimity  be  denied  him,  that  of  prudence 
must  be  conceded,  which  perhaps  he  values 
more. 

The  truth  is,  the  work,  done  in  this  manner, 

too,  was  good  to  have :  Scott's  Biography,  if 

uncomposed,  lies   printed   and   indestructible 

here,  in  the  elementary  state,  and  can  at  any 

65 


time  be  composed,  if  necessary,  by  whosoever 
has  call  to  that.  As  it  is,  as  it  was  meant  to 
be,  we  repeat,  the  work  is  vigorously  done. 
Sagacity,  decision,  candour,  diligence,  good 
sense  :  these  qualities  are  throughout  observa- 
ble. The  dates,  calculations,  statements,  we 
suppose  to  be  accurate ;  much  laborious  in- 
quiry, some  of  it  impossible  for  another 
man,  has  been  gone  into,  the  results  of  which 
are  imparted  with  due  brevity.  Scott's  letters, 
not  interesting  generally,  yet  never  absolutely 
without  in  terest,  are  copiously  given ;  copiously, 
but  with  selection ;  the  answers  to  them  still 
more  select.  Narrative,  delineation,  and  at 
length  personal  reminiscences,  occasionly  of 
much  merit,  of  a  certain  rough  force,  sincerity, 
and  picturesqueness,  duly  intervene.  The 
scattered  members  of  Scott's  Life  do  lie  here, 
and  could  be  disentangled.  In  a  word,  this 
compilation  is  the  work  of  a  manful,  clear- 
seeing,  conclusive  man,  and  has  been  executed 
with  the  faculty  and  combination  of  faculties 
the  public  had  a  right  to  expect  from  the  name 
attached  to  it. 

One  thing  we  hear  greatly  blamed  in  Mr. 
Lockhart:  that  he  has  been  too  communica- 
tive, indiscreet,  and  has  recorded  much  that 
ought  to  have  lain  suppressed.  Persons  are 
mentioned,  and  circumstances,  not  always  of 
an  ornamental  sort.  It  would  appear  there  is 
far  less  reticence  than  was  looked  for !  Vari- 
ous persons,  name  and  surname,  have  "re» 
ceived  pain:"  nay,  the  very  hero  of  the  bio- 
graphy is  rendered  unheroic;  unornamental 
facts  of  him,  and  of  those  he  had  to  do  with, 
being  set  forth  in  plain  English  :  hence  "  per- 
sonality," "indiscretion,"  or  worse, "  sanctities 
of  private  life,"  <&c.  &c.  How  delicate,  decent 
is  English  biography,  bless  its  mealy  mouth ! 
A  Damocles'  sword  of  Respectability  hangs  for 
ever  over  the  poor  English  life-writer,  (as  it 
does  over  poor  English  life  in  general,)  and 
reduces  him  to  the  verge  of  paralysis.  Thus 
it  has  been  said,  "  there  are  no  English  lives 
worth  reading  except  those  of  Players,  who  by 
the  nature  of  the  case  have  bidden  Respectabi- 
lity good  day."  The  English  biographer  has 
long  felt  that  if  in  writing  his  Man's  Biography, 
he  wrote  down  any  thing,  that  could  by  possi- 
bility offend  any  man,  he  had  written  wrongs 
The  plain  consequence  was  that,  properly 
speaking,  no  biography  whatever  could  be  pro- 
duced. The  poor  biographer,  having  the  fear 
not  of  God  before  his  eyes,  was  obliged  to  retire 
as  it  were  into  vacuum  ;  and  write  in  the  most 
melancholy,  straitened  manner,  with  only 
vacuum  for  a  result.  Vain  that  he  wrote,  and 
that  we  kept  reading  volume  on  volume  ;  there 
was  no  biography,  but  some  vague  ghost  of  a 
biography,  white,  stainless ;  without  feature 
or  substance  ;  vucuum^  as  we  say,  and  wind  and 
shadow, — which  indeed  the  material  of  it  was. 

No  man  lives  without  jostling  and  being 
jostled ;  in  all  ways  he  has  to  elbotv  himself 
through  the  world,  giving  and  receiving  of- 
fence. His  life  is  a  battle,  in  so  far  as  it  is  an 
entity  at  all.  The  very  oyster,  we  suppose, 
comes  in  collision  with  oysters:  undoubtedly 
enough  it  does  come  in  collision  with  Neces- 
sity and  Difficulty ;  and  helps  itself  through, 
not  as  a  perfect  ideal  oyster,  but  as  an  imper- 


614 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


feci  real  one.  Some  kind  of  remorse  must  be 
known  to  the  oyster;  certain  hatreds,  certain 
pusillanimities.  But  as  for  man,  his  conflict 
is  continual  with  the  spirit  of  contradiction, 
that  is  without  and  within;  with  the  evil  spirit, 
(or  call  it  with  the  weak,  most  necessitous, 
pitiable  spirit,)  that  is  in  others  and  in  him- 
self His  walk,  like  all  walking,  (say  the  me- 
chanicians,) is  a  series  of  falls.  To  paint 
man's  life  is  to  represent  these  things.  Let 
them  be  represented,  fitly,  with  dignity  and 
measure ;  but  above  all,  let  them  be  repre- 
sented. No  tragedy  of  Hamlet,  with  the  part 
of  Hamlet  omitted  by  particular  desire  !  No 
ghost  of  a  Biography,  let  the  Damocles'  sword 
of  Respectability  (which  after  all  is  but  a 
pasteboard  one)  threaten  as  it  will !  One 
hopes  that  the  public  taste  is  much  mended  in 
this  matter !  that  vacuum-biographies,  with  a 
good  many  other  vacuities  related  to  them,  are 
withdrawn  or  withdrawing  into  vacuum.  Pro- 
bably it  was  Mr.  Lockhart's  feeling  of  what 
the  great  public  would  approve  that  led  him, 
open-eyed,  into  this  ofl^ence  against  the  small 
criticising  public ;  we  joyfully  accept  the 
omen. 

Perh<aps  then,  of  all  the  praises  copiously 
bestowed  on  his  work,  there  is  none  in  reality 
so  creditable  to  him  as  this  same  censure, 
which  has  also  been  pretty  copious.  It  is  a 
censure  better  than  a  good  many  praises.  He 
is  found  guilty  of  having  said  this  and  that, 
calculated  not  to  be  entirely  pleasant  to  this 
man  and  that;  in  other  words,  calculated  to 
give  him  the  thing  he  worked  in  a  living  set 
of  features,  not  leave  him  vague,  in  the  white 
beatified  ghost  condition.  Several  men,  as 
we  hear,  cry  out,  **See,  there  is  something 
written  not  entirely  pleasant  to  me !  Good 
friend,  it  is  pity :  but  who  can  help  it  ?  They 
that  will  crowd  about  bonfires  may,  sometimes 
very  fairly,  get  their  beards  singed ;  it  is  the 
price  they  pay  for  such  illumination ;  natural 
twilight  is  safe  and  free  to  all.  For  our  part, 
we  hope  all  manner  of  biographies  that  are 
written  in  England  will  henceforth  be  written 
so.  If  it  is  fit  that  they  be  written  otherwise, 
then  it  is  still  fitter  that  they  be  not  written  at 
all:  to  produce  not  things, but  ghosts  of  things, 
can  never  be  the  duty  of  man.  The  biogra- 
pher has  this  problem  set  before  him  :  to  de- 
lineate a  likeness  of  the  earthly  pilgrimage  of 
a  man.  He  will  compute  well  what  profit  is 
in  it,  and  what  disprofit;  under  which  latter 
head  this  of  offending  any  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures will  surely  not  be  forgotten.  Nay,  this 
may  so  swell  the  disprofit  side  of  his  account, 
that  ma«y  an  enterprise  of  biography,  other- 
wise promising,  shall  require  to  be  renounced. 
But  once  taken  up,  the  rule  above  all  rules  is 
to  do  it,  not  to  do  the  ghost  of  it.  In  speaking 
of  the  man  and  men  he  has  to  deal  with,  he 
w/ill  of  course  keep  all  his  charities  about 
him,  but  also  all  his  eyes  ,open.  Far  be  it 
from  him  to  set  down  aughjt  untrm ;  nay,  not 
to  abstain  from,  and  leave  ih  oblivion,  much 
that  is  true.  But  having  found  a  thing  or 
things  essential  for  his  subject,  and  well  com- 
puted the  for  and  against,  he  will  in  very  deed 
set  down  such  thing  or  things,  nothing  doubt- 
ing,— having,  we  may  say,  the  fear  of  God  be- 


fore his  eyes,  and  no  other  fear  whatever. 
Censure  the  biographer's  prudence ;  dissent 
from  the  computation  he  made,  or  agree  with 
it;  be  all  malice  of  his,  be  all  falsehood,  nay, 
be  all  ofl!ensive  avoidable  inaccuracy,  con- 
demned and  consumed  ;  but  know  that  by  this 
plan  only,  executed  as  was  possible,  could  the 
biographer  hope  to  make  a  biography :  and 
blame  him  not  that  he  did  what  it  had  been 
the  worst  fault  not  to  do. 

As  to  the  accuracy  or  error  of  these  state- 
ments about  the  Ballantynes  and  other  persons 
aggrieved,  which  are  questions  much  mooted 
at  present  in  some  places,  we  know  nothing 
at  all.  If  they  are  inaccurate,  let  them  be 
corrected;  if  the  inaccuracy  was  avoidable, 
let  the  author  bear  rebuke  and  punishment 
for  it.  We  can  only  say,  these  things  carry 
no  look  of  inaccuracy  on  the  face  of  them ; 
neither  is  anywhere  the  smallest  trace  of  ill- 
will  or  unjust  feeling  discernible.  Decidedly 
the  probabilities  are,  and  till  better  evidence 
arise,  the  fair  conclusion  is,  that  the  matter 
stands  very  much  as  it  ought  to  do.  Let  the 
clatter  of  censure,  therefore,  propagate  itself 
as  far  as  it  can.  For  Mr.  Lockhart  it  virtu- 
ally amounts  to  this  very  considerable  praise, 
that,  standing  full  in  the  face  of  the  public,  he 
has  set  at  naught,  and  been  among  the  first  to 
do  it,  a  public  piece  of  cant ;  one  of  the  com- 
monest we  have,  and  closely  allied  to  many 
others  of  the  fellest  sort,  as  smooth  as  it  looks. 

The  other  censure,  of  Scott  being  made  un- 
heroic,  springs  from  the  same  stem ;  and  is, 
perhaps,  a  still  more  wonderful  flower  of  it. 
Your  true  hero  must  have  no  features,  but  be 
white,  stainless,  an  impersonal  ghost-hero ! 
But  connected  with  this,  there  is  a  hypothesis 
now  current,  due  probably  to  some  man  of 
name,  for  its  own  force  would  not  carry  it  far; 
That  Mr.  Lockhart  at  heart  has  a  dislike  to 
Scott,  and  has  done  his  best  in  an  underhand 
treacherous  manner  to  dishero  him !  Such 
hypothesis  is  actually  current:  he  that  has 
ears  may  hear  it  now  and  then.  On  which 
astonishing  hypothesis,  if  a  word  must  be 
said,  it  can  only  be  an  apology  for  silence, 
"  that  there  are  things  at  which  one  stands 
struck  silent,  as  at  first  sight  of  the  Infinite." 
For  if  Mr.  Lockhart  is  fairly  chargeable  with 
any  radical  defect,  if  on  any  side  his  insight 
entirely  fails  him,  it  seems  even  to  be  in  this, 
that  Scott  is  altogether  lovely  to  him ;  that 
Scott's  greatness  spreads  out  for  him  on  all 
hands  beyond  reach  of  eye ;  that  his  very- 
faults  become  beautiful,  his  vulgar  worldli- 
nesses  are  solid  prudences,  proprieties ;  and 
of  his  worth  there  is  no  measure.  Does  not 
the  patient  biographer  dwell  on  his  Abbots,  Pi- 
rates, and  hasty  theatrical  scene-paintings ; 
affectionately  analyzing  them,  as  if  they  were 
Raphael  pictures,  time-defying  Hamlets,  Othellos? 
The  novel-manufactory,  with  his  £15,000  a 
year,  is  sacred  to  him  as  creation  of  a  genius, 
which  carries  the  noble  victor  up  to  heaven. 
Scott  is  to  Lockhart  the  unparalleled  of  the 
time  ;  an  object  spreading  out  before  him  like 
a  sea  without  shore.  Of  that  astonishing  hypo- 
thesis, let  expressive  silence  be  the  only  an- 
swer. 

And  so  in  sum,  with  regard  to  "Lockhart's 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


515 


Life  of  Scott,"  readers  that  believe  in  us  shall 
read  it  with  the  feeling  that  a  man  of  talent, 
decision,  and  insight  wrote  it;  wrote  it  in 
seven  volumes,  not  in  one,  because  the  public 
would  pay  for  it  better  in  that  state ;  but  wrote 
it  with  courage,  with  frankness,  sincerity ;  on 
the  whole,  in  a  very  readable,  recommenda- 
ble  manner,  as  things  go.  Whosoever  needs 
it  can  purchase  it,  or  the  loan  of  it,  with  as- 
surance more  than  usual  that  he  has  ware  for 
his  money.  And  now  enough  of  the  written 
life ;  we  will  glance  a  little  at  the  man  and  his 
acted  life. 

Into  the  question  whether  Scott  was  a  great 
man  or  not,  we  do  not  propose  to  enter  deeply. 
It  is,  as  too  usual,  a  question  about  words. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  but  many  men  have 
been  named  and  printed  great  who  were  vastly 
smaller  than  he :  as  little  doubt  moreover  that 
of  the  specially  good  a  very  large  portion,  ac- 
cording to  any  genuine  standard  of  man's 
worth,  were  worthless  in  comparison  to  him. 
He  for  whom  Scott  is  great  may  most  inno- 
cently name  him  so;  may  with  advantage  ad- 
mire his  great  qualities,  and  ought  with  sin- 
cere heart  to  emulate  them.  At  the  same 
lime,  it  is  good  that  there  be  a  certain  degree 
of  precision  in  our  epithets.  It  is  good  to  un- 
derstand, for  one  thing,  that  no  popularity,  and 
open-mouthed  wonder  of  all  the  world,  con- 
tinued even  for  a  long  series  of  years,  can 
make  a  man  great.  Such  popularity  is  a  re- 
markable fortune ;  indicates  a  great  adaptation 
of  the  man  to  his  element  of  circumstances; 
but  may  or  may  not  indicate  any  thing  great  in 
the  man.  To  our  imagination,  as  above 
hinted,  there  is  a  certain  apotheosis  in  it ;  but 
in  the  reality  no  apotheosis  at  all.  Popularity 
is  as  a  blaze  of  illumination,  or  alas,  of  con- 
flagration kindled  round  a  man;  showing  what 
is  in  him ;  not  putting  the  smallest  item  more 
into  him;  often  abstracting  much  from  him; 
conflagrating  the  poor  man  himself  into  ashes 
and  caput  mortuum  !  And  then,  by  the  nature 
of  it,  such  popularity  is  transient ;  your  "  series 
of  years,"  quite  unexpectedly,  sometimes  al- 
most all  on  a  sudden,  terminates !  For  the 
stupidity  of  men,  especially  of  men  congre- 
gated in  masses  round  any  object,  is  extreme. 
What  illuminations  and  conflagrations  have 
kindled  themselves,  as  if  new  heavenly  suns 
had  risen,  which  proved  only  to  be  tar-barrels, 
and  terrestrial  locks  of  straw !  Profane 
princesses  cried  out,  "One  God,  one  Fari- 
nelli !" — and  whither  now  have  they  and  Fari- 
nelli  danced  1  In  literature,  too,  there  have 
been  seen  popularities  greater  even  than 
Scott's,  and  nothing  perennial  in  the  interior 
of  them.  Lope  de  Vega,  whom  all  the  world 
swore  by,  and  made  a  proverb  of;  who  could 
make  an  acceptable  five-act  tragedy  in  almost 
as  many  hours;  the  greatest  of  all  popularities 
past  or  present,  and  perhaps  one  of  the  great- 
est men  that  ever  ranked  among  popularities  : 
Lope  himself,  so  radiant,  far-shining,  has  not 
proved  to  be  a  sun  or  star  of  the  firmament ; 
but  is  as  good  as  lost  and  gone  out,  or  plays  at 
best,  in  the  e)'^es  of  some  few,  as  a  vague 
aurora-borealis,  and  brilliant  ineflectuality. 
The  great  man  of  Spain  sat  obscure  at  the 


time,  all  dark  and  poor,  a  maimed  soldier; 
writing  his  Don  Quixote  in  prison.  And 
Lope's  fate  withal  was  sad,  his  popularity  per- 
haps a  curse  to  him;  for  in  this  man  there 
was  something  ethereal  too,  a  divine  particle 
traceable  in  few  other  popular  men ;  and  such 
far  shining  dift-usion  of  himself,  though  all  the 
world  swore  by  it,  would  do  nothing  for  the 
true  life  of  him  even  while  he  lived :  he  had 
to  creep  into  a  convent,  into  a  monk's  cowl, 
and  learn,  with  infinite  sorrow,  that  his  bless- 
edness had  lain  elsewhere;  that  when  a  man's 
life  feels  itself  to  be  sick  and  an  error,  no 
voting  of  by-standers  can  make  it  well  and  a 
truth  again.  Or  coming  down  to  our  own 
times,  was  not  August  Kotzebue  popular? 
Kotzebue,  not  so  many  years  since,  saw  him- 
self, if  rumour  and  hand-clapping  could  be 
credited,  the  greatest  man  going;  saw  visibly 
his  Thoughts,  dressed  out  in  plush  and  paste- 
board, permeating  and  perambulating  civilized 
Europe ;  the  most  iron  visages  weeping  with, 
him,  in  all  theatres  from  Cadiz  to  Kamschat- 
ka;  his  own  "astonishing  genius,"  mean- 
while, producing  two  tragedies  or  so  per 
month:  he  on  the  whole  blazed  high  enough  : 
he  too  has  gone  out  into  Night  and  Orcus,  and 
already  is  not.  We  will  omit  this  of  populari- 
ty altogether,  and  account  it  as  making  simply 
nothing  towards  Scott's  greatness  or  non- 
greatness,  as  an  accident,  not  a  quality. 

Shorn  of  this  falsifying  nimbus,  and  reduced 
to  his  own  natural  dimensions,  there  remains 
the  reality,  Walter  Scott,  and  what  we  can  find 
in  him :  to  be  accounted  great,  or  not  great, 
according  to  the  dialects  of  men.  Friends  to 
precision  of  epithet  will  probably  deny  his  title 
to  the  name  "great."  It  seems  to  us  there 
goes  other  stuff  to  the  making  of  great  men 
than  can  be  detected  here.  One  knows  not 
what  idea  worthy  of  the  name  of  great,  what 
purpose,  instinct,  or  tendency,  that  could  be 
called  great,  Scott  ever  was  inspired  with. 
His  life  was  worldly;  his  ambitions  were 
worldly.  There  is  nothing  spiritual  in  him; 
all  is  economical,  material,  of  the  earth  earthy. 
A  love  of  picturesque,  of  beautiful,  vigorous, 
and  graceful  things ;  a  genuine  love,  yet  not 
more  genuine  than  has  dwelt  in  hundreds  of 
men  named  minor  poets ;  this  is  the  highest 
quality  to  be  discerned  in  him.  His  power 
of  representing  these  things  too,  his  poetic 
power,  like  his  moral  power,  was  a  genius  in 
extenso,  as  we  may  say,  not  in  intense.  In  ac- 
tion, in  speculation,  broad  as  he  was,  he  rose 
nowhere  high;  productive  without  measure  as 
to  quantity,  in  quality  he  for  the  most  part 
transcended  but  a  little  way  the  region  of 
commonplace.  It  has  been  said,  "  no  man  has 
written  as  many  volumes  with  so  few  sen- 
tences that  can  be  quoted."  Winged  words 
were  not  his  vocation  ;  nothing  urged  him  that 
way:  the  great  mystery  of  existence  was  not 
great  to  him;  did  not  drive  him  into  rocky 
solitudes  to  wrestle  with  it  for  an  answer,  to 
be  answered  or  to  perish.  He  had  nothing  of 
the  martyr;  into  no  "dark  region  to  slay 
monsters  for  us,"  did  he,  either  led  or  driven, 
venture  down  :  his  conquests  were  for  his  own 
behoof  mainly,  conquests  over  common  mar- 
ket labour,  and  reckonable  in  good  metallic 


516 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


coin  of  the  realm.  The  thing  he  had  faith  in, 
except  power,  power  of  what  sort  soever,  and 
even  of  the  rudest  sort,  would  be  difficult  to 
point  out.  One  sees  not  that  he  believed  in 
any  thing ;  nay,  he  did  not  even  disbelieve ;  but 
quietly  acquiesced,  and  made  himself  at  home 
in  a  world  of  conventionalities :  the  false,  the 
semi-false,  and  the  true  were  alike  true  in 
this,  that  they  were  there,  and  had  power  in 
their  hands  more  or  less.  It  was  well  to  feel 
so;  and  yet  not  well!  We  find  it  written, 
"  Wo  to  them  that  are  at  ease  in  Zion ;"  but 
surely  it  is  a  double  wo  to  them  that  are  at 
ease  in  Babel,  in  Domdaniel.  On  the  other 
hand  he  wrote  many  volumes,  amusing  many 
thousands  of  men.  Shall  we  call  this  great  1 
It  seems  to  us  there  dwells  and  struggles 
another  sort  of  spirit  in  the  inward  parts  of 
great  men ! 

Brother  Ringletub,  the  missionary,  inquired 
of  Ram-Dass,  a  Hindoo  man-god,  who  had  set 
up  for  godhood  lately,  What  he  meant  to  do, 
then,  with  the  sins  of  mankind!  To  which 
Ram-Dass  at  once  answered,  he  had  fire  enough 
in  his  belly  to  burn  up  all  the  sins  in  the  world. 
Ram-Dass  was  right  so  far,  and  had  a  spice 
of  sense  in  him;  for  surely  it  is  the  test  of 
every  divine  man  this  same,  and  without  it  he 
is  not  divine  or  great, — that  he  have  fire  in  him 
to  burn  up  somewhat  of  the  sins  of  the  world, 
of  the  miseries  and  errors  of  the  world  :  why 
else  is  he  there  ]  Far  be  it  from  us  to  say 
that  a  great  man  must  needs,  with  benevolence 
prepense,  become  a  "friend  of  humanity;" 
nay,  that  such  professional  self-conscious 
friends  of  humanity  are  not  the  fatalest  kind 
of  persons  to  be  met  with  in  our  day.  All 
greatness  is  unconscious,  or  it  is  little  and 
naught.  And  yet  a  great  man  without  such 
fire  in  him,  burning  dim  or  developed  as  a  di- 
vine behest  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  never  rest- 
ing till  it  be  fulfilled,  were  a  solecism  in  na- 
ture. A  great  man  is  ever,  as  the  Transcen- 
dentalists  speak,  possessed  with  an  idea.  Na- 
poleon himself,  not  the  superfinest  of  great 
men,  and  ballasted  sufficiently  with  prudences 
and  egoisms,  had  nevertheless,  as  is  clear 
enough,  an  idea  to  start  with:  the  idea  that 
Democracy  was  the  Cause  of  Man,  the  right 
and  infinite  Cause.  Accordingly  he  made 
himself  "the  armed  soldier  of  Democracy;" 
and  did  vindicate  it  in  a  rather  great  manner. 
Nay,  to  the  very  last,  he  had  a  kind  of  idea, 
that,  namely,  of  "^a  carriere  ouverte  aux  talens, 
the  tools  to  him  that  can  handle  them ;"  really 
one  of  the  best  ideas  yet  promulgated  on  that 
matter,  or  rather  the  one  true  central  idea,  to- 
wards which  all  the  others,  if  they  tend  any- 
whither,  must  tend.  Unhappily  it  was  in  the 
military  province  only  that  Napoleon  could 
realize  this  idea  of  his,  being  forced  to  fight 
for  himself  the  while :  before  he  got  it  tried  to 
any  extent  in  the  civil  province  of  things,  his 
head  by  much  victory  grew  light,  (no  head  can 
stand  more  than  its  quantity;)  and  he  lost 
head,  as  they  say,  and  became  a  selfish  ambi- 
tionist  and  quack,  and  was  hurled  out,  leaving 
his  idea  to  be  realized,  in  the  civil  province  of 
things,  by  others  !  Thus  was  Napoleon ;  thus 
are  all  great  men  :  children  of  the  idea ;  or,  in 
Ram-Dass's  phraseology,  furnished  with  fire 


to  burn  up  the  miseries  of  men.  Conscious  or 
unconscious,  latent  or  unfolded,  there  is  small 
vestige  of  any  such  fire  being  extant  in  the 
inner-man  of  Scott. 

Yet  on  the  other  hand,  the  surliest  critic 
must  allow  that  Scott  was  a  genuine  man, 
which  itself  is  a  great  matter.  No  affectation, 
fantasticality,  or  distortion,  dwelt  in  him ;  no 
shadow  of  cant.  Nay,  withal,  was  he  not  a 
right  brave  and  strong  man,  according  to  his 
kind  ]  What  a  load  of  toil,  what  a  measure 
of  felicity,  he  quietly  bore  along  with  him ; 
with  what  quiet  strength  he  both  worked  on 
this  earth,  and  enjoyed  in  it;  invincible  to 
evil  fortune  and  to  good !  A  most  composed 
invincible  man ;  in  difficulty  and  distress,  know- 
ing no  discouragement,  Samson-like,  carrying 
off  on  his  strong  Samson-shoulders  the  gates 
that  would  imprison  him;  in  danger  and 
menace,  laughing  at  the  whisper  of  fear.  And 
then,  with  such  a  sunny  current  of  true  humour 
and  humanity,  a  free  joyful  sympathy  with  so 
many  things;  what  of  fire  he  had,  all  lying 
so  beautifully  latent,  as  radical  latent  heat,  as 
fruitful  internal  warmth  of  life ;  a  most  robust, 
healthy  man  !  The  truth  is,  our  best  defini- 
tion of  Scott  were  perhaps  even  this,  that  he 
was,  if  no  great  man,  then  something  muchplea- 
santer  to  be,  a  robust,  thoroughly  healthy,  and 
withal,  very  prosperous  and  victorious  man. 
An  eminently  well-conditioned  man,  healthy 
in  body,  healthy  in  soul ;  we  will  call  him  one 
of  the  healthiest  of  men.  Neither  is  this  a  small 
matter:  health  is  a  great  matter,  both  to  the 
possessor  of  it  and  to  others.  On  the  whole, 
that  humourist  in  the  Moral  Essay  was  not  so 
far  out,  who  determined  on  honouring  health 
only;  and  so  instead  of  humbling  himself  to 
the  highborn,  to  the  rich  and  well-dressed,  in- 
sisted on  doffmg  hat  to  the  healthy :  coronetted 
carriages  with  pale  faces  in  them  passed  by  as 
failures  miserable  and  lamentable  ;  trucks  with 
ruddy-cheeked  strength  dragging  at  them  were 
greeted  as  successful  and  venerable.  Fordoes 
not  health  mean  harmony,  the  synonym  of  all 
that  is  true,  justly-ordered,  good ;  is  it  not,  in 
some  sense,  the  net-total,  as  shown  by  experi- 
ment, of  whatever  worth  is  in  us  ]  The  healthy 
man  is  a  most  meritorious  product  of  nature, 
so  far  as  he  goes.  A  healthy  body  is  good ; 
but  a  soul  in  right  health, — it  is  the  thing  be- 
yond all  others  to  be  prayed  for;  the  blessed- 
est  thing  this  earth  receives  of  Heaven.  With- 
out artificial  medicament  of  philosophy,  or 
tight-lacing  of  creeds,  (always  very  question- 
able,) the  healthy  soul  discerns  what  is  good, 
and  adheres  to  it,  and  retains  it;  discerns  what 
is  bad,  and  spontaneously  casts  it  off.  An  in- 
stinct from  nature  herself,  like  that  which 
guides  the  wild  animals  of  the  forest  to  their 
food,  shows  him  what  he  shall  do,  what 
he  shall  abstain  from.  The  false  and  foreign 
will  not  adhere  to  him ;  cant  and  all  fantas- 
tic, diseased  incrustations  are  impossible — 
as  Walker  the  Original,  in  such  eminence 
of  health  was  he  for  his  part,  could  not  by 
much  abstinence  from  soap  and  water,  at- 
tain to  a  dirty  face  !  This  thing  thou  canst 
work  with  and  profit  by,  this  thing  is  sub- 
stantial and  worthy;  that  other  thing  thou 
canst  not  work  with,  it  is  trivial  and  inapt :  so 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


517 


speaks  unerringly  the  inward  monition  of  the 
man's  whole  nature.  No  need  of  logic  to  prove 
the  most  argumentative  absurdity  absurd ;  as 
Goethe  says  of  himself,  "all  this  ran  down 
from  me  like  water  from  a  man  in  wax-cloth 
dress."  Blessed  is  the  healthy  nature ;  it  is 
the  coherent,  sweetly  co-operative,  not  inco- 
herent, self-distracting,  self-destructive  one! 
In  the  harmonious  adjustment  and  play  of  all 
the  faculties,  the  just  balance  of  oneself  gives 
a  just  feeling  towards  all  men  and  all  things. 
Glad  light  from  within  radiates  outwards,  and 
enlightens  and  embellishes. 

Now  all  this  can  be  predicated  of  Walter 
Scott,  and  of  no  British  literary  man  that  we 
remember  in  these  days,  to  any  such  extent, — 
if  it  be  not  perhaps  of  one,  the  most  opposite 
imaginable  to  Scott,  but  his  equal  in  this  quality 
and  what  holds  of  it:  William  Cobbett !  Nay, 
there  are  other  similarities,  widely  different  as 
they  two  look;  nor  be  the  comparison  dis- 
paraging to  Scott:  for  Cobbett  also,  as  the 
pattern  John  Bull  of  his  century,  strong  as  the 
rhinoceros,  and  with  singular  humanities  and 
genialities  shining  through  his  thick  skin,  is  a 
most  brave  phenomenon.  So  bounteous  was 
Nature  to  us;  in  the  sickliestof  recorded  ages, 
when  British  literature  lay  all  puking  and 
sprawling  in  Werterism,  Byronisra,  and  other 
sentimentalism,  tearful  or  spasmodic,  (fruit  of 
internal  wind,)  Nature  was  kind  enough  to 
send  us  two  healthy  Men,  of  whom  she  might 
still  say,  not  without  pride,  "  These  also  were 
made  in  England;  such  limbs  I  still  make 
there!"  It  is  one  of  the  cheerfullest  sights, 
let  the  question  of  its  greatness  be  settled  as 
you  will.  A  healthy  nature  may  or  may  not 
be  great;  but  there  is  no  great  nature  that  is 
not  healthy. — Or,  on  the  whole,  might  we  not 
say,  Scott,  in  the  new  vesture  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  was  intrinsically  very  much  the  old 
fighting  Borderer  of  prior  centuries;  the  kind 
of  man  Nature  did  of  old  make  in  that  birth- 
land  of  his  1  In  the  saddle,  with  the  foray- 
spear,  he  would  have  acquitted  himself  as  he 
did  at  the  desk  with  his  pen.  One  fancies  how 
in  stout  Beardie  of  Harden's  time,  he  could 
have  played  Beardie's  part;  and  been  the  stal- 
wart buff-belted  terrtB  filius  he  in  this  late  time 
could  only  delight  to  draw.  The  same  stout 
self-help  was  in  him  ;  the  same  oak  and  triple 
brass  round  his  heart.  He  too  could  have 
fought  at  Redswire,  cracking  crowns  with  the 
fiercest,  if  that  had  been  the  task ;  could  have 
harried  cattle  in  Tynedale,  repaying  injury 
with  compound  interest ;  a  right  sufficient 
captain  of  men.  A  man  without  qualms  or 
fantasticalities;  a  hard-headed,  sound-hearted 
man,  of  joyous  robust  temper,  looking  to  the 
main  chance,  and  fighting  direct  thitherward  : 
valde  stalwarlus  homo! — How  much  in  thatcase 
had  slumbered  in  him,  and  passed  away  with- 
out sign.  But  indeed,  who  knows  how  much 
slumbers  in  many  men.  Perhaps  our  greatest 
poets  are  the  mute  Miltons  ;  the  vocal  are  those 
whom  by  happy  accident  we  lay  hold  of,  one 
here,  one  there,  as  it  chances,  and  make  vocal. 
It  is  even  a  question,  whether,  had  not  want, 
discomfort,  and  distress-warrants  been  busy 
at  Stratford-on-Avon,  Shakspeare  himself  had 
not  lived  killing  calves  or  combing  wool ! 


Had  the  Edial  Boarding-school  turned  out  well, 
we  had  never  heard  of  Samuel  Johnson; 
Samuel  Johnson  had  been  a  fat  schoolmaster 
and  dogmatic  gerundgrinder,  and  never  know 
that  he  was  more.  Nature  is  rich  :  those  two 
eggs  thou  art  eating  carelessly  to  breakfast, 
could  they  not  have  been  hatched  into  a  pair  of 
fowls,  and  have  covered  the  whole  world  with 
poultry] 

But  it  was  not  harrying  of  cattle  in  Tyne- 
dale, or  cracking  of  crowns  at  Redswire,  that 
this  stout  Border  chief  was  appointed  to  per- 
form. Far  other  work.  To  be  the  song- 
singer  and  pleasant  tale-teller  to  Britain  and 
Europe,  in  the  beginning  of  the  artificial  nine- 
teenth century;  here,  and  not  there,  lay  his 
business.  Beardie  of  Harden  would  have 
found  it  very  amazing.  How  he  shapes  him- 
self to  this  new  element ;  how  he  helps  himself 
along  in  it,  makes  it  too  do  for  him,  lives 
sound  and  victorious  in  it,  and  leads  over  the 
marches  such  a  spoil  as  all  the  cattle-droves 
the  Hardens  ever  took  were  poor  in  com- 
parison to :  this  is  the  history  of  the  life  and 
achievements  of  our  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Baronet; 
— whereat  we  are  now  to  glance  for  a  little ! 
It  is  a  thing  remarkable  ;  a  thing  substantial; 
of  joyful,  victorious  sort;  not  unworthy  to  be 
glanced  at.  Withal,  however,  a  glance  here 
and  there  will  suffice.  Our  limits  are  narrow ; 
the  thing,  were  it  never  so  victorious,  is  not 
of  the  sublime  sort,  nor  extremely  edifying; 
there  is  nothing  in  it  to  censure  vehemently, 
nor  love  vehemently:  there  is  more  to  wonder 
at  than  admire ;  and  the  whole  secret  is  not  an 
abstruse  one. 

Till  towards  the  age  of  thirty,  Scott's  life 
has  nothing  in  it  decisively  pointing  towards 
literature,  or  indeed  towards  distinction  of  any 
kind;  he  is  wedded,  settled,  and  has  gone 
through  all  his  preliminary  steps,  without 
symptoms  of  renown  as  yet.  It  is  the  life  of 
every  other  Edinburgh  youth  of  his  station  and 
time.  Fortunate  we  must  name  it,  in  many 
ways.  Parents  in  easy  or  wealthy  circum- 
stances, yet  unencumbered  with  the  cares  and 
perversions  of  aristocracy:  nothing  eminent 
in  place,  in  faculty,  or  culture,  yet  nothing 
deficient;  all  around  is  methodic  regulation, 
prudence,  prosperity,  kind-heartedness  ;  an 
element  of  warmth  and  light  of  affection,  in- 
dustry, and  burgherly  comfort,  heightened  into 
elegance  ;  in  which  the  young  heart  can 
wholesomely  grow.  A  vigorous  heahh  seems 
to  have  been  given  by  Nature ;  yet,  as  if  Na- 
ture had  said  withal,  "  Let  it  be  a  health  to 
express  itself  by  mind,  not  by  body,"  a  lame- 
ness is  added  in  childhood;  the  brave  little 
boy,  instead  of  romping  and  bickering,  must 
learn  to  think ;  or  at  lowest,  what  is  a  great 
matter,  to  sit  still.  No  rackets  and  irundling- 
hoops  for  this  young  Walter;  but  ballads, 
histor3'^-books,  and  a  world  of  legendary  stuff, 
which  his  mother  and  those  near  him  are 
copiously  able  to  furnish.  Disease,  which  is 
but  superficial,  and  issues  in  outward  lame- 
ness, does  not  cloud  the  young  existence ; 
rather  forwards  it  towards  the  expansion  it  is 
fitted  for.  The  miserable  disease  had  been 
one  of  the  internal  nobler  parts,  marring  the 
2X 


518 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


general  organization  ;  under  which  no  Walter 
Scott  could  have  been  forwarded,  or  with  all 
his  other  endowments  could  have  been  pro- 
ducible or  possible.  "Nature  gives  healthy 
children  much  :  how  much!  Wise  education 
is  a  wise  unfolding  of  this ;  often  it  unfolds 
itself  better  of  its  own  accord." 

Add  one  other  circumstance  :  the  place 
where  ;  namely,  Presbyterian  Scotland.  The 
influences  of  this  are  felt  incessantly,  they 
stream  in  at  every  pore.  "There  is  a  country 
accent,"  says  La  Rochefoucault,  '*  not  in 
speech  only,  but  in  thought,  conduct,  charac- 
ter, and  manner  of  existing,  which  never  for- 
sakes a  man."  Scott,  we  believe,  was  all  his 
days  an  Episcopalean  Dissenter  in  Scotland ; 
but  that  makes  little  to  the  matter.  Nobody 
who  knows  Scotland  and  Scott  can  doubt  but 
Presbyterianism,  loo,  had  a  vast  share  in  the 
forming  of  him.  A  country  where  the  entire 
people  is,  or  even  once  has  been,  laid  hold  of, 
filled  to  the  heart  with  an  infinite  religious 
idea,  has  "  made  a  step  from  which  it  cannot 
retrograde."  Thought,  conscience,  the  sense 
that  man  is  denizen  of  a  universe,  creature  of 
an  eternity,  has  penetrated  to  the  remotest 
cottage,  to  the  simplest  heart.  Beautiful  and 
awful,  the  feeling  of  a  heavenly  behest,  of  duty 
god-commanded,  overcanopies  all  life.  There 
is  an  inspiration  in  such  a  people :  one  may 
say  in  a  more  special  sense,  "  the  inspiration 
of  the  Almighty  giveth  them  understanding." 
Honour  to  all  the  brave  and  true;  everlasting 
honour  to  brave  old  Knox,  one  of  the  truest  of 
the  true  !  That,  in  the  moment  while  he  and 
his  cause,  amid  civil  broils,  in  convulsion  and 
confusion,  were  still  but  struggling  for  life,  he 
sent  the  schoolmaster  forth  to  all  corners,  and 
said,  "Let  the  people  be  taught:"  this  is  but 
one,  and  indeed  an  inevitable  and  compara- 
tively inconsiderable  item  in  his  great  mes- 
sage to  men.  His  message,  in  its  true  com- 
pass, was,  "  Let  men  know  that  they  are  men ; 
created  by  God,  responsible  to  God  ;  who  M^ork 
in  any  meanest  moment  of  time  what  will  last 
through  eternity."  It  is  verily  a  great  mes- 
sage. Not  ploughing  and  hammering  ma- 
chines, not  patent  digesters  (never  so  orna- 
mental) to  digest  the  produce  of  these :  no,  in 
no  wise;  born  slaves  neither  of  their  fellow- 
men,  nor  of  their  own  appetites ;  but  men  ! 
This  great  message  Knox  did  deliver,  with  a 
man's  voice  and  strength ;  and  found  a  people 
to  believe  him. 

Of  such  an  achievement,  we  say,  were  it  to 
be  made  once  only,  the  results  are  immense. 
Thought,  in  such  a  country,  may  change  its 
form,  but  cannot  go  out;  the  country  has 
attained  woyon/y ;  thought,  and  a  certain  spi- 
ritual manhood,  ready  for  all  work  that  man 
can  do,  endures  there.  It  may  take  many 
forms :  the  form  of  hard-fisted,  money-getting 
industry,  as  in  the  vulgar  Scotchman,  in  the 
vulgar  New  Englander;  but  as  compact  de- 
veloped force  and  alertness  of  faculty,  it  is 
still  there;  it  may  utter  itself,  one  day,  as  the 
colossal  skepticism  of  a  Hume,  (beneficent 
this  too,  though  painful,  wrestling,  Titan-like, 
through  doubt  and  inquiry  towards  new  belief;) 
and  again,  some  better  day,  it  may  utter  itself 


as  the  inspired  melody  of  a  Burns :  in  a  word, 
it  is  and  continues  in  the  voice  and  the  work 
of  a  nation  of  hardy,  endeavouring,  consider- 
ing men,  with  whatever  that  may  bear  in  it,  or 
unfold  from  it.  The  Scotch  national  character 
originates  in  many  circumstances;  first  of  all, 
in  the  Saxon  stuff  there  was  to  work  on  ;  but 
next,  and  beyond  all  else  except  that,  in  the 
Presbyterian  Gospel  of  John  Knox.  It  seems 
a  good  national  character;  and,  on  some  sides, 
not  so  good.  Let  Scott  thank  John  Knox,  for 
he  owed  him  much,  little  as  he  dreamed  of 
debt  in  that  quarter!  No  Scotchman  of  his 
time  was  more  entirely  Scotch  than  Walter 
Scott :  the  good  and  the  not  so  good,  which  all 
Scotchmen  inherit,  ran  through  every  fibre  of 
him. 

Scott's  childhood,  school-days,  college-days, 
are  pleasant  to  read  of,  though  they  differ  not 
from  those  of  others  in  his  place  and  time. 
The  memory  of  him  may  probably  enough 
last  till  this  record  of  them  become  far  more 
curious  than  it  now  is.  "  So  lived  an  Edin- 
burgh Writer  to  the  Signet's  son  in  the  end  of 
the  eighteenth  century,"  may  some  future 
Scotch  novelist  say  to  himself  in  the  end  of 
the  twenty-first !  The  following  little  fragment 
of  infancy  is  all  we  can  extract.  It  is  from  an 
autobiography  which  he  had  begun,  which  one 
cannot  but  regret  he  did  not  finish.  Scott's 
best  qualities  never  shone  out  more  freely 
than  when  he  Avent  upon  anecdote  and  remi- 
niscence. Such  a  master  of  narrative  and  of 
himself  could  have  done  personal  narrative 
well.  Here,  if  any  where,  his  knowledge  was 
complete,  and  all  his  humour  and  good-hu- 
mour had  free  scope : 

"  An  odd  incident  is  worth  recording.  It 
seems  my  mother  had  sent  a  maid  to  take 
charge  of  me,  at  this  farm  of  Sandy-Knowe, 
that  I  might  be  no  inconvenience  to  the  family. 
But  the  damsel  sent  on  that  important  mission 
had  left  her  heart  behind  her,  in  the  keeping 
of  some  wild  fellow,  it  is  likely,  who  had  done 
and  said  more  to  her  than  he  was  like  to  make 
good.  She  became  extremely  desirous  to  re- 
turn to  Edinburgh ;  and,  as  my  mother  made 
a  point  of  her  remaining  where  she  was,  she 
contracted  a  sort  of  hatred  at  poor  me,  as  the 
cause  of  her  being  detained  at  Sandy-Knowe. 
This  rose,  I  suppose,  to  a  sort  of  delirious  af- 
fection, for  she  confessed  to  old  Alison  Wilson, 
the  housekeeper,  that  she  had  carried  me  up 
to  the  craigs  under  a  strong  temptation  of  the 
Devil  to  cut  my  throat  with  her  scissors,  and 
bury  me  in  the  moss.  Alison  instantly  took 
possession  of  my  person,  and  took  care  that 
her  confidant  should  not  be  subject  to  any 
further  temptation,  at  least  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned.  She  was  dismissed,  of  course,  and 
I  have  heard  afterwards  became  a  lunatic. 

"  It  is  here,  at  Sandy-Knowe,  in  the  residence 
of  my  paternal  grandfather,  already  mention- 
ed, that  I  have  the  first  consciousness  of  exist- 
ence ;  and  I  recollect  distinctly  that  my  situa- 
tion and  appearance  were  a  little  whimsical. 
Among  the  odd  remedies  recurred  to,  to  aid 
my  lameness,  some  one  had  recommended 
that  so  often  as  a  sheep  was  killed  for  the  use 
of  thefamily,  I  should  be  stripped,  and  swathed 
up  in  the  skin  warm  as  it  was  flayed  from  the 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


519 


carcass  of  the  animal.  In  this  Tartar-like  ha- 
biliment I  well  remember  lying  upon  the  floor 
of  the  little  parlour  in  the  farm-house,  while 
my  grandfather,  a  venerable  old  man  with  white 
hair,  used  every  excitement  to  make  me  try  to 
crawl.  I  also  distinctly  remember  the  late  Sir 
George  M'Dougal  of  Mackerstown,  father  of 
the  present  Sir  Henry  Hay  M'Dougal,  joining 
in  the  attempt.  He  was,  God  knows  how,  a 
relation  of  ours  ;  and  I  still  recollect  him  in 
his  old-fashioned  military  habit,  (he  had  been 
Colonel  of  the  Greys,)  with  a  small  cocked- 
hat  deeply  laced,  an  embroidered  scarlet  waist- 
coat, and  a  light-coloured  coat,  with  milk- 
white  locks  tied  in  a  military  fashion,  kneel- 
ing on  the  ground  before  me,  and  dragging  his 
watch  along  the  carpet  to  induce  me  to  follow 
it.  The  benevolent  old  soldier,  and  the  infant 
wrapped  in  his  sheep-skin,  would  have  afford- 
ed an  odd  group  to  uninterested  spectators. 
This  must  have  happened  about  my  third 
year,  (1774,)  for  Sir  George  M'Dougal  and  my 
grandfather  both  died  shortly  after  that  period. 
— Vol.  i.pp.  15—17. 

We  will  glance  next  into  the  "  Liddesdale 
raids^  Scott  has  grown  up  to  be  a  brisk-heart- 
ed jovial  young  man  and  advocate  :  in  vaca- 
tion time  he  makes  excursions  to  the  High- 
lands, to  the  Border  Cheviots  and  Northum- 
berland ;  rides  free  and  far,  on  his  stout  gal- 
loway, through  bog  and  brake,  over  the  dim 
moory  debatable  land, — over  Flodden  and  other 
fields  and  places,  where,  though  he  yet  knew 
it  not,  his  work  lay.  No  land,  however  dim 
and  moory,  but  either  has  had  or  will  have  its 
poet,  and  so  become  not  unknown  in  song. 
Liddesdale,  which  was  once  as  prosaic  as  most 
dales,  having  now  attained  illustration,  let  us 
glance  thither-ward :  Liddesdale  too  is  on  this 
ancient  Earth  of  ours  under  this  eternal  Sky ; 
and  gives  and  takes,  in  the  most  incalculable 
manner,  with  the  Universe  at  large !  Scott's 
experiences  there  are  rather  of  the  rustic  Ar- 
cadian sort;  the  element  of  whiskey  not  want- 
ing. We  should  premise  that  here  and  there 
a  feature  has  perhaps  been  aggravated  for  ef- 
fects' sake : 

"  During  seven  successive  years,"  writes  Mr. 
Lockhart,  (for  the  autobiography  has  long  since 
left  us,)  "Scott  made  a  raid,  as  he  called  it, 
into  Liddesdale  with  Mr.  Shortreed,  sheriff-sub- 
stitute of  Roxburgh,  for  his  guide;  exploring 
every  rivulet  to  its  source,  and  every  ruined 
peel  from  foundation  to  battlement.  At  this 
time  no  wheel  carriage  had  ever  been  seen  in 
the  district — the  first,  indeed,  was  agig, driven 
by  Scott  himself  for  a  part  of  his  way,  when 
on  the  last  of  these  seven  excursions.  There 
was  no  inn  or  public-house  of  any  kind  in  the 
whole  valley;  the  travellers  passed  from  the 
shepherd's  hut  to  the  minister's  manse,  and 
again  from  the  cheerful  hospitality  of  the 
manse  to  the  rough  and  jolly  welcome  of  the 
homestead:  gathering,  wherever  they  went, 
songs  and  tunes,  and  occasionally  more  tangi- 
ble relics  of  antiquity — even  such  a  'rowth  of 
auld  knicknackets'  as  Burns  ascribes  to  Cap- 
tain Grose.  To  these  rambles  Scott  owed  much 
of  the  materials  of  his  *  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border;'  and  not  less  of  that  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  living  manners  of  these 


unsophisticated  regions,  which  constitutes  the 
chief  charm  of  one  of  the  most  charming  of  his 
prose  works.  But  how  Soon  he  had  any  defi- 
nite object  before  him  in  his  researches,  seems 
very  doubtful.  *He  was  makin'  himsellaJ  the 
time,'  said  Mr.  Shortreed ;  *  but  he  didna  ken 
maybe  what  he  was  about  till  years  had  passed  : 
at  first  he  thought  o'  little,  I  dare  say,  but  the 
queerness  and  the  fun.' 

"'In  those  days,'  says  the  Memorandum  be- 
fore me,  *  advocates  were  not  so  plenty — at  least 
about  Liddesdale ;'  and  the  worthy  Sheriff-sub- 
stitute goes  on  to  describe  the  sort  of  bustle, 
not  unmixed  with  alarm,  produced  at  the  first 
farm-house  they  visited,  (Willie  Elliot's  at 
Millburnholm,)  when  the  honest  man  was  in- 
formed of  the  quality  of  one  of  his  guests. 
When  they  dismounted,  accordingly,  he  re- 
ceived Mr.  Scott  with  great  ceremony,  and  in- 
sisted upon  himself  leading  his  horse  to  the 
stable.  Shortreed  accompanied  Willie,  how- 
ever, and  the  latter,  after  taking  a  deliberate 
peep  at  Scott, 'out  by  the  edge  of  the  door 
cheek,'  whispered,  '  Weel,  Robin,  I  say,  de'il 
hae  me  if  I's  be  a  bit  feared  for  him  now ;  he's 
just  a  chield  like  ourselves,  I  think.'  Half-a- 
dozen  dogs  of  all  degrees  had  already  gather- 
ed round  the  '  advocate,'  and  his  way  of  re- 
turning their  compliments  had  set  Willie  Elliot 
at  once  at  his  ease. 

"According  to  Mr.  Shortreed,  this  good  man 
of  Millburnholm  was  the  great  original  of 
Dandie  Dinmpnt."  *  *  "They  dined  at 
Millburnholm  ;  and,  after  having  lingered  over 
Willie  Elliot's  punch-bowl,  until,  in  Mr.  Short- 
reed's  phrase,  they  were  '  half-glowrin,'  mount- 
ed their  steeds  again,  and  proceeded  to  Dr.  El- 
liot's at  Cleughhead,  where  ('  for,'  says  my  Me- 
morandum, '  folk  were  na  very  nice  in  those 
days,')  the  two  travellers  slept  in  one  and  the 
same  bed — as,  indeed,  seems  to  have  been  the 
case  with  them  throughout  most  of  their  excur- 
sions in  this  primitive  district.  Dr.  Elliot  (a  cler- 
gyman) had  already  a  large  MS.  collection  of 
the  ballads  Scott  was  in  quest  of."  *  *  ♦ 
"  Next  morning  they  seem  to  have  ridden  a 
long  way  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  one  *  auld 
Thomas  o'  Tuzzilehope,'  another  Elliot,  I  sup- 
pose, who  was  celebrated  for  his  skill  on  the 
Border  pipe,  and  in  particular  for  being  in  pos- 
session of  the  real  lilt*  of  Dick  o'  the  Cow.  Be- 
fore starting,  that  is,  at  six  o'clock,  the  ballad 
hunters  had,  '  just  to  lay  the  stomach,  a  devil- 
led duck  or  twae,  and  some  London  porter.' 
Auld  Thomas  found  them,  nevertheless,  well 
disposed  for  'breakfast'  on  their  arrival  at 
Tuzzilehope  ;  and  this  being  over,  he  delighted 
them  with  one  of  the  most  hideous  and  un- 
earthly of  all  specimens  of  '  riding  music/ 
and,  moreover,  with  considerable  libations  of 
whisky-punch,  manufactured  in  a  certain 
wooden  vessel,  resembling  a  very  small  milk- 
pail,  which  he  called  '  Wisdom,'  because  it 
'made'  only  a  few  spoonfuls  of  spirits — 
though  he  had  the  art  of  replenishing  it  so 
adroitly,  that  it  had  been  celebrated  for  fifty 
years  as  more  fatal  to  sobriety  than  any  bowl 
in  the  parish.  Having  done  due  honour  to 
'  Wisdom,'  they  again  mounted,  and  proceeded 

*  Loud  tune  :  German,  lallen. 


630 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


over  moss  and  moor  to  some  other  equally 
hospitable  master  of  the  pipe.  •  Ah  me,'  says 
Shortreed,  *  sic  an  endless  fund  o'  humour  and 
drollery  as  he  then  had  wi'  him  !  Never  ten 
yards  but  we  were  either  laughing  or  roaring 
and  singing.  Wherever  we  stopped,  how  braw- 
lie  he  suited  himsell  to  every  body !  He  aye 
did  as  the  lave  did;  never  made  himsell  the 
great  man,  or  took  ony  airs  in  the  company. 
I've  seen  him  in  a'  moods  in  these  jaunts, 
grave  and  gay,  daft  and  serious,  sober  and 
drunk — (this,  however,  even  in  our  wildest 
rambles,  was  rare) — but,  drunk  or  sober,  he 
was  aye  the  gentleman.  He  lookit  excessive- 
ly heavy  and  stupid  when  he  was  /om,  but  he  was 
never  out  o'  gude-humour.' " 

These  are  questionable  doings,  questionably 
narrated ;  but  what  shall  we  say  of  the  follow- 
ing, wherein  the  element  of  whisky  plays  an 
extremely  prominent  parti  We  will  say  that 
it  is  questionable,  and  not  exemplary,  whisky 
mounting  clearly  beyond  its  level ;  that  indeed 
charity  hopes  and  conjectures,  here  may  be 
some  aggravating  of  features  for  effect's  sake ! 

"  On  reaching,  one  evening,  some  Charlies- 
hope  or  other  (I  forget  the  name)  among  those 
wildernesses,  they  found  a  kindly  reception,  as 
usual;  but,  to  their  agreeable  surprise  after 
some  days  of  hard  living,  a  measured  and 
orderly  hospitality  as  respected  liquor.  Soon 
after  supper,  at  which  a  bottle  of  elderberry 
wine  alone  had  been  produced,  a  young  student 
of  divinity,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  house, 
was  called  upon  to  take  the  'big  ha'  Bible,'  in 
the  good  old  fashion  of  *  Burns's  Saturday 
Night  ;*  and  some  progress  had  been  already 
made  in  the  service,  when  the  good  man  of 
the  farm,  whose  '  tendency,'  as  Mr.  Mitchell 
says,  '  was  soporific,'  scandalized  his  wife  and 
the  dominie  by  starting  suddenly  from  his 
knees,  and,  rubbiftg  his  eyes,  with  a  stentorian 

exclamation  of  *By ,  here's  the  keg  at 

last!'  and  in  tumbled,  as  he  spoke  the  word,  a 
couple  of  sturdy  herdsmen,  whom,  on  hearing 
a  day  before  of  the  advocate's  approaching 
visit,  he  had  despatched  to  a  certain  smug- 
gler's haunt,  at  some  considerable  distance,  in 
quest  of  a  supply  of  run  brandy  from  the  Sol- 
way  Frith.  The  pious  *  exercise'  of  the  house- 
hold was  hopelessly  interrupted.  With  a 
thousand  apologies  for  his  hitherto  shabby 
entertainment,  this  jolly  Elliot,  or  Armstrong, 
had  the  welcome  keg  mounted  on  the  table 
without  a  moment's  delay,  and  gentle  and 
simple,  not  forgetting  the  dominie,  continued 
carousing  about  it  until  daylight  streamed  in 
upon  the  party.  Sir  Walter  Scott  seldom 
failed,  when  I  saw  him  in  company  with  his 
Liddesdale  companion,  to  mimic  with  infinite 
humour  the  sudden  outburst  of  his  old  host 
on  hearing  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet,  which  he 
knew  to  indicate  the  arrival  of  the  keg — the 
consternation  of  the  dame — and  the  rueful  des- 
pair with  which  the  young  clergyman  closed 
the  book."— Vol.  i.  pp.  195—199. 

From  which  Liddesdale  raids,  which  we 
here,  like  the  young  clergyman,  close  not 
without  a  certain  rueful  despair,  let  the  reader 
draw  what  nourishment  he  can.  They  evince 
satisfactorily,  though  in  a  rude  manner,  that 
in  those  days  young  advocates,  and  Scott,  like 


the  rest  of  them,  were  alive  and  alert, — whisky 
sometimes  preponderating.  But  let  us  now 
fancy  that  the  jovial  young  advocate  has 
pleaded  his  first  cause;  has  served  in  yeo- 
manry drills;  ,been  wedded,  been  promoted 
sheriff,  without  romance  in  either  case  ;  dab- 
bling a  little  the  while,  under  guidance  of  Monk 
Lewis,  in  translations  from  the  German,  in 
translation  of  "Goethe's  Gotz  with  the  Iron 
Hand;" — and  we  have  arrived  at  the  thresh- 
old of  the  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border,"  and  the  opening  of  a  new  century. 

Hitherto,  therefore,  there  has  been  made 
out,  by  nature  and  circumstance  working 
together,  nothing  unusually  remarkable,  yet 
still  something  very  valuable ;  a  stout  effec- 
tual man  of  thirty,  full  of  broad  sagacity  and 
good  humour,  with  faculties  in  him  fit  for  any 
burden  of  business,  hospitality,  and  duty,  legal 
or  civic: — with  what  other  faculties  in  him  no 
one  could  yet  say.  As  indeed,  who,  after  life- 
long inspection,  can  say  what  is  in  any  man? 
The  uttered  part  of  a  man's  life,  let  us  always 
repeat,  bears  to  the  unuttered,  unconscious 
part  a  small  unknown  proportion  ;  he  himself 
never  knows  it,  much  less  do  others.  Give 
him  room,  give  him  impute ;  he  reaches  down 
to  the  infinite  with  that  so  straitly-imprisoned 
soul  of  his  ;  and  can  do  miracles  if  need  be ! 
It  is  one  of  the  comfortablest  truths  that  great 
men  abound,  though  in  the  unknown  state. 
Nay  as  above  hinted,  our  greatest,  being  also 
by  nature  our  quietest,  are  perhaps  those  that 
remain  unknown !  Philosopher  Fichte  took 
comfort  in  this  belief,  when  from  all  pulpits 
and  editorial  desks,  and  publications,  periodi- 
cal and  stationary,  he  could  hear  nothing  but 
the  infinite  chattering  and  twittering  of  com- 
monplace become  ambitious ;  and  in  the 
infinite  stir  of  motion  nowhither,  and  of  din 
which  should  have  been  silence,  all  seemed 
churned  into  one  tempestuous  yesty  froth,  and 
the  stern  Fichte  almost  desired  "taxes  on 
knowledge"  to  allay  it  a  little; — he  comforted 
himself,  we  say,  by  the  unshaken  belief  that 
Thought  did  still  exist  in  Germany;  that 
thinking  men,  each  in  his  own  corner,  were 
verily  doing  their  work,  though  in  a  silent 
latent  manner.*  Walter  Scott,  as  a  latent 
Walter,  had  never  amused  all  men  for  a  score 
of  years  in  the  course  of  centuries  and  eterni- 
ties, or  gained  and  lost,  say  a  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds  Stirling  by  literature;  but  he 
might  have  been  a  happy  and  by  no  means  a 
useless, — nay,  who  knows  at  bottom  whether 
not  a  still  usefuller  Walter !  However  that 
was  not  his  fortune.  The  Genius  of  rather  a 
singular  age, — an  age  at  once  destitute  of  faith 
and  terrified  at  skepticism,  with  little  know- 
ledge of  its  whereabout,  with  many  sorrows  to 
bear  or  front,  and  on  the  whole  with  a  life  to 
lead  in  these  new  circumstances, — had  said  to 
himself:  What  man  shall  be  the  temporary 
comforter,  or  were  it  but  the  spiritual  comfit- 
maker,  of  this  my  poor  singular  age,  to  solace 
its  dead  tedium  and  manifold  sorrows  a  little? 
So  had  the  Genius  said,  looking  over  all  the 
world,  what  man  ?  and  found  him  walking  the 
dusty  outer  parliament-house   of  Edinburgh, 

♦  Fichte,  Ueber  daa  Wesen  des  Oelehrten. 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT, 


521 


with  his  advocate-gown  on  his  back ;  and  ex- 
claimed, That  is  he ! 

The  ''Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border" 
proved  to  be  a  well,  from  which  flowed  one 
of  the  broadest  rivers.  Metrical  romances, 
(which  in  due  time  pass  into  prose  romances  ;) 
the  old  life  of  men  resuscitated  for  us;  it 
is  a  mighty  word!  Not  as  dead  tradition, 
but  as  a  palpable  presence,  the  past  stood  be- 
fore us.  There  they  were,  the  rugged  old 
fighting  men  ;  in  their  doughty  simplicity  and 
strength,  with  their  heartiness,  their  healthi- 
ness, their  stout  self-help,  in  their  iron  bas- 
nets, leather  jerkins,  jack-boots,  in  their 
quaintness  of  manner  and  costume;  there  as 
they  looked  and  lived ;  it  was  like  a  new  dis- 
covered continent  in  literature;  for  the  new 
century,  a  bright  El  Dorado, — or  else  some  fat 
beatific  land  of  Cockaigne,  and  Paradise  of 
Donothings.  To  the  opening  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, it  is  languor  and  paralysis ;  nothing  could 
have  been  welcomer.  Most  unexpected,  most 
refreshing,  and  exhilarating;  behold  our  new 
El  Dorado ;  our  fat  beatific  Lubberland,  where 
one  can  enjoy  and  do  nothing !  It  was  the 
lime  for  such  a  new  literature  ;  and  this  Wal- 
ter Scott  was  the  man  for  it.  The  Lays,  the 
Marmions,  the  Ladys  and  Lords  of  Lake  and 
Isles,  followed  in  quick  succession,  with  ever- 
widening  profit  and  praise.  How  many  thou- 
sands of  guineas  were  paid  down  for  each 
new  Lay;  how  many  thousands  of  copies 
(fifty  and  more  sometimes)  were  printed  oflf 
then  and  subsequently ;  what  complimenting, 
reviewing,  renown,  and  apotheosis  there  was; 
all  is  recorded  in  these  seven  volumes,  which 
will  be  valuable  in  literary  statistics.  It  is  a 
history,  brilliant,  remarkable ;  the  outlines  of 
which  are  known  to  all.  The  reader  shall  re- 
call it,  or  conceive  it.  No  blaze  in  his  fancy 
is  likely  to  mount  higher  than  the  reality  did. 

At  this  middle  period  of  his  life,  therefore, 
Scott,  enriched  with  copyrights,  with  new 
official  incomes  and  promotions,  rich  in  money, 
rich  in  repute,  presents  himself  as  a  man  in 
the  full  career  of  success.  "Health,  wealth, 
and  wit  to  guide  them,"  (as  his  vernacular 
proverb  says,)  all  these  three  are  his.  The 
field  is  open  for  him,  and  victory  there :  his 
own  faculty,  his  own  self,  unshackled,  victori- 
ously unfolds  itself, — the  highest  blessedness 
that  can  befall  a  man.  Wide  circle  of  friends, 
personal  loving  admirers  :  warmth  of  domes- 
tic joys,  vouchsafed  to  all  that  can  true-heart- 
edly  nestle  down  among  them;  light  of  radi- 
ance and  renown  given  only  to  a  few:  who 
would  not  call  Scott  happy  1  But  the  happi- 
est circumstance  of  all  is,  as  we  said  above, 
that  Scott  had  in  himself  a  right  healthy  soul, 
rendering  him  little  dependent  on  outward  cir- 
cumstances. Things  showed  themselves  to 
him  not  in  distortion  or  borrowed  light  or 
gloom,  but  as  they  were.  Endeavour  lay  in 
him  and  endurance,  in  due  measure;  and 
clear  vision  of  what  was  to  be  endeavoured 
after.  Were  one  to  preach  a  Sermon  on 
Health,  as  really  were  worth  doing,  Scott 
ought  to  be  the  text.  Theories  are  demon- 
strably true  in  the  way  of  logic;  and  then  in 
the  way  of  practice,  they  prove  true  or  else 
not  true:  but  here  is  the  grand  experiment, 


Do  they  turn  out  well?  What  boots  it  that  a 
man's  creed  is  the  wisest,  that  his  system  of 
principles  is  the  superfinest,  if,  when  set  to 
work,  the  life  of  him  does  nothing  but  jar,  and 
fret  itself  into  holes  ?  They  are  untrue  in  that, 
were  it  in  nothing  else,  these  principles  of 
his ;  openly  convicted  of  untruth  ;— fit  only, 
shall  we  say,  to  be  rejected  as  counterfeits, 
and  flung  to  the  dogs  1  We  say  not  that ;  but 
we  do  say  that  ill-health,  of  body  or  of  mind, 
is  defeat,  is  battle  (in  a  good  or  in  a  bad  cause) 
with  bad  success  ;  that  health  alone  is  victory. 
Let  all  men,  if  they  can  manage  it,  contrive  to 
be  healthy  !  He  who  in  what  cause  soever 
sinks  into  pain  and  disease,  let  him  take 
thought  of  it;  let  him  know  well  that  it  is  not 
good  he  has  arrived  at  yet,  but  surely  evil, — 
may,  or  may  not  be,  on  the  way  towards  good. 
Scott's  healthiness  showed  itself  decisively 
in  all  things,  and  nowhere  more  decisively 
than  in  this :  the  way  in  which  he  took  his 
fame ;  the  estimate  he  from  the  first  formed  of 
fame.  Money  will  buy  money's  worth ;  but 
the  thing  men  call  fame  what  is  it  ?  A  gaudy 
emblazonry,  not  good  for  much, — except  indeed 
as  it  too  may  turn  to  money.  ToScoit  if  was 
a  profitable  pleasing  superfluity,  no  necessary 
of  life.  Not  necessary,  now  or  ever?  Seem- 
ingly without  much  efibrt,  but  taught  by  nature, 
and  the  instinct  which  instructs  the  sound 
heart  what  is  good  for  it  and  what  is  not,  he 
felt  that  he  could  always  do  without  this  same 
emblazonry  of  reputation ;  that  he  ought  to 
put  no  trust  in  it ;  but  be  ready  at  any  time 
to  see  it  pass  away  from  him,  and  to  hold  on 
his  way  as  before.  It  is  incalculable,  as  we 
conjecture,  what  evil  he  escaped  in  this 
manner;  what  perversions,  irritations,  mean 
agonies  without  a  name,  he  lived  wholly  apart 
from,  knew  nothing  of.  Happily  before  fame 
arrived,  he  had  reached  the  mature  age  at 
which  all  this  was  easier  to  him.  What  a 
strange  Nemesis  lurks  in  the  felicities  of  men ! 
In  thy  mouth  it  shall  be  sweet  as  honey,  in  thy 
belly  it  shall  be  bitter  as  gall  ?  Some  weakly- 
organized  individual,  we  will  say  at  the  age 
of  five-and-twenty,  whose  main  or  whole  talent 
rests  on  some  prurient  susceptivity,  and  nothing 
under  it  but  shallowness  and  vacuum,  is 
clutched  hold  of  by  the  general  imagination,  is 
whirled  aloft  to  the  giddy  height;  and  taught 
to  believe  the  divine-seeming  message  that  he 
is  a  great  man :  such  individual  seems  the 
luckiest  of  men:  and  is  he  not  the  unluckiest? 
Swallow  not  the  Circe-drought,  O  weakly- 
organized  individual ;  it  is  fell  poison  ;  it  will 
dry  up  the  fountains  of  thy  whole  existence, 
and  all  will  grow  withered  and  parched  ;  thou 
shalt  be  wretched  under  the  sun  !  Is  there,  for 
example,  a  sadder  book  than  that  "Life  of 
Byron,"  by  Moore?  To  omit  mere  prurient 
susceptivities  that  rest  on  vacuum,  look  at 
poor  Byron,  who  really  had  much  substance 
in  him.  Sitting  there  in  his  self-exile,  with  a 
proud  heart  striving  to  persuade  itself  that  it 
despises  the  entire  created  universe ;  and  afar 
off;  in  foggy  Babylon,  let  any  pitifullest  whip- 
ster draw  pen  on  him,  your  proud  Byron 
writhes  in  torture, — as  if  the  pitiful  whipster 
were  a  magician,  or  his  pen  a  galvanic 
wire  struck  into  the  Byron's  spinal  marrow  ? 
2x2 


522 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Iramentable,  despicable, — one  had  rather  be  a 
kitten  and  cry  mew!  O,  son  of  Adam,  great 
or  little,  according  as  thou  art  loveable,  those 
thou  livest  with  will  love  thee.  Those  thou 
livest  not  with,  is  it  of  moment  that  they  have 
the  alphabetic  letters  of  thy  name  engraved  on 
their  memory  with  some  signpost  likeness  of 
thee  (as  like  as  I  to  Hercules)  appended  to 
them  1  It  is  not  of  moment;  in  sober  truth, 
not  of  any  moment  at  all !  And  yet,  behold, 
there  is  no  soul  now  whom  thou  canst  love 
freely, — from  one  soul  only  art  thou  always 
sure  of  reverence  enough ;  in  presence  of  no 
soul  is  it  rightly  well  with  thee  !  How  is  thy 
world  become  desert;  and  thou,  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  babblement  of  tongues,  art  poor, 
bankrupt,  insolvent  not  in  purse,  but  in  heart 
and  mind.  "The  golden  calf  of  self-love," 
says  Jean  Paul,  "has  grown  into  a  burning 
Phalaris'  bull,  to  consume  its  owner  and  wor- 
shipper." Ambition,  the  desire  of  shining  and 
outshining,  was  the  beginning  of  sin  in  this 
world.  The  man  of  letters  who  founds  upon 
his  fame,  does  he  not  thereby  alone  declare 
himself  a  follower  of  Lucifer  (named  Satan, 
the  Enemy,)  and  member  of  the  Satanic 
schooH 

It  was  in  this  poetic  period  that  Scott  formed 
his  connection  with  the  Ballantynes;  and  em- 
barked, though  under  cover,  largely  in  trade. 
To  those  who  regard  him  in  the  heroic  light, 
and  will  have  vates  to  signify  prophet  as  well 
as  poet,  this  portion  of  his  biography  seems 
somewhat  incoherent.  Viewed  as  it  stood  in 
the  reality,  as  he  was  and  as  it  was,  the  enter- 
prise, since  it  proved  so  unfortunate,  may  be 
called  lamentable,  but  cannot  be  called  un- 
natural. The  practical  Scott,  looking  towards 
practical  issues  in  all  things,  could  not  but 
find  hard  cash  one  of  the  most  practical.  If, 
by  any  means,  cash  could  be  honestly  pro- 
duced, were  it  by  writing  poems,  were  it  by 
printing  tbem,  why  not  1  Great  things  might 
be  done  ultimately;  great  difficulties  were  at 
once  got  rid  of, — manifold  higglings  of  book- 
sellers, and  contradictions  of  sinners  hereby 
fell  away.  A  printing  and  bookselling  specu- 
lation was  not  so  alien  for  a  maker  of  books. 
Voltaire,  who  indeed  got  no  copyrights,  made 
much  money  by  the  war  commissariat,  in  his 
time;  we  believe  by  the  victualling  branch  of 
it.  Saint  George  himself,  they  say,  was  a 
dealer  in  bacon  in  Cappadocia.  A  thrifty  man 
will  help  himself  towards  his  object  by  such 
steps  as  lead  to  it.  Station  in  society,  solid 
power  over  the  good  things  of  this  world,  was 
Scott's  avowed  object ;  towards  which  the  pre- 
cept of  precepts  is  that  of  lago:  Put  money  in 
thy  purse. 

Here,  indeed,  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that,  per- 
haps, no  literary  man  of  any  generation  has 
less  value  than  Scott  for  the  immaterial  part 
of  his  mission  in  any  sense;  not  only  for  the 
fantasy  called  fame,  with  the  fantastic  miseries 
attendant  thereon ;  but  also  for  the  spiritual 
purport  of  his  work,  whether  it  tended  hither- 
ward  or  thitherward,  or  had  any  tendency 
whatever ;  and  indeed  for  all  purports  and  re- 
sults of  his  working,  except  such,  we  may  say, 
as  offered  themselves  to  the  eye,  and  could,  in 
one  sense  or  the  other  be  handled,  looked  at, 


and  buttoned  into  the  breeches-pocket.  Some- 
what too  little  of  a  fantast,  this  vates  of  ours  ! 
But  so  it  was  :  in  this  nineteenth  century,  our 
highest  literary  man,  who  immeasurably  be- 
yond all  others  commanded  the  world's  ear, 
had,  as  it  were,  no  message  whatever  to  de- 
liver to  the  world ;  wished  not  the  world  to 
elevate  itself,  to  amend  itself,  to  do  this  or  to 
do  that,  except  simply  pay  him  for  the  books 
he  kept  writing.  Very  remarkable  ;  fittest,  per- 
haps, for  an  age  fallen  languid,  destitute  of 
faith  and  terrified  at  skepticism  1  Or,  perhaps, 
for  quite  another  sort  of  age,  an  age  all  in 
peaceable  triumphant  motion  1  But,  indeed, 
since  Shakspeare's  time  there  has  been  no 
greater  speaker  so  unconscious  of  an  aim  in 
speaking.  Equally  unconscious  these  two 
utterances  ;  equally  the  sincere  complete  pro- 
ducts of  the  minds  they  came  from :  and  now 
if  they  were  equally  deep?  Or,  if  the  one  was 
living  fire,  and  the  other  was  futile  phosphores- 
cence and  mere  resinous  firework?  It  will 
depend  on  the  relative  worth  of  the  minds  ;  for 
both  were  equally  spontaneous  themselves, 
unencumbered  by  an  ulterior  aim.  Beyond 
drawing  audiences  to  the  Globe  Theatre, 
Shakspeare  contemplated  no  result  in  those 
plays  of  his.  Yet  they  have  had  results ! 
Utter  with  free  heart  what  thy  own  dcBmon 
gives  thee :  if  fire  from  heaven  it  shall  be 
well;  if  resinous  firework,  it  shall  be — as  well 
as  it  could  be,  or  better  than  otherwise !  The 
candid  judge  will,  in  general,  require  that  a 
speaker,  in  so  extremely  serious  a  universe  as 
this  of  ours,  have  something  to  speak  about. 
In  the  heart  of  the  speaker  there  ought  to  be 
some  kind  of  gospel-tidings  burning  till  it  be 
uttered ;  otherwise  it  were  better  for  him  that 
he  altogether  held  his  peace.  A  gospel  some- 
what more  decisive  than  this  of  Scott's, — 
except  to  an  age  altogether  languid,  without 
either  skepticism  or  faith]  These  things  the 
candid  judge  will  demand  of  literary  men  ;  yet 
withal  will  recognise  the  great  worth  there  is 
in  Scott's  honesty,  if  in  nothing  more,  in  his 
being  the  thing  he  was  with  such  entire  good 
faith.  Here  is  a  something  not  a  nothing.  If 
no  skyborn  messenger,  heaven  looking  through 
his  eyes  ;  then  neither  is  it  a  chimera  with  his 
systems,  crotchets,  cants,  fanaticisms,  and  "  last 
infirmity  of  noble  minds," — full  of  misery,  un- 
rest, and  ill-will ;  but  a  substantial,  peaceable, 
terrestrial  man.  Far  as  the  Earth  is  under  the 
Heaven,  does  Scott  stand  below  the  former  sort 
of  character;  but  high  as  the  cheerful  flowery 
Earth  is  above  waste  Tartarus  does  he  stand 
above  the  latter.  Let  him  live  in  his  own 
fashion,  and  do  honour  to  him  in  that. 

It  were  late  in  the  day  to  write  criticisms 
on  those  Metrical  Romances:  at  the  same 
time,  the  great  popularity  they  had  seems  na- 
tural enough.  In  the  first  place,  there  was 
the  indisputable  impress  of  worth,  of  genuine 
human  force,  in  them.  This,  which  lies  in 
some  degree,  or  is  thought  to  lie,  at  the  bottom 
of  all  popularity,  did  to  an  unusual  degree, 
disclose  itself  in  these  rhymed  romances  of 
Scott's.  Pictures  were  actually  painted  and 
presented;  human  emotions  conceived  and 
sympathized  with.  Considering  that  wretched 
Della-Cruscan  and  other  vamping-up  of  old 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


52ar 


worn-out  tatters  was  the  staple  article  then,  it 
may  be  granted  that  Scott's  excellence  was 
superior  and  supreme.  When  a  Hayley  was 
the  main  singer,  a  Scott  might  well  be  hailed 
with  warm  welcome.  Consider  whether  the 
Laves  of  the  Plants,  and  even  the  Loves  of  the 
triangles,  could  be  worth  the  loves  and  hates 
of  men  and  women  !  Scott  was  as  preferable 
to  what  he  displaced,  as  the  substance  is  to 
wearisomely  repeated  shadow  of  a  substance. 
But,  in  the  second  place,  we  may  say  that 
the  kind  of  worth  which  Scott  manifested 
was  fitted  especially  for  the  then  temper  of 
men.  We  have  called  it  an  age  fallen  into 
spiritual  languor,  destitute  of  belief,  yet  terri- 
fied at  skepticism;  reduced  to  live  a  stinted 
half-life,  under  strange  new  circumstances. 
Now  vigorous  whole-life,  this  was  what  of  all 
things  these  delineations  offered.  The  reader 
w;as  carried  back  to  rough  strong  times,  where- 
in those  maladies  of  ours  had  not  yet  arisen. 
Brawny  fighters,  all  cased  in  buff  and  iron, 
their  hearts  too  sheathed  in  oak  and  triple 
brass,  caprioled  their  huge  war-horses,  shook 
their  death-doing  spears ;  and  went  forth  in 
the  most  determined  manner,  nothing  doubt- 
ing. The  reader  sighed,  yet  not  without  a 
reflex  solacement:  "  6,  that  I  could  have  lived 
in  those  times,  had  never  known  these  logic- 
cobwebs,  this  doubt,  this  sickliness  ;  and  been 
and  felt  myself  alive  among  men  alive  !"  Add 
lastly,  that  in  this  new-found  poetic  world  there 
was  no  call  for  effort  on  the  reader's  part ; 
what  excellence  they  had,  exhibited  itself  at  a 
glance.  It  was  for  the  reader,  not  the  El  Do- 
rado only,  but  a  beatific  land  of  a  Cockaigne 
and  Paradise  of  Donothings!  The  reader, 
what  the  vast  majority  of  readers  so  long  to 
do,  was  allowed  to  lie  down  at  his  ease,  and 
be  ministered  to.  What  the  Turkish  bath- 
keeper  is  said  to  aim  at  with  his  frictions,  and 
shampooings,  and  fomentings,  more  or  less 
effectually,  that  the  patient  in  total  idleness 
may  have  the  delights  of  activity, — was  here 
to  a  considerable  extent  realized.  The  languid 
imagination  fell  back  into  its  rest;  an  artist 
was  there  who  could  supply  it  with  high- 
painted  scenes,  with  sequences  of  stirring  ac- 
tion, and  whisper  to  it.  Be  at  ease,  and  let  thy 
tepid  element  be  comfortable  to  thee.  "The 
rude  man,"  says  the  critic,  "requires  only  to 
see  something  going  on.  The  man  of  more 
refinement  must  be  made  to  feel.  The  man 
of  complete  refinement  must  be  made  to  re- 
flect." 

We  named  the  "Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border"  the  fountain  from  which  flowed  this 
great  river  of  Metrical  Romances  ;  but  ac- 
cording to  some  they  can  be  traced  to  a  still 
higher,  obscurer  spring;  to  Goethe's  "  Gotz 
von  Berlichingen  with  the  Iron  Hand  ;"  of 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  Scott  in  his  earlier 
days  executed  a  translation.  Dated  a  good 
many  years  ago,  the  following  words  in  a  cri- 
ticism on  Goethe  are  found  written ;  which 
probably  are  still  new  to  most  readers  of  this 
Review : 

"  The  works  just  mentioned,  Gotz  and  Wcr- 
ter,  though  noble  specimens  of  youthful  talent, 
are  still  not  so  much  distinguished  by  their 
intrinsic  merits  as  by  their  splendid  fortune. 


It  would  be  difficult  to  name  two  books  which 
have  exercised  a  deeper  influence  on  the  sub- 
sequent literature  of  Europe  than  these  two 
performances  of  a  young  author;  his  first- 
fruits,  the  produce  of  his  twenty-fourth  year. 
Werler  appeared  to  seize  the  hearts  of  men  in 
all  quarters  of  the  world,  and  to  utter  for  them 
the  word  which  they  had  long  been  waiting  to 
hear.  As  usually  happens,  too,  this  same 
word,  once  uttered,  was  soon  abundantly  re- 
peated ;  spoken  in  all  dialects,  and  chaunted 
through  all  notes  of  the  gamut,  till  the  sound 
of  it  had  grown  a  weariness  rather  than  a 
pleasure.  Skeptical  sentimentality,  view-hunt- 
ing, love,  friendship,  suicide,  and  desperation, 
became  the  staple  of  literary  ware ;  and 
though  the  epidemic,  after  a  long  course  of 
years,  subsided  in  Germany,  it  reappeared 
with  various  modifications  in  other  countries, 
and  everywhere  abundant  traces  of  its  good 
and  bad  effects  are  still  to  be  discerned.  The 
fortune  of  Berlichingen  tvith  the  Iron  Hand, 
though  less  sudden,  was  by  no  means  less 
exalted.  In  his  own  country,  Gotz,  though  he 
now  stands  solitary  and  childless,  became  the 
parent  of  an  innumerable  progeny  of  chivalry- 
plays,  feudal  delineations,  and  poetico-auti- 
quarian  performances:  which,  though  long 
ago  deceased,  made  noise  enough  in  their  day 
and  generation  :  and  with  ourselves  his  influ- 
ence has  been  perhaps  still  more  remarkable. 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  first  literary  enterprise  was 
a  translation  of  Gotz  von  Berlichingen :  and,  if 
genius  could  be  communicated  like  instruc- 
tion, we  might  call  this  work  of  Goethe's  the 
prime  cause  of  Marmion  and  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake,  with  all  that  has  followed  from  the  same 
creative  hand.  Truly,  a  grain  of  seed  that 
has  lighted  in  the  right  soil!  For  if  not 
firmer  and  fairer,  it  has  grown  to  be  taller  and 
broader  than  any  other  tree ;  and  all  the  na- 
tions of  the  earth  are  still  yearly  gathering  of 
its  fruit." 

How  far  "  Gotz  von  Berlichingen  "  actually 
affected  Scott's  literary  destination,  and  whe- 
ther without  it  the  rhymed  romances,  and 
then  the  prose  romances  of  the  Author  of 
Waverly,  would  not  have  followed  as  they 
did,  must  remain  a  very  obscure  question ; 
obscure,  and  not  important.  Of  the  fact,  how- 
ever, there  is  no  doubt  but  these  two  tenden- 
cies, which  may  be  named  Gotzism  and  Wer' 
terism,  of  the  former  of  which  Scott  was  re- 
presentative with  us,  have  made,  and  are  still 
in  some  quarters  making  the  tour  of  all  Eu- 
rope. In  Germany,  too,  there  was  this  afl^ec- 
tionate  half-regretful  looking  back  into  the 
past;  Germany  had  its  buff-belted  watch- 
tower  period  in  literature,  and  had  even  got 
done  with  it,  before  Scott  began.  Then  as  to 
Werterism,  had  not  we  English  our  Byron  and 
his  genius  1  No  form  of  Werterism  in  any 
other  country  had  half  the  potency :  as  our 
Scott  carried  chivalry  literature  to  the  ends 
of  the  world,  so  did  our  Byron  Werterism. 
France,  busy  with  its  Revolution  and  Napo- 
leon, had  little  leisure  at  the  moment  for  Gotz- 
ism or  Werterism  ;  but  it  has  had  them  both 
since,  in  a  shape  of  its  own :  witness  the 
whole  "Literature  of  Desperation"  in  our 
own  days,  the  beggarliest  form  of  Werterism 


su 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


yet  seen,  probably  its  expiring  final  form: 
witness  also,  at  the  other  extremity  of  the 
scale,  a  noble-gifted  Chateaubriand,  Gotz  and 
Werter,  both  in  one. — Curious :  how  all  Eu- 
rope is  but  like  a  set  of  parishes  of  the  same 
county:  participant  of  the  self-same  influ- 
ences, ever  since  the  Crusades,  and  earlier ; — 
and  these  glorious  wars  of  ours  are  but  like 
parish-brawls,  which  begin  in  mutual  igno- 
rance, intoxication,  and  boastful  speech:  which 
end  in  broken  windows,  damage,  waste,  and 
bloody  noses  ;  and  which  one  hopes  the  gene- 
ral good  sense  is  now  in  the  way  towards  put- 
ting down,  in  some  measure ! 

But,  however,  leaving  this  to  be  as  it  can, 
what  it  concerned  us  here  to  remark  was,  that 
British  Werterism,  in  the  shape  of  those  Byron 
Poems,  so  potent  and  poignant,  produced  on  the 
languid  appetite  of  men  a  mighty  effect.  This 
too  was  a  "class  of  feelings  deeply  important 
to  modern  minds ;  feelings  which  arise  from 
passion  incapable  of  being  converted  into  action, 
which  belong  to  an  age  as  indolent,  cultivated, 
and  unbelieving  as  our  own  !"  The  "  languid 
age  without  either  faith  or  skepticism"  turned 
towards  Byronism  with  an  interest  altogether 
peculiar:  here,  if  no  cure  for  its  miserable 
paralysis  and  languor,  was  at  least  an  indig- 
nant statement  of  the  misery;  an  indignant 
Ernulphus'  curse  read  over  it, — which  all 
men  felt  to  be  something.  Half-regretful  look- 
ings  into  the  Past  gave  place,  in  many  quar- 
ters, to  Ernulphus'  cursings  of  the  Present. 
Scott  was  among  the  first  to  perceive  that  the 
day  of  Metrical  Chivalry  Romances  was  de- 
clining. He  had  held  the  sovereignty  for  some 
half-score  of  years,  a  comparatively  long  lease 
of  it;  and  now  the  time  seemed  come  for  de- 
thronement, for  abdication ;  an  unpleasant  bu- 
siness: which  however  he  held  himself  ready, 
as  a  brave  man  will,  to  transact  with  compo- 
sure and  in  silence.  Afier  all.  Poetry  was  not 
his  stair  of  life;  Poetry  had  already  yielded 
him  much  money ;  this  at  least  it  would  not 
take  back  from  him.  Busy  always  with  editing, 
with  compiling,  with  multiplex  official,  com- 
mercial business,  and  solid  interests,  he  beheld 
the  coming  change  with  unmoved  eye. 

Resignation  he  was  prepared  to  exhibit  in 
this  matter ; — and  now  behold  there  proved  to 
be  no  need  of  resignation.  Let  the  Metrical 
Romance  become  a  Prose  one ;  shake  oflf  its 
rhyme-fetters,  and  try  a  wider  sweep  !  In  the 
spring  of  1814  appeared  "  Waverly ;"  an  event 
memorable  in  the  annals  of  British  literature; 
in  the  annals  of  British  book-selling  thrice  and 
four  times  memorable.  Byron  sang,  but  Scott 
narrated;  and  when  the  song  had  sung  itself 
out  through  all  variations  onwards  to  the  "  Don- 
Juan"  one,  Scott  was  still  found  narrating,  and 
carrying  the  whole  world  along  with  him.  All 
bygone  popularity  of  chivalry  lays  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  far  greater.  What  "series" 
followed  out  of"  Waverly,"  and  how  and  with 
what  result,  is  known  to  all  men ;  was  wit- 
nessed and  watched  with  a  kind  of  rapt  as- 
tonishment by  all.  Hardly  any  literary  re- 
putation ever  rose  so  high  in  our  Island ;  no 
reputation  at  all  ever  spread  so  wide.  Walter 
Scott  became  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Baronet,  of  Ab- 
botsford ;  on  whom  fortune  seemed  to  pour  her 


whole  cornucopia  of  wealth,  honour,  and 
worldly  good;  the  favourite  of  Princes  and 
of  Peasants,  and  all  intermediate  men.  His 
"  Waverly  series,"  swift-following  one  on  the 
other  apparently  without  end,  was  the  universal 
reading,  looked  for  like  an  annual  harvest,  by 
all  ranks  in  all  European  countries.  A  curious 
circumstance  superadded  itself,  that  the  author 
though  known  was  unknown.  From  the  first, 
most  people  suspecteji,  and  soon  after  the  first 
few  intelligent  persons  much  doubted,  that  the 
Author  of"  Waverly"  was  Walter  Scott.  Yet 
a  certain  mystery  was  still  kept  up ;  rather 
piquant  to  the  public  ;  doubtless  very  pleasant 
to  the  author,  who  saw  it  all;  who  probably 
had  not  to  listen,  as  other  hapless  individuals 
often  had,  to  this  or  the  other  long-drawn  "  clear 
proof  at  last,"  that  the  author  was  not  Walter 
Scott,  but  a  certain  astonishing  Mr.  So-and-so ; 
— one  of  the  standing  miseries  of  human  life 
in  that  time.  But  for  the  privileged  author,  it 
was  like  a  king  travelling  incognito.  All  men 
know  that  he  is  a  high  king,  chivalrous  Gustaf 
or  Kaiser  Joseph;  but  he  mingles  in  their 
meetings  without  cumber  of  etiquette  or  lone- 
some ceremony,  as  Chevalier  du  Nord,  or  Count 
of  Lorraine :  he  has  none  of  the  weariness  of 
royalty,  and  yet  all  the  praise,  and  the  satisfac- 
tion of  hearing  it  with  his  own  ears.  In  a  word, 
the  Waverly  Novels  circulated  and  reigned 
triumphant;  to  the  general  imagination  the 
"'Author  of  Waverly'"  was  like  some  living 
mythological  personage,  and  ranked  among  the 
chief  wonders  of  the  world. 

How  a  man  lived  and  demeaned  himself  in 
such  unwonted  circumstances  is  worth  seeing. 
We  would  gladly  quote  from  Scott's  corre- 
spondence of  this  period;  but  that  does  not 
much  illustrate  the  matter.  His  letters,  as 
above  stated,  are  never  without  interest,  yet  also 
seldom  or  never  very  interesting.  They  are  full 
of  cheerfulness,  of  wit,  and  ingenuity;  but  they 
do  not  treat  of  aught  intimate ;  without  im- 
peaching their  sincerity,  what  is  called  sin- 
cerity, one  may  say  they  do  not,  in  any  case 
whatever,  proceed  from  the  innermost  parts 
of  the  mind.  Conventional  forms,  due  consi- 
derations of  your  own  and  your  correspondent's 
pretensions  and  vanities,  are  at  no  moment 
left  out  of  view.  The  epistolary  stream  runs 
on,  lucid,  free,  glad-flowing  ;  but  always,  as  it 
were  parallel  to  the  real  substance  of  the  mat- 
ter, never  coincident  v;ith  it.  One  feels  it  hol- 
lowish  under  foot.  Letters  they  are  of  a  most 
humane  man  of  the  world,  even  exemplary  in 
that  kind  !  but  with  the  man  of  the  world  al- 
ways visible  to  them  ; — as  indeed  it  was  little 
in  Scott's  way  to  speak  perhaps  even  with  him- 
self in  any  other  fashion.  We  select  rather  some 
glimpses  of  him  from  Mr.  Lockhart's  record 
The  first  is  of  dining  with  Royalty  or  Prince- 
Regentship  itself;  an  almost  official  matter: 

"  On  hearing  from  Mr.  Croker  (then  Secre- 
tary to  the  Admirality)  that  Scott  was  to  be  in 
town  by  the  middle  of  March,  (1815,)  the  Prince 
said — *  Let  me  know  when  he  comes,  and  I'll 
get  up  a  snug  little  dinner  that  will  suit  him ;' 
and,  after  he  had  been  presented  and  graciously 
received  at  the  levee,  he  was  invited  to  dinner 
accordingly,  through  his  excellent  friend  Mr. 
Adam,  (now  Lord  Chief  Commissioner  of  the 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


625 


Jury  Court  in  Scotland,)  who  at  that  time  held 
a  confidential  office  in  the  royal  household. 
The  Regent  had  consulted  with  Mr.  Adam  also 
as  to  the  composition  of  the  party.  ♦  Let  us 
have,'  said  he,  *  just  a  few  friends  of  his  own, 
and  the  more  Scotch  the  better ;'  and  both  the 
Commissioner  and  Mr.  Croker  assure  me  that 
the  party  was  the  most  interesting  and  agreea- 
ble one  in  their  recollection.  It  comprised,  I 
believe,  the  Duke  of  York — the  Duke  of  Gor- 
don (then  Marquess  of  Huntly) — the  Marquess 
of  Hertford  (then  Lord  Yarmouth) — the  Earl 
of  Fife — and  Scott's  early  friend  Lord  Melville. 
'  The  Prince  and  Scott,'  says  Mr.  Croker,  *  were 
the  two  most  brilliant  story-tellers,  in  their 
several  ways,  that  I  have  ever  happened  to 
meet;  they  were  both  aware  of  their /orfc,  and 
both  exerted  themselves  that  evening  with  de- 
lightful effect.  On  going  home,  I  really  could 
notdecide  which  of  them  had  shone  the  most.(!) 
The  Regent  was  enchanted  with  Scott,  as  Scott 
was  with  him ;  and  on  all  his  subsequent  visits 
to  London,  he  was  a  frequent  guest  at  the  royal 
table.*  The  Lord  Chief  Commissioner  remem- 
bers that  the  Prince  was  particularly  delighted 
with  the  poet's  anecdotes  of  the  old  Scotch 
(judges  and  lawyers,  which  his  Royal  Highness 
sometimes  capped  by  ludicrous  traits  of  certain 
ermined  sages  of  his  own  acquaintance.  Scott 
told,  among  others,  a  story,  which  he  was  fond 
of  telling,  of  his  old  friend  the  Lord  Justice- 
Clerk  Braxfield ;  and  the  commentary  of  his 
Royal  Highness  on  hearing  it  amused  Scott, 
who  often  mentioned  it  afterwards.  The  anec- 
dote is  this  : — Braxfield,  whenever  he  went  on 
a  particular  circuit,  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
a  gentleman  of  good  fortune  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  one  of  the  assize  towns,  and  staying 
at  least  one  night,  which,  being  both  of  them 
ardent  chess-players,  they  usually  concluded 
with  their  favourite  game.  One  Spring  circuit 
the  battle  was  not  decided  at  daybreak ;  so  the 
Justice-Clerk  said, — 'Weel,  Donald,  I  must 
e'en  come  back  this  gate,  and  let  the  game  lie 
ower  for  the  present ;'  and  back  he  came  in 
October,  but  not  to  his  old  friend's  hospitable 
house ;  for  that  gentleman  had  in  the  interim 
been  apprehended  on  a  capital  charge,  (of  for- 
gery,) and  his  name  stood  on  the  Porteous  Roll, 
or  list  of  those  who  were  about  to  be  tried 
under  his  former  guest's  auspices.  The  laird 
was  indicted  and  tried  accordingly,  and  the 
jury  returned  a  verdict  of  guilty.  Braxfield 
forthwith  put  on  his  cocked  hat,  (which  an- 
swers to  the  black  cap  in  England,)  and  pro- 
nounced the  sentence  of  the  law  in  the  usual 
terms — *To  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you 
be  dead  ;  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
your  unhappy  soul !'  Having  concluded  this 
awful  formula  in  his  most  sonorous  cadence, 
Braxfield,  dismounting  his  formidable  beaver, 
gave  a  familiar  nod  to  his  unfortunate  ac- 
quaintance, and  said  to  him  in  a  sort  of  chuck- 
ling whisper — 'And  now  Donald,  my  man,  I 
think  I've  checkmated  you  for  ance.'  The 
Regent  laughed  heartily  at  this  specimen  of 
Macqueen's  brutal  humour ;  and  'I'faith,  Wal- 
ter,' said  he,  *  this  old  big-wig  seems  to  have 
taken  things  as  coolly  as  my  tyrannical  self. 
Don't  you  remember  Tom  Moore's  description 
of  me  at  breakfast — 


"'The  table  apread  wUh  tea  and  toast, 
Death-warrants  and  the  Morning  Posti' 

"Towards  midnight,  the  Prince  called  for 
*  a  bumper,  with  all  the  honours,  to  the  Author 
of  Waverley ;'  and  looked  significantly,  as  he 
was  charging  his  own  glass,  to  Scott.  Scott 
seemed  somewhat  puzzled  for  a  moment,  but 
instantly  recovering  himself,  and  filling  his 
glass  to  the  brim,  said,  'Your  Royal  Highness 
looks  as  if  you  thought  I  had  some  claim  to 
the  honours  of  this  toast.  I  have  no  such  pre- 
tensions, but  shall  take  good  care  that  the  real 
Simon  Pure  hears  of  the  high  compliment  that 
has  now  been  paid  him.'  He  then  drank  oiF 
his  claret;  and  joined  with  a  stentorian  voice 
in  the  cheering,  which  the  Prince  himself 
timed.  But  before  the  company  could  resume 
their  seats  his  Royal  Highness, '  Another  of 
the  same,  if  you  please,  to  the  Author  of  Mar- 
mion, — and  now,  Walter,  my  man,  I  have 
checkmated  you  for  ance.*  The  second  bumper 
was  followed  by  cheers  still  more  prolonged : 
and  Scott  then  rose,  and  returned  thanks  in  a 
short  address,  which  struck  the  Lord  Chief 
Commissioner  as  '  alike  grave  and  graceful.' 
This  story  has  been  circulated  in  a  very  per- 
verted shape."  *  *  *  "Before  he  left  town 
he  again  dined  at  Carlton  House,  when  the 
party  was  a  still  smaller  one  than  before,  and 
the  merriment  if  possible  still  more  free.  That 
nothing  might  be  wanting,  the  Prince  sang 
several  capital, songs." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  340 — 343. 

Or  take,  at  a  very  great  interval  in  many 
senses,  this  glimpse  of  another  dinner,  alto- 
gether Mnofficially  and  much  better  described. 
It  is  James  Ballantyne  the  printer  and  publish- 
er's dinner,  in  Saint-John  Street,  Canongate, 
Edinburgh,  on  the  birtheve  of  a  Waverley 
Novel : 

"The  feast  was,  to  use  one  of  James's  own 
favorite  epithets,  gorgeous ;  an  aldermanic  dis- 
play of  turtle  and  venison,  with  the  suitable 
accompaniments  of  iced  punch,  potent  ale,  and 
generous  Madeira.  When  the  cloth  was  drawn, 
the  burly  proeses  arose,  with  all  he  could  mus- 
ter of  the  port  of  John  Kemble,  and  spouted 
with  a  sonorous  voice  the  formula  of  Mac- 
beth— 

« Fill  full ! 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  of  the  whole  table !' 

This  was  followed  by  'The  King,  God  bless 
him!'  and  second  came — 'Gentlemen,  there  is 
another  toast  which  never  has  been  nor  shall 
be  omitted  in  this  house  of  mine :  I  give  you 
the  health  of  Mr.  Walter  Scott,  with  three 
times  three!'  All  honour  having  been  done 
to  this  health,  and  Scott  having  briefly  thanked 
the  company,  with  some  expressions  of  warm 
affection  to  their  host,  Mrs.  Ballantyne  retired; 
— the  bottles  passed  round  twice  or  thrice  in 
the  usual  way;  and  then  James  rose  once 
more,  every  vein  on  his  brow  distended:  his 
eyes  solemnly  fixed  on  vacancy,  to  propose, 
not  as  before  in  his  stentorian  key,  but  with 
'  'bated  breath,'  in  the  sort  of  whisper  by  which 
a  stage  conspirator  thrills  the  gallery— 'Gcn- 
llemen,  a  bumper  to  the  immortal  Author  of  Waver- 
ley!'— The  uproar  of  cheering,  in  which  Scott 
made  a  fashion  of  joining,  was  succeeded  by 
deep  silence ;  and  then  Ballantyne  proceeded— 


526 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


*In  his  Lord-Burleigh  look,  serene  and  serious, 
A  something  of  imposing  and  mysterious' — 
to  lament  the  obscurity  in  which  his  illustrious 
but  too  modest  correspondent  still  chose  to 
conceal  himself  from  the  plaudits  of  the  world; 
to  thank  the  company  for  the  manner  in  which 
the  nominis  umbra  had  been  received;  and  to 
assure  them  that  the  Author  of  'Waverley' 
would,  when  informed  of  the  circumstance, 
feel  highly  delighted — 'the  proudest  hour  of 
his  life,'  &c.  &c.  The  cool,  demure  fun  of 
Scott's  features  during  all  this  mummery  was 
perfect;  and  Erskine's  attempt  at  a  gay  «on- 
chalance  was  still  more  ludicrously  meritorious. 
Aldiborontiphoscophornio,  however,  bursting 
as  he  was,  knew  too  well  to  allow  the  new 
Novel  to  be  made  the  subject  of  discussion. 
Its  name  was  announced,  and  success  to  it 
crowned  another  cup;  but  after  that,  no  more 
of  Jedediah.  To  cut  the  thread,  he  rolled  out 
unbidden  some  one  of  his  many  theatrical 
songs,  in  a  style  that  would  have  done  no  dis- 
honour to  almost  any  orchestra — TJie  Maid  of 
Lodi,  or  perhaps  Tlie  Bay  of  Biscay,  oh! — or 
The  sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft.  Other 
toasts  followed,  interspersed  with  ditties  from 
other  performers ;  old  George  Thomson,  the 
friend  of  Burns,  was  ready,  for  one,  with  The 
Moorland  Wedding,  or  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o' 
maut ; — and  so  it  went  on,  until  Scott  and  Ers- 
kine,  with  any  clerical  or  very  staid  personage 
that  had  chanced  to  be  admitted,  saw  fit  to 
withdraw.  Then  the  scene  was  changed.  The 
claret  and  olives  made  Avay  for  broiled  bones 
and  a  mighty  bowl  of  punch ;  and  when  a  few 
glasses  of  the  hot  beverage  had  restored  his 
powers,  James  opened  ore  rotundo  on  the  merits 
of  the  forthcoming  romance.  *  One  chapter — 
one  chapter  only !'  was  the  cry.  After  'Nay, 
hyW  Lady,  nay  /'  and  a  few  more  coy  shifts,  the 
proof-sheets  were  at  length  produced,  and 
James,  with  many  a  prefatory  hem,  read  aloud 
what  he  considered  as  the  most  striking  dia- 
logue they  contained. 

"  The  first  I  heard  so  read  was  the  interview 
between  Jeanie  Deans,  the  Duke  of  Argyle, 
and  Queen  Caroline,  in  Richmond  Park;  and, 
notwithstanding  some  spice  of  the  pompous 
tricks  to  which  he  was  addicted,  I  must  say  he 
did  the  inimitable  scene  great  justice.  At  all 
events,  the  effect  it  produced  was  deep  and 
memorable ;  and  no  wonder  that  the  exulting 
typographer's  one  bumper  more  to  Jedediah  Cleish- 
botham  preceded  his  parting-stave,  which  was 
uniformly  The  Last  Words  of  Marmion,  executed 
certainly  with  no  contemptible  rivalry  of  Bra- 
ham."— Vol.  iv.  pp.  166—168. 

Over  at  Abbotsford,  things  wear  a  still  more 
prosperous  aspect.  Scott  is  building  there,  by 
the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Tweed  ;  he  has 
boug'ht  and  is  buying  land  there ;  fast  as  the 
new  gold  comes  in  for  a  new  Waverly  Novel, 
or  even  faster,  it  changes  itself  into  moory 
acres,  into  stone,  and  hewn  or  planted  wood : 

"About  the  middle  of  February"  (1820)— 
says  Mr.  Lockhart,  "  it  having  been  ere  that 
time  arranged  that  I  should  marry  his  eldest 
daughter  in  the  course  of  the  spring — I  accom- 
panied him  and  part  of  his  family  on  one  of 
those  flying  visits  to  Abbotsford,  with  which 
he  often  indulged  himself  on  a  Saturday  during 


term.  Upon  such  occasions,  Scott  appeared 
at  the  usual  hour  in  Court,  but  wearing,  in- 
stead of  the  official  suit  of  black,  his  country 
morning-dress,  green  jacket,  and  so  forth, 
under  the  clerk's  gown." — "At  noon,  when  the 
Court  broke  up,  Peter  Mathieson  was  sure  to 
be  in  attendance  in  the  Parliament  Close ;  and, 
five  minutes  after,  the  gown  had  been  tossed 
off;  and  Scott,  rubbing  his  hands  for  glee, 
was  under  weigh  for  Tweedside.  As  we  pro- 
ceeded," &c. 

"Next  morning  there  appeared  at  breakfast 
John  Ballantyne,  who  had  at  this  time  a  shoot- 
ing or  hunting-box  a  few  miles  off,  in  the  vale 
of  the  Leader,  and  with  him  Mr.  Constable,  his 
guest ;  and  it  being  a  fine  clear  day,  as  soon 
as  Scott  had  read  the  church  service  and  one 
of  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermons,  we  all  sallied  out 
before  noon  on  a  perambulation  of  his  upland 
territories ;  Maida  (the  hound)  and  the  rest  of 
the  favourites  accompanying  our  march.  At 
starting  we  were  joined  by  the  constant  hench- 
man, Tom  Purdie, — and  I  may  save  myself 
the  trouble  of  any  attempt  to  describe  his  ap- 
pearance, for  his  master  has  given  us  an 
inimitably  true  one  in  introducing  a  certain 
personage  of  his  Redgauntlet: — 'He  was,  per- 
haps, sixty  years  old ;  yet  his  brow  was  not 
much  furrowed,  and  his  jet-black  hair  was 
only  grizzled,  not  whitened,  by  the  advance  of 
age.  All  his  motions  spoke  strength  unabated ; 
and,  though  rather  under-sized,  he  had  very 
broad  shoulders,  was  square  made,  thin-flank- 
ed, and  apparently  combined  in  his  frame 
muscular  strength  and  activity ;  the  last  some- 
what impaired,  perhaps,  by  years,  but  the  first 
remaining  in  full  vigour.  A  hard  and  harsh 
countenance;  eyes  far  sunk  under  projecting 
eyebrows,  which  were  grizzled  like  his  hair ; 
a  wide  mouth,  furnished  from  ear  to  ear  with 
a  range  of  unimpaired  teeth  of  uncommon 
whiteness,  and  a  size  and  breadth  which 
might  have  become  the  jaws  of  an  ogre,  com- 
pleted this  delightful  portrait.'  Equip  this 
figure  in  Scott's  cast-off  green  jacket,  white 
hat,  and  drab  trousers;  and  imagine  that  years 
of  kind  treatment,  comfort,  and  the  honest 
consequence  of  a  confidential  grieve*  had  soft- 
ened away  much  of  the  hardness  and  harsh- 
ness originally  impressed  on  the  visage  by 
anxious  penury,  and  the  sinister  habits  of  a 
black-fisher ;— and  the  Tom  Purdie  of  1820 
stands  before  us. 

"We  were  all  delighted  to  see  how  com- 
pletely Scott  had  recovered  his  bodily  vigour, 
and  none  more  so  than  Constable,  who,  as 
he  puffed  and  panted  after  him,  up  one  ravine 
and  down  another,  often  stopped  to  wipe 
his  forehead,  and  remarked,  that  'it  was 
not  every  author  who  should  lead  him  such  a 
dance.'  But  Purdie's  face  shone  with  rapture 
as  he  observed  how  severely  the  swagbellied 
bookseller's  activity  was  tasked.  Scott  ex- 
claimed exultingly,  though,  perhaps,  for  the 
tenth  time,  'This  will  be  a  glorious  spring  for 
our  trees,  Tom  !' — 'You  may  say  that,  Sheriff,' 
quoth  Tom, — and  then  lingering  a  moment  for 
Constable — '  My  certy,'  he  added,  scratching 
his   head,  '  and   I  think   it  will   be  a  grand 

♦  Overseer;  German,  graf. 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


687 


season  for  our  buiks  too.'  But  indeed  Tom 
always  talked  of  our  buiks  as  if  they  had  been 
as  regular  products  of  the  soil  as  our  aits  and 
our  birks.  Having  threaded  first  the  Hexil- 
cleugh  and  then  the  Rhymer's  Glen,  we  arrived 
at  Huntly  Burn,  where  the  hospitality  of  the 
kind  Weird  sisters,  as  Scott  called  the  Miss 
Fergusons,  reanimated  our  exhausted  biblio- 
poles, and  gave  them  courage  to  extencl  their 
walk  a  little  further  down  the  same  famous 
brook.  Here  there  was  a  small  cottage  in  a 
very  sequestered  situation,"  (named  Chiefs- 
wood,)  "  by  making  some  little  additions  to 
which  Scott  thought  it  might  be  converted 
into  a  suitable  summer  residence  for  his 
daughter  and  future  son-in-law."  *  *  "As  we 
walked  homeward,  Scott,  being  a  little  fatigued, 
laid  his  left  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder,  and  leaned 
heavily  for  support,  chatting  to  his  '  Sunday 
pony,'  as  he  called  the  affectionate  fellow,  just 
as  freely  as  with  the  rest  of  the  party ;  and  Tom 
put  in  his  word  shrewdly  and  manfully,  and 
grinned  and  grunted  whenever  the  joke  chanced 
to  be  within  his  apprehension.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  his  heart  swelled  within  him  from  the 
moment  the  Sheriff  got  his  collar  in  his  gripe." 
—Vol.  iv.  p.  349,  353. 

That  Abbotsford  became  infested  to  a  great 
degree  with  tourists,  wonder-hunters,  and  all 
that  fatal  species  of  people,  may  be  supposed. 
Solitary  Ettrick  saw  itself  populous  :  all  paths 
were  beaten  with  the  feet  and  hoofs  of  an  end- 
less miscellany  of  pilgrims.  As  many  as 
"  sixteen  parties"  have  arrived  at  Abbotsford 
in  one  day;  male  and  female;  peers,  Socinian 
preachers,  whatsoever  was  distinguished,  what- 
soever had  love  of  distinction  in  it !  Mr. 
Lockhart  thinks  there  was  no  literary  shrine 
ever  so  bepilgrimed,  except  Ferney  in  Vol- 
taire's time,  who,  however,  was  not  half  so 
accessible.  A  fatal  species !  These  are  what 
Schiller  calls  "  the  flesh-flies ;"  buzzing  swarms 
of  bluebottles,  who  never  fail  where  any  taint 
of  human  glory  or  other  corruptibility  is  in 
the  wind.  So  has  Nature  decreed.  Scott's 
healthiness,  bodily  and  mental,  his  massive 
solidity  of  character,  nowhere  showed  itself 
more  decisively  than  in  his  manner  of  encoun- 
tering this  part  of  his  fate.  That  his  bluebot- 
tles were  blue,  and  of  the  usual  tone  and 
quality,  may  be  judged.  Hear  Captain  Basil 
Hall,  (in  a  very  compressed  state:) 

"  We  arrived  in  good  time,  and  found  several 
other  guests  at  dinner.  The  public  rooms  are 
lighted  with  oil-gas,  in  a  style  of  extraordinary 
splendour.  The,"  &c. — "  Had  I  a  hundred  pens, 
each  of  which  at  the  same  time  should  sepa- 
rately write  down  an  anecdote,  I  could  not 
hope  to  record  one-half  of  those  which  our 
host,  to  use  Spenser's  expression,  *  welled  out 
alway.' " — "  Entertained  us  all  the  way  with  an 
endless  string  of  anecdotes  ;" — "  came  like  a 
stream  of  poetry  from  his  lips ;" — "  path  muddy 
and  scarcely  passable,  yet  I  do  not  remember 
ever  to  have  seen  any  place  so  interesting  as 
the  skill  of  this  mighty  magician  had  rendered 
this  narrow  ravine." — "  Impossible  to  touch  on 
any  theme,  but  straightway  he  has  an  anecdote 
to  fit  it." — "  Thus  we  strolled  along,  borne,  as 
it  were,  on  the  stream  of  song  and  story." — "  In 
the  evening  we  had  a  great  feast  indeed.    Sir 


Walter  asked  us  if  we  had  ever  read  Christa^ 
bel." — "  Interspersed  with  these  various  read- 
ings, were  some  hundreds  of  stories,  some 
quaint,  some  pathetical." — "  At  breakfast  to- 
day we  had,  as  usual,  some  150  stories — God 
knows  how  they  came  in." — "In  any  man  so 
gifted — so  qualified  to  take  the  loftiest,  proudest 
line  at  the  head  of  the  literature,  the  taste,  the 
imagination  of  the  whole  world  !" — "  For  in- 
stance, he  never  sits  at  any  particular  place  at 
table,  but  takes,"  &c.,  &c.— Vol.  v.  p.  375—402. 

Among  such  worshippers,  arriving  in  "six- 
teen parties  a-day,"  an  ordinary  man  might 
have  grown  buoyant;  have  felt  the  god,  begun 
to  nod,  and  seemed  to  shake  the  spheres.  A 
slightly  splenetic  man,  possessed  of  Scott's 
sense,  would  have  swept  his  premises  clear 
of  them  :  Let  no  bluebottle  approach  here,  to 
disturb  a  man  in  his  work, — under  pain  of 
sugared  squash  (called  quassia)  and  king's  yel- 
low !  The  good  Sir  Walter,  like  a  quiet  brave 
man,  did  neither.  He  let  the  matter  take  its 
course ;  enjoyed  what  was  enjoyable  in  it : 
endured  what  could  not  well  be  helped ;  per- 
sisted meanwhile  in  writing  his  daily  portion 
of  romance-copi/,  in  preserving  his  composure 
of  heart ; — in  a  word,  accommodated  himself 
to  this  loud-buzzing  environment,  and  made  it 
serve  him,  as  he  would  have  done  (perhaps 
wirh  more  ease)  to  a  silent,  poor,  and  solitary 
one.  No  doubt  it  affected  him  too,  and  in  the 
lamentablest  way  fevered  his  internal  life, — 
though  he  kept  it  well  down;  but  it  afllected 
him  less  than  it  would  have  done  almost  any 
other  man.  For  his  guests  were  not  all  of  the 
bluebottle  sort;  far  from  that.  Mr.  Lockhart 
shall  furnish  us  with  the  brightest  aspect  a 
British  Ferney  ever  yielded,  or  is  like  to  yield  : 
and  therewith  we  will  quit  Abbotsford  and 
the  dominant  and  culminant  period  of  Scott's 
life: 

"  It  was  a  clear,  bright,  September  morning, 
with  a  sharpness  in  the  air  that  doubled  the 
animating  influence  of  the  sunshine,  and  all 
was  in  readiness  for  a  grand  coursing  match 
on  Newark  Hill.  The  only  guest  who  had 
chalked  out  other  sport  for  himself  was  the 
stanchest  of  anglers,  Mr.  Rose;  but  he,  too, 
was  there  on  his  shelty,  armed  with  his  salmon- 
rod  and  landing-net,  and  attended  by  his 
Hinves,  and  Charlie  Purdie,  a  brother  of  Tom, 
in  those  days  the  most  celebrated  fisherman 
of  the  district.  This  little  group  of  Waltonians, 
bound  for  Lord  Somerville's  preserve,  re- 
mained lounging  about  to  witness  the  start  of 
the  main  cavalcade.  Sir  Walter,  mounted  on 
Sibyl,  was  marshalling  the  order  of  procession 
with  a  huge  hunting-whip;  and  among  a 
dozen  frolicsome  youths  and  maidens,  who 
seemed  disposed  to  laugh  at  all  discipline,  ap- 
peared, each  on  horseback,  each  as  eager 
as  the  youngest  sportsman  in  the  troop.  Sir 
Humphry  Davy,  Dr.  Wollaston,  and  the  pa- 
triarch of  Scottish  belles-lettres,  Henry  Macken- 
zie. The  Man  of  Feeling,  however,  was  per- 
suaded with  some  difficulty  to  resign  his  steed 
for  the  present  to  his  faithful  negro  follower, 
and  to  join  Lady  Scott  in  the  sociable,  until 
we  should  reach  the  ground  of  our  battue. 
Laidlaw,  on  a  long-tailed  wiry  Highlander, 
yclept  Hoddin  Grey,  which  carried  him  nimbly 


€28 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  stoutly,  although  his  feet  almost  touched 
the  ground  as  he  sat,  was  the  adjutant.  But  the 
most  picturesque  figure  was  the  illustrious  in- 
ventor of  the  safety-lamp.  He  had  come  for 
his  favourite  sport  of  angling,  and  had  been 
practising  it  successfully  with  Rose,  his  travel- 
ling companion,  for  two  or  three  days  preceding 
this;  but  he  had  not  prepared  for  coursing 
fields,  or  had  left  Charlie  Purdie's  troop  for 
Sir  Walter's  on  a  sudden  thought,  and  his 
fisherman's  costume — a  brown  hat  with  flexi- 
ble brim,  surrounded  with  line  upon  line  of 
catgut,  and  innumerable  fly-hooks — jack-boots 
worthy  of  a  Dutch  smuggler,  and  a  fustian  sur- 
tout  dabbled  with  the  blood  of  salmon,  made  a 
fine  contrast  with  the  smart  jackets,  white-cord 
breeches,  and  well  polished  jockey-boots  of 
the  less  distinguished  cavaliers  about  him. 
Dr.  WoUaston  was  in  black,  and,  with  his  noble 
serene  dignity  of  countenance,  might  have 
passed  for  a  sporting  archbishop.  Mr.  Macken- 
zie, at  this  time  in  the  76th  year  of  his  age, 
with  a  white  hat  turned  up  with  green,  green 
spectacles,  green  jacket,  and  long  brown 
leathern  gaiters  buttoned  upon  his  nether 
anatomy,  wore  a  dog-whistle  round  his  neck, 
and  had,  all  over,  the  air  of  as  resolute  a 
devotee  as  the  gay  captain  of  Huntly  Burn. 
Tom  Purdie  and  his  subalterns  had  preceded 
as  by  a  few  hours  with  all  the  greyhounds 
that  could  be  collected  at  Abbolsford,  Darnick, 
and  Melrose ;  but  the  giant  Maida  had  remained 
as  his  master's  orderly,  and  now  gambolled 
about  Sibyl  Grey,  barking  for  mere  joy  like  a 
spaniel  puppy. 

"  The  order  of  march  had  been  all  settled, 
and  the  sociable  was  just  getting  under  weigh, 
when  the  Lady  Anne  broke  from  the  line, 
screaming  with  laughter,  and  exclaimed,  'Papa, 
papa,  I  knew  you  could  never  think  of  going 
without  your  pet.'  Scott  looked  round,  and  I 
rather  think  there  was  a  blush  as  well  as  a 
smile  upon  his  face,  when  he  perceived  a  little 
black  pig  frisking  about  his  pony,  and  evi- 
dently a  self-elected  addition  to  the  party  of  the 
day.  He  tried  to  look  stern,  and  cracked  his 
whip  at  the  creature,  but  was  in  a  moment 
obliged  to  join  in  the  general  cheers.  Poor 
piggy  soon  found  a  strap  round  its  neck,  and 
was  dragged  into  the  background; — Scott, 
watching  the  retreat,  repeated  with  mock 
pathos  the  first  verse  of  an  old  pastoral  song — 

♦  What  will  I  do  gin  my  hoggie  die  1 
My  joy,  my  pride,  my  hoggie  ! 
My  only  beast,  I  had  na  niae, 
And  wow !  but  I  was  vogie !' 

— the  cheers  were  redoubled — and  the  squadron 
moved  on. 

"This  pig  had  taken,  nobody  could  tell  how, 
a  most  sentimental  attachment  to  Scott,  and 
was  constantly  urging  its  pretensions  to  be 
admitted  a  regular  member  of  his  tail  along 
with  the  greyhounds  and  terriers ;  but,  indeed, 
I  remember  him  suffering  another  summer 
under  the  same  sort  of  pertinacity  on  the  part 
of  an  affectionate  hen.  I  leave  the  explanation 
for  philosophers — but  such  were  the  facts.  I 
have  too  much  respect  for  the  vulgarly  calum- 
niated donkey,  to  name  him  in  the  same  cate- 
gory of  pets  with  the  pig  and  the  hen ;  but  a 


year  or  two  after  this  time,  my  wife  used  to 
drive  a  couple  of  these  animals  in  a  little 
garden  chair,  and  whenever  her  father  appeared 
at  the  door  of  our  cottage,  we  were  sure  to  see 
Hannah  More  and  Lady  Morgan  (as  Anne 
Scott  had  wickedly  christened  them)  trotting 
from  their  pasture,  to  lay  their  noses  over  the 
paling,  and,  as  Washington  Irving  says  of  the 
old  white-haired  hedger  with  the  Parisian  snuff- 
box, '  to  have  a  pleasant  crack  wi'  the  laird.'  " 
—Vol.  V.  p.  7—10.* 

"  There  (at  Chiefswood)  my  wife  and  I  spent 
this  summer  and  autumn  of  1821 — the  first  of 
several  seasons  which  will  ever  dwell  on  my 
memory  as  the  happiest  of  my  life.  We  were 
near  enough  Abbotsford  to  partake  as  often  as 
we  liked  of  its  brilliant  and  constantly  varying 
society;  yet  could  do  so  without  being  exposed 
to  the  worry  and  exhaustion  of  spirit  which 
the  daily  reception  of  new  comers  entailed 
upon  all  the  family,  except  Sir  Walter  himself 
But,  in  truth,  even  he  was  not  always  proof 
against  the  annoyances  connected  with  such 
a  style  of  open  house-keeping.  Even  his 
temper  sank  sometimes  under  the  solemn 
applauses  of  learned  dulness,  the  vapid  rap- 
tures of  painted  and  perriwigged  dowagers,  the 
horseleech  avidity  with  which  underbred  fo- 


*  On  this  subject  let  us  report  an  anecdote  furnished 
by  a  correspondent  of  our  own,  whose  accuracy  we  can 
depend  on: — "I  ifiyself  was  acquainted  with  a  little 
Blenheim  cocker,  one  of  the  smallest,  beautifiillest,  and 
wisest  of  lapdogs,  or  dogs,  which,  though  Sir  Walter 
knew  it  not,  was  very  singular  in  its  behaviour  towards 
him.  Shandy,  so  hight  this  remarkable  cocker,  was 
extremely  shy  of  strangers :  promenading  on  Prince's 
street,  which  in  fine  weather  used  to  be  crowded  in  those 
days,  he  seemed  to  live  in  perpetual  fear  of  being  stolen ; 
if  any  one  but  looked  at  him  admirinfrly,  he  would  draw 
back  with  angry  timidity,  and  crouch  towards  his  own 
lady-mistress.  One  day  a  tall,  irregular,  busy-looking 
man  came  halting  by ;  the  little  dog  ran  towards  him, 
began  fawning,  frisking,  licking  at  his  feet:  it  was  Sir 
Walter  Scott !  Had  Shandy  been  the  most  extensive 
reader  of  Reviews,  he  could  not  have  done  better. 
Every  time  he  saw  Sir  Walter  afterwards,  which  was 
some  three  or  four  times  in  the  course  of  visiting  Edin- 
burgh, he  repeated  his  demonstrations,  ran  leaping, 
frisking,  licking  the  Author  of  '  Waverly's'  feet.  The 
good  Sir  Walter  endured  it  with  good-humour ;  looked 
down  at  the  little  wise  face,  at  the  silky  shag-coat  of 
snow-white  and  chestnut-brown  ;  smiled,  and  avoided 
hitting  him  as  they  went  on,— till  a  new  division  of 
streets  or  some  other  obstacles  put  an  end  to  the  inter- 
view. In  fact  he  was  a  strange  little  fellow,  this  Shandy. 
He  has  been  known  to  sit  for  hours  looking  out  at  the 
summer  moon,  with  the  saddest  wistfuUest  expression 
of  countenance  ;  altogether  like  a  Werterean  Poet.  He 
would  have  been  a  Poet,  I  dare  say,  if  he  could  have 
found  a  publisher.  But  his  moral  tact  was  the  most 
amazing.  Without  reason  shown,  without  word  spoken 
or  act  done,  he  took  his  likings  and  dislikings  ;  unalter- 
able ;  really  almost  unerring.  His  ehief  aversion,  I 
should  say,  was  to  the  genus  quack,  above  all  to  the 
genus  acrid-quack;  these,  though  never  so  clear-starched, 
bland-smiling,  and  beneficent,  he  absolutely  would  have 
no  trade  with.  Their  very  sugar-cake  was  unavailing. 
He  said  with  emphasis,  as  clearly  as  barking  could  say 
it:  'Acrid-quack,  avaunt!'  Would  to  Heaven  many 
a  prime  minister  and  high  person  in  authority  had  such 
an  invaluable  talent !  On  the  whole,  there  is  more  in 
this  universe  than  our  philosophy  has  dreamt  of  A 
dog's  instinct  is  a  voice  of  Nature  too ;  and  farther,  it 
has  never  babbled  itself  away  in  idle  jargon  and  hy- 
pothesis, but  always  adhered  to  the  practical,  and  grown 
in  silence  by  continual  communion  with  fact.  We  do 
the  animals  injustice.  Their  body  resembles  our  body, 
BufFon  says  ;  with  its  four  limbs,  with  its  spinal  marrow, 
main  organs  in  the  head,  and  so  forth :  but  have  they 
not  a  kind  of  soul,  equally  the  rude  draught  and  imper- 
fect imitation  of  ours  1  It  is  a  strange,  an  almost 
solemn  and  pathetic  thing  to  see  an  intelligence  impri- 
soned in  that  dumb  rude  form  ;  struggling  to  express  it- 
self out  of  that ; — even  as  we  do  out  of  our  imprison- 
ment ;  and  succeed  very  imperfectly !" 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


639 


reigners  urged  their  questions,  and  the  pompous 
simpers  of  condescending  magnates.  When 
sore  beset  at  home  in  this  way,  he  would  every 
now  and  then  discover  that  he  had  some  very 
particular  business  to  attend  to  on  an  outlying 
part  of  his  estate ;  and,  craving  the  indulgence 
of  his  guests  over  night,  appear  at  the  cabin 
in  the  glen  before  its  inhabitants  were  astir  in 
the  morning.  The  clatter  of  Sibyl  Grey's  hoofs, 
the  yelping  of  Mustard  and  Spice,  and  his  own 
joyous  shout  of  reveillee  under  our  windows, 
were  the  signal  that  he  had  burst  his  toils,  and 
meant  for  that  day  to  'take  his  ease  in  his 
inn.'  On  descending,  he  was  to  be  found 
seated  with  all  his  dogs  and  ours  about  him, 
under  a  spreading  ash  that  overshadowed  half 
the  bank  between  the  cottage  and  the  brook, 
pointing  the  edge  of  his  woodman's-axe,  and 
listening  to  Tom  Purdie's  lecture  touching  the 
plantation  that  most  needed  thinning.  After 
breakfast  he  would  take  possession  of  a  dress- 
ing-room up  stairs,  and  write  a  chapter  of  The 
Pirate;  and  then,  having  made  up  and  des- 
patched his  packet  for  Mr.  Ballantyne,  away 
to  join  Purdie  wherever  the  foresters  were  at 
work — and  sometimes  to  labour  among  them 
as  strenuously  as  John  Swanston, — until  it  was 
time  either  to  rejoin  his  own  party  at  Abbots- 
ford,  or  the  quiet  circle  of  the  cottage.  When 
his  guests  were  few  and  friendly,  he  often  made 
them  come  over  and  meet  him  at  Chiefswood 
in  a  body  towards  evening ;  and  surely  he  never 
appeared  to  more  amiable  advantage  than  when 
helping  his  young  people  with  their  little 
arrangements  upon  such  occasions.  He  was 
ready  with  all  sorts  of  devices  to  supply  the 
wants  of  a  narrow  establishment;  he  used  to 
delight  particularly  in  sinking  the  wine  in  a 
well  under  the  brae  ere  he  went  out,  and  haul- 
ing up  the  basket  just  before  dinner  was  an- 
nounced— this  primitive  device  being,  he  said, 
what  he  had  always  practised  when  a  young 
housekeeper,  and  in  his  opinion  far  superior 
in  its  results  to  any  application  of  ice ;  and  in 
the  same  spirit,  whenever  the  weather  was 
sufficiently  genial,  he  voted  for  dining  out  of 
doors  altogether,  which  at  once  got  rid  of  the 
inconvenience  of  very  small  rooms,  and  made 
it  natural  and  easy  for  the  gentlemen  to  help 
the  ladies,  so  that  the  paucity  of  servants  went 
for  nothing."— Vol.  v.  pp.  123,  124. 

Surely  all  this  is  very  beautiful ;  like  a 
picture  of  Boccaccio :  the  ideal  of  a  country 
life  in  our  time.  Why  could  it  not  last]  In- 
come was  not  wanting:  Scott's  official  perma- 
nent income  was  amply  adequate  to  meet  the 
expense  of  all  that  was  valuable  in  it ;  nay,  of 
all  that  was  not  harassing,  senseless,  and  des- 
picable. Scott  had  some  £2,000  a  year  with- 
out writing  books  at  all.  Why  should  he 
manufacture  and  not  create,  to  make  more 
money;  and  rear  mass  on  mass  for  a  dwelling 
to  himself,  till  the  pile  toppled,  sank,  crashing, 
and  buried  him  in  its  ruins,  when  he  had  a 
safe  pleasant  dwelling  ready  of  its  own  accord  ] 
Alas,  Scott,  with  all  his  health,  was  infected: 
sick  of  the  fearfullest  malady,  that  of  Ambition ! 
To  such  length  had  the  King's  baronetcy,  the 
world's  favour,  and  "sixteen  parties  a-day," 
brought  it  with  him.  So  the  inane  racket  must 
be  kept  up,  and  rise  ever  higher.  So  masons 
67 


labour,  ditchers  delve;  and  there  is  endless, 
altogether  deplorable  correspondence  about 
marble-slabs  for  tables,  wainscotting  of  rooms, 
curtains  with  the  trimmings  of  curtains,  orange- 
coloured  or  fawn-coloured :  Walter  Scott,  one 
of  the  gifted  of  the  world,  whom  his  admirers 
called  the  most  gifted,  must  kill  himself  that  he 
may  be  a  country  gentleman,  the  founder  of  a 
race  of  Scottish  lairds.  It  is  one  of  the 
strangest,  most  tragical  histories  ever  enacted 
under  this  sun.  So  poor  a  passion  can  lead  so 
strong  a  man  into  such  mad  extremes.  Surely, 
were  not  man  a  fool  always,  one  might  say 
there  was  something  eminently  distracted  in 
this,  end  as  it  would,  of  a  Walter  Scott  writing 
daily  with  the  ardour  of  a  steam-engine,  that 
he  might  make  £15,000  a  year,  and  buy  up- 
holstery with  it.  To  cover  the  walls  of  a  stone 
house  in  Selkirkshire  with  knicknacks,  ancient 
armour,  and  genealogical  shields,  what  can  we 
name  it  but  a  being  bit  with  delirium  of  a  kind  ? 
That  tract  after  tract  of  moorland  in  the  shire 
of  Selkirk  should  be  joined  together  on  parch- 
ment and  by  ring-fence,  and  named  after  one's 
name, — why,  it  i^  a  shabby  small-type  edition 
of  your  vulgar  Napoleons,  Alexanders,  and 
conquering  heroes,  not  counted  venerable  by 
any  teacher  of  men  ! — 

"The  whole  world  was  not  half  so  wide 
To  Alexander  when  he  cried 
Becauge  he  held  but  one  to  subdue, 
As  was  a  narrow  paltry  tub  to 
Diogenes  ;  who  ne'er  was  said, 
For  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 
To  whine,  put  finger  i'  the  eye  and  sob, 
Because  he  had  ne'er  another  tub." 

Not  he !  And  if,  « looked  at  from  the  Moon, 
which  itself  is  far  from  Infinitude,"  Napoleon's 
dominions  were  as  small  as  mine,  what,  by 
any  chance  of  possibility,  could  Abbotsford 
landed-property  ever  have  become  1  As  the 
Arabs  say,  there  is  a  black  speck,  were  it  no 
bigger  than  a  bean's  eye, in  every  soul;  which 
once  set  it  a-working,  will  overcloud  the  whole 
man  into  darkness  and  quasi-madness,  and 
hurry  him  balefully  into  Night! 

With  respect  to  the  literary  character  of 
these  "  Waverly  Novels,"  so  extraordinary  in 
their  commercial  character,  there  remains, 
after  so  much  reviewing,  good  and  bad,  little 
that  it  were  profitable  at  present  to  say.  The 
great  fact  about  them  is,  that  they  were  faster 
written  and  better  paid  for  than  any  other 
books  in  the  world.  It  must  be  granted,  more- 
over, that  they  have  a  worth  far  surpassing 
what  is  usual  in  such  cases  ;  nay,  that  if  litera- 
ture had  no  task  but  that  of  harmlessly  amus- 
ing indolent,  languid  men,  here  was  the  very 
perfection  of  literature;  that  a  man,  here  more 
emphatically  than  ever  elsewhere,  might  fling 
himself  back,  exclaiming,  "Be  mine  to  lie  on 
this  sofa,  and  read  everlasting  Novels  of  Wal- 
ter Scott !"  The  composition,  slight  as  it  often 
is,  usually  hangs  together  in  some  measure, 
and  is  a  composition.  There  is  a  free  flow  of 
narrative, of  incident  and  sentiment;  an  easy 
master-like  coherence  throughout,  as  if  it  were 
the  free  dash  of  a  master's  hand,  "round  as 
the  O  of  Giotto."*      It  is  the   perfection  of 


*  "  Venne  a  Firen/.e,  (il  cnrtieiano  del  Papa,)  e  andato 

una  mattina  in  botlega  di  Giotto,  che  larorava,  eli 

2  Y 


630 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


extemporaneotrs  writing.  Farthermore,  surely 
he  was  a  blind  critic  who  did  not  recognise 
here  a  certain  genial  sunshiny  freshness  and 
picturesqueness ;  paintings  both  of  scenery 
and  figures,  very  graceful,  brilliant,  occasion- 
ally full  of  grace  and  glowing  brightness, 
blended  in  the  softest  composure;  in  fact,  a 
deep  sincere  love  of  the  beautiful  in  nature 
and  man,  and  the  readiest  faculty  of  express- 
ing this  by  imagination  and  by  word.  No 
fresher  paintings  of  nature  can  be  found  than 
Scott's;  hardly  anywhere  a  wider  sympathy 
with  man.  From  Davie  Deans  up  to  Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion ;  from  Meg  Merrilies  to  Die 
Vernon  and  Queen  Elizabeth !  It  is  the  ut- 
terance of  a  man  of  open  soul ;  of  a  brave, 
large,  free-seeing  man,  who  has  a  true  brother- 
hood with  all  men.  In  joyous  picturesque- 
ness and  fellow-feeling,  freedom  of  eye  and 
heart;  or  to  say  it  in  a  word, in  general  healthi- 
ness of  mind,  these  novels  prove  Scott  to  have 
been  amongst  the  foremost  writers. 

Neither  in  the  higher  and  highest  excel- 
lence, of  drawing  character,  is  he  at  any  time 
altogether  deficient;  though  at  no  time  can  we 
call  him,  in  the  best  sense,  successful.  His 
Bailie  Jarvies,  Dinmonts,  Dalgettys  (for  their 
name  is  legion)  do  look  and  talk  like  what 
they  give  themselves  out  for;  they  are,  if  not 
created  and  made  poetically  alive,  yet  decep- 
tively enacted  as  a  good  player  might  do  them. 
What  more  is  wanted  then  ?  For  the  reader 
lying  on  a  sofa,  nothing  more ;  yet  for  another 
sort  of  reader,  much.  It  were  a  long  chapter 
to  unfold  the  difference  in  drawing  a  character 
between  a  Scott,  a  Shakspeare,  and  a  Goethe? 
Yet  it  is  a  difference  literally  immense :  they 
are  of  different  species ;  the  value  of  the  one 
is  not  to  be  counted  in  the  coin  of  the  other. 
We  might  say  in  a  short  word,  which  means 
a  long  matter,  that  your  Shakspeare  fashions 
his  characters  from  the  heart  outwards  ;  your 
Scott  fashions  them  from  the  skin  inwards, 
never  getting  near  the  heart  of  them !  The 
one  set  became  living  men  and  women ;  the 
other  amount  to  little  more  than  mechanical 
cases,  deceptively  painted  automatons.  Com- 
pare Fenella  with  Goethe's  Mignon,  which,  it 
was  once  said,  Scott  had  "done  Goethe  the 
honour"  to  borrow.  He  has  borrowed  what 
he  could  of  Mignon.  The  small  stature,  the 
climbing  talent,  the  trickiness,  the  mechanical 
case,  as  we  say,  he  has  borrowed;  but  the  soul 
of  Mignon  is  left  behind.  Fenella  is  an  unfa- 
vourable specimen  for  Scott ;  but  it  illustrates, 
in  the  aggravated  state,  what  is  traceable  in 
all  the  characters  he  drew.  To  the  same  pur- 
port, indeed,  we  are  to  say  that  these  famed 
books  are  altogether  addressed  to  the  every- 
day mind;  thai  for  any  other  mind,  there  is 


chiese  un  poco  di  disegno  per  matidarlo  a  sua  Santiti. 
Giotto,  che  garbatissimo  era,  prese  un  fo^lio,  ed  in 
quelle  con  un  pennello  tinto  di  rosso,  fermato  il  braccio 
al  financo  per  fame  compasso,  e  girato  la  mano  fece  un 
tondo  si  pari  di  sesto  e  di  profile,  che  fu  a  vederlo  una 
maraviglia.  Cib  fatto  ghignando  disse  al  cortigiano, 
Eccovi  il  disegno."  ....  "  Onde  11  Papa,  e  molti 
cortjgiani  intendenti  conobbero  perci6,  quanto  Giotto 
avanzasse  d'eccelenza  tuttl  gli  altri  pittori  del  suo 
tempo.  Divolgatasi  poi  questa  cosa,  ne  nacque  il  pro- 
verbio,  che  ancora  6  in  uso  dirsi  a  gli  noniini  di  grossa 
papta:  Tu  sei  piii  tondo  che  V  0  di  Oiotto.'" — Vasari, 
rite   (Roma,  1759),  i.  46. 


next  to  no  nourishment  in  them.  Opinions, 
emotions,  principles,  doubts,  beliefs,  beyond 
what  the  intelligent  country  gentleman  can 
carry  along  with  him,  are  not  to  be  found.  It 
is  orderly,  customary,  it  is  prudent,  decent; 
nothing  more.  One  would  say,  it  lay  not  in 
Scott  to  give  much  more ;  getting  out  of  the 
ordinary  range,  and  attempting  the  heroic, 
which  is  but  seldom  the  case,  he  falls  almost 
at  once  into  the  rose-pink  sentimental, — des- 
cries the  Minerva  Press  from  afar,  and  hasti- 
ly quits  that  course ;  for  none  better  than  he 
knew  it  to  lead  nowhither.  On  the  whole, 
contrasting  Waverly,  which  was  carefully 
written,  with  most  of  its  followers,  which  were 
written  extempore,  one  may  regret  the  extem- 
pore method.  Something  very  perfect  in  its 
kind  might  have  come  from  Scott;  nor  was  it 
a  low  kind :  nay,  who  knows  how  high,  with 
studious  self-concentration,  he  might  have 
gone;  what  wealth  nature  had  implanted  in 
him,  which  his  circumstances,  most  unkind 
while  seeming  to  be  kindest,  had  never  im- 
pelled him  to  unfold? 

But  after  all,  in  the  loudest  blaring  and 
trumpeting  of  popularity,  it  is  ever  to  be  held  in 
mind,  as  a  truth  remaining  true  for  ever,  that 
literature  has  other  aims  than  that  of  harmless- 
ly amusing  indolent,  languid  men  :  or  if  litera- 
ture have  them  not,  then  literature  is  a  very 
poor  affair ;  and  something  else  must  have 
them,  and  must  accomplish  them,  with  thanks 
or  without  thanks;  the  thankful  or  thankless 
world  were  not  long  a  world  otherwise  !  Under 
this  head  there  is  little  to  be  sought  or  found 
in  the  "  Waverley  Novels."  Not  profitable  for 
doctrine,  for  reproof,  for  edification,  for  build- 
ing up  or  elevating,  in  any  shape  !  The  sick 
heart  will  find  no  healing  here, the  darkly  strug- 
gling heart  no  guidance :  the  Heroic  that  is  in 
all  men  no  divine  awakening  voice.  We  say, 
therefore,  that  they  do  not  found  themselves 
on  deep  interests,  but  on  comparatively  trivial 
ones ;  not  on  the  perennial,  perhaps  not  even 
on  the  lasting.  In  fact,  much  of  the  interest 
of  these  novels  results  from  what  may  be 
called  contrasts  of  costume.  The  phraseolo- 
gy, fashion  of  arms,  of  dress  and  life,  belong- 
ing to  one  age,  is  brought  suddenly,  with  singu- 
lar vividness,  before  the  eyes  of  another.  A 
great  effect  this;  yet,  by  the  very  nature  of  it, 
an  altogether  temporary  one.  Consider,  breth- 
ren, shall  not  we  too  one  day  be  antiques,  and 
grow  to  have  as  quaint  a  costume  as  the  rest? 
The  stuffed  dandy,  only  give  him  lime,  will  be- 
come one  of  the  wonderfuUest  mummies.  In 
antiquarian  museums,  only  two  centuries 
hence,  the  steeple-hat  will  hang  on  the  next 
peg  to  Franks  and  Company's  patent,  antiqua- 
rians deciding  which  is  uglier:  and  the  Stultz 
swallow-tail,  one  may  hope,  will  seem  as  in- 
credible as  any  garment  that  ever  made  ridicu- 
lous the  respectable  back  of  man.  Not  by 
slashed  breeches,  steeple-hats,  buff-belts,  or  an- 
tiquated speech,  can  romance  heroes  continue 
to  interest  us;  but  simply  and  solely,  in  the 
long  run,  by  being  men.  Buff-belts  and  all 
manner  of  jerkins  and  costumes  are  transito- 
ry; man  alone  is  perennial.  He  that  has  gone 
deeper  into  this  than  other  men,  will  be  re- 
membered longer  than  they ;  he  that  has  not, 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


531 


not.  Tried  under  this  category,  Scott  with  his 
clear  practical  insight,  joyous  temper,  and  other 
sound  faculties,  is  not  to  be  accounted  little, 
— among  the  ordinary  circulating  library  he- 
roes he  might  well  pass  for  a  derai-god.  Not 
little  ;  yet  neither  is  he  great;  there  were  great- 
er, more  than  one  or  two  in  his  own  age : 
among  the  great  of  all  ages,  one  sees  no  like- 
lihood of  a  place  for  him. 

What  then  is  the  result  of  these  Waverley 
romances  1  Are  they  to  amuse  one  generation 
only  ■?  One  or  more.  As  many  generations 
as  they  can,  but  not  all  generations :  ah  no, 
when  our  swallow-tail  has  become  fantastic  as 
trunk-hose,  they  will  cease  to  amuse  ! — Mean- 
while, as  we  can  discern,  their  results  have 
been  several-fold.  First  of  all,  and  certainly 
not  least  of  all,  have  they  not  perhaps  had  this 
result ;  that  a  considerable  portion  of  man- 
kind has  hereby  been  sated  with  mere  amuse- 
ment, and  set  on  seeking  something  better? 
Amusement  in  the  way  of  reading  can  go  no 
farther,  can  do  nothing  better,  by  the  power  of 
man;  and  men  ask,  Is  this  what  it  can  do? 
Scott,  we  reckon,  carried  several  things  to  their 
ultimatum  and  crisis,  so  that  change  became 
inevitable:  a  great  service,  though  an  indi- 
rect one.  Secondly,  however,  we  may  say, 
these  historical  novels  have  taught  all  men  this 
truth,  which  looks  like  a  truism,  and  yet  was 
as  good  as  unknown  to  writers  of  history  and 
others,  till  so  taught :  that  the  by-gone  ages 
of  the  world  were  actually  filled  by  living  men, 
not  by  protocols,  state-papers,  controversies, 
and  abstractions  of  men.  Not  abstractions 
were  they,  not  diagrams  and  theorems ;  but 
men,  in  buff  or  other  coats  and  breeches,  with 
colour  in  their  cheeks,  with  passions  in  their 
stomach,  and  the  idioms,  features,  and  vitali- 
ties of  very  men.  It  is  a  little  word  this  ;  in- 
clusive of  great  meaning!  History  will  hence- 
forth have  to  take  thought  of  it.  Her  faint 
hearsays  of  "  philosophy  teaching  by  experi- 
ence" will  have  to  exchange  themselves  every- 
where for  direct  inspection  and  imbodyment : 
this,  and  this  only,  will  be  counted  experience ; 
and  till  once  experience  have  got  in,  philoso- 
phy will  reconcile  herself  to  wait  at  the  door. 
It  is  a  great  service,  fertile  in  consequences, 
this  that  Scott  has  done ;  a  great  truth  laid 
open  by  him; — correspondent  indeed  to  the 
substantial  nature  of  the  man  ;  to  his  solidity 
and  veracity  even  of  imagination,  which, 
with  all  his  lively  discursiveness,  was  the 
characteristic  of  him. 

A  word  here  as  to  the  extempore  style  of 
writing,  which  is  getting  much  celebrated  in 
these  days.  Scott  seems  to  have  been  a  high 
proficient  in  it.  His  rapidity  was  extreme,  and 
the  matter  produced  was  excellent  considering 
that :  the  circumstances  under  which  some  of 
his  novels,  when  he  could  not  himself  write, 
were  dictated,  are  justly  considered  wonderful. 
It  is  a  valuable  faculty  this  of  ready  writing; 
nay  farther,  for  Scott's  purpose  it  was  clearly 
the  only  good  mode.  By  much  labour  he  could 
not  have  added  one  guinea  to  his  copy-right ; 
nor  could  the  reader  on  the  sofa  have  lain  a 
whit  more  at  ease.  It  was  in  all  ways  neces- 
sary that  these  works  should  be  produced 
rapidly ;  and,  round  or  not,  be  thrown  off  like 


Giotto's  O.    But  indeed,  in  all  things,  writing 
or  other,  which  a  man  engages  in,  there  is  the 
indispensablest  beauty  in  knowing  hoiv  to  get 
done.     A  man  frets  himself  to  no  purpose ;  he 
has  not  the  sleight  of  the  trade ;  he  is  not  a 
craftsman,  but  an  unfortunate  borer  and  bun- 
gler, if  he  know  not  when  to  have  done.     Per- 
fection is   unattainable:    no   carpenter    ever 
made  a  mathematically  accurate  right-angle 
in  the  world;  yet  all  carpenters  know  when  it 
is  right  enough,  and  do  not  botch  it,  and  lose 
their  wages  by  making  it  too  right.    Too  much 
pains-taking  speaks  disease  in  one's  mind,  as 
well   as  too  little.     The  adroit  sound-minded 
man  will  endeavour  to  spend  on  each  business 
approximately  what  of  pains  it  deserves ;  and 
with  a  conscience  void  of  remorse  will  dis- 
miss it  then.    All  this  in  favour  of  easy  writ- 
ing shall  be  granted,  and,  if  need  were,  en- 
forced and  inculcated.    And  yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  shall  not  less  but  more  strenuously  be 
inculcated,  that  in  the  way  of  writing  no  great 
thing  was  ever,  or  will  ever  be  done  with  ease, 
but  with  difficulty  !    Let  ready  writers,  with 
any  faculty  in  them,  lay  this  to  heart.    Is  it 
with  ease,  or  not  with  ease,  that  a  man  shall 
do  his   best,  in  any  shape ;  above   all,  in   this 
shape,  justly  named  of"  soul's  travail,"  work- 
ing in  the  deep  places  of  thought,  imbodying 
the  true  out  of  tlie  obscure  and  possible,  envi- 
roned on  all  sides  with  the  uncreated  false  1 
Not  so,  now  or  at  any  time.    The  experience 
of  all  men  belies  it ;  the  nature  of  things  con- 
tradicts it.  Virgil  and  Tacitus,  were  they  ready 
writers  ?     The   whole  Prophecies  of  Isaiah  are 
not  equal  in  extent  to  this  cobweb  of  a  review 
article.     Shakspeare,   we   may   fancy,  wrote 
with  rapidity;  but  not  till  he  had  thought  with 
intensity :  long  and  sore  had  this  man  thought, 
as  the  seeing  eye  may  discern  well,  and  had 
dwelt  and  wrestled  amid  dark  pains  and  throes, 
— though  his  great  soul  is  silent  about  all  that. 
It  was  for  him  to  write  rapidly  at  fit  intervals, 
being  ready  to  do  it.    And  herein  truly  lies  the 
secret  of  the  matter:  such  swiftness  of  mere 
writing,  after  due   energy  of  preparation,  is 
doubtless  the  right  method;  the  hot  furnace 
having  long  worked  and  simmered,  let  the  pure 
gold  flow  out  at  one  gush.  It  was  Shakspeare's 
plan ;  no  easy  writer  he,  or  he  had  never  been 
a  Shakspeare.    Neither  was  Milton  one  of  the 
mob   of  gentlemen  that  write   with  ease;  he 
did  not  attain  Shakspeare's  faculty,  one  per- 
ceives, of  even  writing  f&st- after  long  prepara- 
tion, but  struggled  while  he^  wrote.    Goethe 
also  tells  us  he  "had  nothing  sent  him  in  his 
sleep ;"  no  page  of  his  but  he  knew  well  how 
it  came  there.    It  is  reckoned  to  be  the  best 
prose,  accordingly,  that  has  been  written  by 
any  modern.    Schiller,  as  an  unfortunate  and 
unhealthy  man,  "konnte  nie  fertig  werden,  never 
could  get  done;"    the  noble  genius  of  him 
struggled  not  wisely  but  too  well,  and  wore 
his  life  itself  heroically  out.    Or  did  Petrarch 
write  easily  1     Dante  sees  himself  "  growing 
gray"  over  his  Divine  Comedy  :  in  stern  solita- 
ry death-wrestle  with  it,  to  prevail  over  if,  and 
do  it,  if  his  uttermost  faculty  may:  hence,  too, 
it  is  done  and  prevailed  over,  and  the  fiery  life 
of  it  endures  for  evermore  among  men.    No: 
creation,  one  would  think,  cannot  be  easy; 


532 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


your  Jove  has  severe  pains  and  fire-flames  in 
the  head,  out  of  which  an  armed  Pallas  is 
struggling !  As  for  manufacture,  that  is  a  dif- 
ferent matter,  and  may  become  easy  or  not 
easy,  according  as  it  is  taken  up.  Yet  of  manu- 
facture, too,  the  general  truth  is  that,  given  the 
manufacturer,  it  will  be  worthy  in  direct  pro- 
portion to  the  pains  bestowed  upon  it ;  and 
worthless  always,  or  nearly  so,  with  no  pains. 
Cease,  therefore,  O  ready-writer,  to  brag  open- 
ly of  thy  rapidity  and  facility ;  to  thee  (if  thou 
be  in  the  manufacturing  line)  it  is  a  benefit, 
an  increase  of  wages ;  but  to  me  it  is  sheer 
loss,  worsening  of  my  pennyworth:  why  wilt 
thou  brag  of  it  to  me  1  Write  easily,  by  steam 
if  thou  canst  contrive  it,  and  canst  sell  it;  but 
hide  it  like  virtue  !  "Easy  writing,"  said  Sheri- 
dan,  "is   sometimes   d d   hard    reading." 

Sometimes  ;  and  always  it  is  sure  to  be  rather 
useless  reading,  which  indeed  (to  a  creature 
of  few  years  and  much  work)  may  be  reckon- 
ed the  hardest  of  all. 

Scott's  productive  facility  amazed  every- 
body ;  and  set  Captain  Hall,  for  one,  upon  a 
very  strange  method  of  accounting  for  it  with- 
out miracle; — for  which  see  his  "journal," 
above  quoted  from.  The  Captain,  on  count- 
ing line  for  line,  found  that  he  himself  had 
WTitten  in  that  journal  of  his  almost  as  much 
as  Scott,  at  odd  hours  in  a  given  number  of 
days;  "and  as  for  the  invention,"  says  he,  "it 
is  known  that  this  costs  Scott  nothing,  but 
comes  to  him  of  its  own  accord."  Conveni- 
ent indeed ! — But  for  us  too  Scott's  rapidity  is 
great,  is  a  proof  and  consequence  of  the  solid 
health  of  the  man,  bodily  and  spiritual ;  great, 
but  unmiraculous;  not  greater  than  that  of 
many  others  besides  Captain  Hall.  Admire 
it,  yet  with  measure.  For  observe  always, 
there  are  two  conditions  in  work:  let  me  fix 
the  quality,  and  you  shall  fix  the  quantity! 
Any  man  may  get  through  work  rapidly  who 
easily  satisfies  himself  about  it.  Print  the  talk 
of  any  man,  there  will  be  a  thick  octavo 
volume  daily;  make  his  writing  three  times 
as  good  as  his  talk,  there  will  be  the  third  part 
of  a  volume  daily,  which  still  is  good  work. 
To  write  with  never  such  rapidity  in  a  pass- 
able manner  is  indicative,  not  of  a  man's  ge- 
nius, but  of  his  habits ;  it  will  prove  his  sound- 
ness of  nervous  system,  his  practicability  of 
mind,  and  in  fine,  that  he  has  the  knack  of 
his  trade.  In  the  most  flattering  view,  ra- 
pidity will  betoken  health  of  mind :  much  also, 
perhaps  most  of  all,  will  depend  on  health  of 
body.  Doubt  it  not,  a  faculty  of  easy  writing 
is  attainable  by  man  !  The  human  genius, 
once  fairly  set  in  this  direction,  will  carry  it 
far.  William  Cobbett,  one  of  the  healthiest 
of  men,  was  a  greater  improviser  even  than 
Walter  Scott:  his  writing,  considered  as  to 
quality  and  quantity,  of  Rural  Rides,  Registers, 
Grammars,  Sermons,  Peter  Porcupines,  His- 
tories of  Reformation,  ever-fresh  denounce- 
ments of  Potatoes  and  Papermoney, — seems 
to  us  still  more  wonderful.  Pierre  Bayle 
wrote  enormous  folios,  one  sees  not  on  what 
motive-principle;  he  flowed  on  for  ever,  a 
mighty  tide  of  ditch-water ;  and  even  died 
flowing,  with  the  pen  in  his  hand.  But  indeed 
the  most  unaccountable  ready-writer  of  all  is, 


probably,  the  common  Editor  of  a  Daily  News- 
paper. Consider  his  leading-articles ;  what 
they  treat  of,  how  passably  they  are  done. 
Straw  that  has  been  thrashed  a  hundred  times 
without  wheat;  ephemeral  sound  of  a  sound; 
such  portent  of  the  hour  as  all  men  have  seen 
a  hundred  times  turn  out  inane;  how  a  man, 
with  merely  human  faculty,  buckles  himself 
nightly  with  new  vigour  and  interest  to  this 
thrashed  straw,  nightly  thrashes  it  anew, 
nightly  gets  up  new  thunder  about  it;  and  so 
goes  on  thrashing  and  thundering  for  a  con- 
siderable series  of  years ;  this  is  a  fact  re- 
maining still  to  be  accounted  for,  in  human 
physiology.     The  vitality  of  man  is  great. 

Or  shall  we  say,  Scott,  among  the  many 
things  he  carried  towards  their  ultimatum  and 
crisis,  carried  this  of  ready-writing  too,  that  so 
all  men  might  better  see  what  was  in  it?  It 
is  a  valuable  consummation.  Not  without 
results; — results,  at  some  of  which  Scott  as  a 
Tory  politician  would  have  greatly  shuddered. 
For  if  once  Printing  have  grown  to  be  as  Talk, 
then  Dbmocract  (if  we  look  into  the  roots  of 
things)  is  not  a  bugbear  and  probability,  but 
a  certainty,  and  event  as  good  as  come ! 
"Inevitable  seems  it  me."  But  leaving  this, 
sure  enough  the  triumph  of  ready-writing  ap- 
pears to  be  even  now ;  everywhere  the  ready- 
writer  is  found  bragging  strangely  of  his  readi- 
ness. In  a  late  translated  "Don  Carlos,"  one 
of  the  most  indifferent  translations  ever  done 
with  any  sign  of  ability,  a  hitherto  unknown 
individual  is  found  assuring  his  reader,  "The 
reader  will  possibly  think  it  an  excuse,  when 
I  assure  him  that  the  whole  piece  was  com- 
pleted within  the  space  of  ten  weeks,  that  is  to 
say,  between  the  sixth  of  January  and  the 
eighteenth  of  March  of  this  year,  (inclusive  of 
a  fortnight's  interruption  from  over  exertion  ;) 
that  I  often  translated  twenty  pages  a-day,  and 
that  the  fifth  act  was  the  work  of  five  days."* 
O  hitherto  unknown  individual,  what  is  it  to 
me  what  time  it  was  the  work  of,  whether  five 
days  or  five  decades  of  years  1  The  only 
question  is,  How  hast  thou  done  it? — So, 
however,  it  stands :  the  genius  of  Extempore 
irresistibly  lording  it,  advancing  on  us  like 
ocean-tides,  like  Noah's  deluges — of  ditch- 
water!  The  prospect  seems  one  of  the  la- 
mentablest.  To  have  all  Literature  swum 
away  from  us  in  watery  Extempore,  and  a 
spiritual  time  of  Noah  supervene  ?  That 
surely  is  an  awful  reflection,  worthy  of  dys- 
peptic Matthew  Bramble  in  a  London  fog! 
Be  of  comfort,  O  splenetic  Matthew  ;  it  is  not 
Literature  they  are  swimming  away;  it  is 
only  Book-publishing  and  Book-selling.  Was 
there  not  a  Literature  before  Printing  or  Faust 
of  Mentz.  and  yet  men  wrote  extempore  ?  Nay, 
before  Writing  or  Cadmus  of  Thebes,  and  yet 
men  spoke  extempore?  Literature  is  the 
Thought  of  thinking  Souls  ;  this,  by  the  bless- 
ing of  God,  can  in  no  generation  be  swum 
away,  but  remains  with  us  to  the  end. 

Scott's  career,  of  writing  impromptu  novels 
to  buy  farms  with,  was  not  of  a  kind  to  termi- 
nate voluntarily,  but  to  accelerate  itself  more 

*  "  Don  Carlos,"  a  Dramatic  Poem,  from  the  German 
of  Schiller,  Mannheim  and  London,  1837. 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  SCOTT. 


533 


and  more;  and  one  sees  not  to  what  wise  goal 
it  could,  in  any  case,  have  led  him.  Book- 
seller Constable's  bankruptcy  was  not  the  ruin 
of  Scott ;  his  ruin  was  that  ambition,  and  even 
false  ambition,  had  laid  hold  of  him ;  that  his 
way  of  life  was  not  wise.  Whither  could  it 
lead?  Where  could  it  stopi  New  farms  there 
remained  ever  to  be  bought,  while  new  novels 
could  pay  for  them.  More  and  more  success 
but  gave  more  and  more  appetite,  more  and 
more  audacity.  The  impromptu  writing  must 
have  waxed  even  thinner;  declined  faster  and 
faster  into  the  questionable  category,  into  the 
condemnable,  into  the  general  condemned. 
Already  there  existed,  in  secret,  everywhere  a 
considerable  opposition  party ;  witnesses  of 
the  Waverley  miracles,  but  unable  to  believe 
in  them,  forced  silently  to  protest  against  them. 
Such  opposition  party  was  in  the  sure  case  to 
grow ;  and  even,  with  the  impromptu  process 
ever  going  on,  ever  waxing  thinner,  to  draw 
the  world  over  to  it.  Silent  protest  must  at 
length  come  to  words;  harsh  truths,  backed 
by  harsher  facts  of  a  world-popularity  over- 
wrought and  worn  out,  behoved  to  have  been 
spoken  ; — such  as  can  be  spoken  now  without 
reluctance  when  they  can  pain  the  brave 
man's  heart  no  more.  Who  knows  1  Per- 
haps it  was  better  ordered  to  be  all  otherwise. 
Otherwise,  at  any  rate,  it  was.  One  day  the 
Constable  mountain,  which  seemed  to  stand 
strong  like  the  other  rock  mountains,  gave 
suddenly,  as  the  ice-bergs  do,  a  loud-sounding 
crack ;  suddenly,  with  huge  clangor,  shivered 
itself  into  ice-dust;  and  sank,  carrying  much 
along  with  it.  In  one  day  Scott's  high-heaped 
money-wages  became  fairy-money  and  non- 
entity; in  one  day  the  rich  man  and  lord  of 
land  saw  himself  penniless,  landless,  a  bank- 
rupt among  creditors. 

It  was  a  hard  trial.  He  met  it  proudly, 
bravely, — like  a  brave  proud  man  of  the  world.. 
Perhaps  there  had  been  a  prouder  way  still ; 
to  have  owned  honestly  that  he  was  unsuccess- 
ful then,  all  bankrupt,  broken,  in  the  world's 
good's  and  repute ;  and  to  have  turned  else- 
whither for  some  refuge.  Refuge  did  lie  else- 
where ;  but  it  was  not  Scott's  course,  or  fash- 
ion of  mind,  to  seek  it  there.  To  say.  Hither- 
to I  have  been  all  in  the  wrong,  and  this  my 
fame  and  pride,  now  broken,  was  an  empty 
delusion  and  spell  of  accursed  witchcraft !  It 
was  difficult  for  flesh  and  blood!  He  said,  I 
will  retrieve  myself,  and  make  my  point  good 
yet,  or  die  for  it.  Silently,  like  a  proud  strong 
man,  he  girt  himself  to  the  Hercules'  task,  of 
removing  rubbish-mountains,  since  that  was 
it;  of  paying  large  ransoms  by  what  he  could 
still  write  and  sell.  In  his  declining  years  too  ; 
misfortune  is  doubly  and  trebly  unfortunate 
that  befalls  us  then.  Scott  fell  to  his  Hercules' 
task  like  a  very  man,  and  went  on  with  it  un- 
weariedly;  with  a  noble  cheerfulness,  while 
his  lifestrings  were  cracking,  he  grappled  with 
it,  and  wrestled  with  it,  years  long,  in  death- 
grips,  strength  to  strength ; — and  it  proved  the 
stronger;  and  his  life  and  heart  did  crack  and 
break:  the  cordage  of  a  most  strong  heart! 
Over  these  last  writings  of  Scott,  his  Napoleons, 
Demonologies,  Scotch  Histories,  and  the  rest,  criti- 
cism, finding  still  much  to  wonder  at,  much  to 


commend,  will  utter  no  word  of  blame ;  this 
one  word  only.  Wo  is  me!  The  noble  war- 
horse  that  once  laughed  at  the  shaking  of  the 
spear,  how  is  he  doomed  to  toil  himself  dead, 
dragging  ignoble  wheels  !  Scott's  descent  was 
like  that  of  a  spent  projectile ;  rapid,  straight 
down  ; — perhaps  mercifully  so.  It  is  a  tragedy, 
as  all  life  is;  one  proof  more  that  Fortune 
stands  on  a  restless  globe;  that  Ambition, 
literary,  warlike,  politic,  pecuniary,  never  yet 
profited  any  man. 

Our  last  extract  shall  be  from  Volume  Sixth ; 
a  very  tragical  one.  Tragical,  yet  still  beauti- 
ful ;  waste  Ruin's  havoc  borrowing  a  kind  of 
sacredness  from  a  yet  sterner  visitation,  that 
of  Death  !  Scott  has  withdrawn  into  a  solitary 
lodging-house  in  Edinburgh,  to  do  daily  the 
day's  work  there ;  and  had  to  leave  his  wife  at 
Abbotsford  in  the  last  stage  of  disease.  He 
went  away  silently ;  looked  silently  at  the 
sleeping  face  he  scarcely  hoped  ever  to  see 
again.  We  quote  from  a  Diary  he  had  begun 
to  keep  in  those  months,  on  hint  from  Byron's 
Ravenna  Journal:  copious  sections  of  it  render 
this  sixth  volume  more  interesting  than  any 
of  the  former  ones  : — 

''Mbotsford,May  U,(182G.)—  *  *  *  It 
withers  my  heart  to  think  of  it,  and  to  recollect 
that  I  can  hardly  hope  again  to  seek  confidence 
and  counsel  from  that  ear,  to  which  all  might 
be  safely  confided.  But  in  her  present  lethargic 
state,  what  would  my  attendance  have  availed  1 
— and  Anne  has  promised  close  and  constant 
intelligence.  I  must  dine  with  James  Ballan- 
tyne  to-day  en  farnille.  I  cannot  help  it ;  but 
would  rather  be  at  home  and  alone.  However, 
I  can  go  out  too.  I  will  not  yield  to  the  barren, 
sense  of  hopelessness  which  struggles  to  in- 
vade me." 

"  Edinburgh, — Mrs.  Brownh  lodgings.  North  St. 
David  Street — May  12. — I  passed  a  pleasant  day 
with  kind  J.  B.,  which  was  a  great  relief  from 
the  black  dog,  which  would  have  worried  me 
at  home.     He  was  quite  alone. 

"  Well,  here  I  am  in  Arden.  And  I  may  say 
with  Touchstone,  *  When  I  was  in  a  better 
place  ;'  I  must,  when  there  is  occasion,  draw 
to  my  own  Baillie  Nicol  Jarvie's  consolation 
— 'One  cannot  carry  the  comforts  of  the  Saut- 
Market  about  with  one.'  Were  I  at  ease  in 
mind,  I  think  the  body  is  very  well  cared  for. 
Only  one  other  lodger  in  the  house,  a  Mr. 
Shandy — a  clergyman  ;  and,  despite  his  name, 
said  to  be  a  quiet  one." 

"  May  14. — A  fair  good-morrow  to  you,  Mr. 
Sun,  who  are  shining  so  brightly  on  these 
dull  walls.  Methinks  you  look  as  if  you  were 
looking  as  bright  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed  ; 
but  look  where  you  will.  Sir  Sun,  you  look 
upon  sorrow  and  suffering. — Hogg  was  here 
yesterday  in  danger,  from  having  obtained  an 
accommodation  of  £100  from  James  Ballan- 
tyne,  which  he  is  now  obliged  to  repay.  I  am 
unable  to  help  the  poor  fellow,  being  obliged 
to  borrow  myself." 

"May  15.— Received  the  melancholy  intelli- 
gence that  all  is  over  at  Abbotsford." 

"Abbotsford,  May  16. — She  died  at  nine  in 

the  morning,  after  being  very  ill  for  two  days 

— easy  at  last.     I  arrived  here  late  last  night. 

Anne  is  worn  out,  and  has  had  hysterics,  which 

2x2 


534 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


returned  on  my  arrival.  Her  broken  accents 
were  like  those  of  a  child,  the  language  as  well 
as  the  tones  broken,  but  in  the  most  gentle 
voice  of  submission.  "Poor  mamma — never 
return  again — gone  for  ever — a  better  place." 
Then,  when  she  came  to  herself,  she  spoke 
with  sense,  freedom,  and  strength  of  mind,  till 
her  weakness  returned.  It  would  have  been 
inexpressibly  moving  to  me  as  a  stranger — 
what  was  it  then  to  the  father  and  the  hus- 
band? For  myself,  I  scarce  know  how  I  feel ; 
sometimes  as  firm  as  the  Bass  Rock,  some- 
times as  weak  as  the  water  that  breaks  on  it. 
T  am  as  alert  at  thinking  and  deciding  as  I 
ever  was  in  my  life.  Yet,  when  I  contrast 
what  this  place  now  is,  with  what  it  has  been 
not  long  since,  I  think  my  heart  will  break. 
Lonely,  aged,  deprived  of  my  family — all  but 
poor  Anne;  an  impoverished,  an  embarrassed 
man,  deprived  of  the  sharer  of  my  thoughts 
and  counsels,  who  could  always  talk  down  my 
sense  of  the  calamitous  apprehensions  which 
break  the  heart  that  must  bear  them  alone. — 
Even  her  foibles  were  of  service  to  me,  by 
giving  me  things  to  think  of  beyond  my  weary 
self-reflections. 

"  I  have  seen  her.  The  figure  I  beheld  is, 
and  is  not  my  Charlotte — my  thirty  years'  com- 
panion. There  is  the  same  symmetry  of  form, 
though  those  limbs  are  rigid  which  were  once 
so  gracefully  elastic — but  that  yellow  mask, 
with  pinched  features,  which  seems  to  mock 
life  rather  than  emulate  it,  can  it  be  the  face 
that  was  once  so  full  of  lively  expression  1  I 
will  not  look  on  it  again.  Anne  thinks  her 
little  changed,  because  the  latest  idea  she  had 
formed  of  her  mother  is  as  she  appeared  under 
circumstances  of  extreme  pain.  Mine  go  back 
to  a  period  of  comparative  ease.  If  I  write 
long  in  this  way,  I  shall  write  down  my  reso- 
lution, which  I  should  rather  write  up,  if  I 
could." 

'^  May  18. —  *  •  Cerements  of  lead  and  of 
wood  already  hold  her;  cold  earth  must  have 
her  soon.  But  it  is  not  my  Charlotte,  it  is  not 
the  bride  of  my  youth,  the  mother  of  my  chil- 
dren, that  will  be  laid  among  the  ruins  of  Dry- 
burgh,  which  we  have  so  often  visited  in  gaye- 
ty  and  pastime.    No,  no." 


« May  22.—  *  *  Well,  I  am  not  apt  to 
shrink  from  that  which  is  my  duty,  merely  be- 
cause it  is  painful ;  but  I  wish  this  funeral- 
day  over.  A  kind  of  cloud  of  stupidity  hangs 
about  me,  as  if  all  were  unreal  that  men  seem 
to  be  doing  and  talking." 

"  May  26. —  *  *  Were  an  enemy  coming 
upon  my  house,  would  I  not  do  my  best  to 
fight,  although  oppressed  in  spirits  ;  and  shall 
a  similar  despondency  prevent  me  from  mental 
exertion  1     It  shall  not,  by  Heaven !" 

"  Edinburgh,  May  30. — Returned  to  town  last 
night  with  Charles.  This  morning  resume 
ordinary  habits  of  rising  early,  working  in  the 
morning,  and  attending  the  Court."  *  •  «I 
finished  correcting  the  proofs  for  the  Quarter- 
ly ;  it  is  but  a  flimsy  article,  but  then  the  cir- 
cumstances were  most  untoward. — This  has 
been  a  melancholy  day — most  melancholy.  I 
am  afraid  poor  Charles  found  me  weeping.  I 
do  not  know  what  other  folks  feel,  but  with  me 
the  hysterical  passion  that  impels  tears  is  a 
terrible  violence — a  sort  of  throttling  sensa- 
tion— then  succeeded  by  a  state  of  dreaming 
stupidity,  in  which  I  ask  if  my  poor  Charlotte 
can  actually  be  dead."— Vol.  vi.  pp.  297,  307. 

This  is  beautiful  as  well  as  tragical.  Other 
scenes,  in  that  Seventh  Volume,  must  come, 
which  will  have  no  beauty,  but  be  tragical  only. 
It  is  better  that  we  are  to  end  here. 

And  so  the  curtain  falls ;  and  the  strong 
Walter  Scott  is  with  us  no  more.  A  posses- 
sion from  him  does  remain  ;  widely  scattered ; 
yet  attainable  ;  not  inconsiderable.  It  can  be 
said  of  him,  "when  he  departed  he  took  a 
Man's  life  along  with  him."  No  sounder  piece 
of  British  manhood  was  put  together  in  that 
eighteenth  century  of  time.  Alas,  his  fine 
Scotch  face,  with  its  shaggy  honesty,  sagacity, 
and  goodness,  when  we  saw  it  latterly  on  the 
Edinburgh  streets,  was  all  worn  with  care,  the 
joy  all  fled  from  it; — ploughed  deep  with  la- 
bour and  sorrow.  We  shall  never  forget  it ; 
we  shall  never  see  it  again.  Adieu,  Sir  Wal- 
ter, pride  of  all  Scotchmen,  take  our  proud  and 
sad  farewelh 


VARNHAGEN  VON  ENSE'S  MEMOIRS. 


535 


VAMHAGEN  VON  ENSFS  MEMOIRS. 

[London  and  Westminster  Review,  1838.] 


The  Lady  Rahel,  or  Rachel,  surnamed  Levin 
in  her  maiden  days,  who  died  some  five  years 
ago  as  Madam  Varnhagen  voxi  Ense,  seems  to 
be  still  memorable  and  notable,  or  to  have  be- 
come more  than  ever  so,  among  our  German 
friends.  The  widower,  long  known  in  Berlin 
and  Germany  for  an  intelligent  and  estimable 
man,  has  here  published  successively,  as 
author,  or  as  editor  and  annotator,  so  many 
volumes,  nine  in  all,  about  her,  about  himself, 
and  the  things  that  occupied  and  environed 
them.  Nine  volumes,  properly,  of  German 
Memoirs  ;  of  letters,  of  miscellanies,  biographi- 
cal and  autobiographical ;  which  we  have  read 
not  without  zeal  and  diligence,  and  in  part 
with  great  pleasure.  It  seems  to  us  that  such 
of  our  readers  as  take  interest  in  things  Ger- 
man, ought  to  be  apprized  of  this  publication  ; 
and  withal  that  there  are  in  it  enough  of 
things  European  and  universal  to  furnish  out 
a  few  pages  for  readers  not  specially  of  that 
class. 

One  may  hope,  Germany  is  no  longer  to  any 
person  that  vacant  land,  of  gray  vapour  and 
chimeras,  which  it  was  to  most  Englishmen, 
not  many  years  ago.  One  may  hope  that,  as 
readers  of  German  have  increased  a  hundred- 
fold, some  partial  intelligence  of  Germany, 
some  interest  in  things  German,  may  have  in- 
creased in  a  proportionably  higher  ratio.  At 
all  events,  Memoirs  of  men,  German  or  other, 
will  find  listeners  among  men.  Sure  enough, 
Berlin  city,  on  the  sandy  banks  of  the  Spree, 
is  a  living  city,  even  as  London  is,  on  the 
muddy  banks  of  Thames.  Daily,  with  every 
rising  of  the  blessed  heavenly  light,  Berlin 
sends  up  the  smoke  of  a  hundred  thousand 
kindled  hearths,  the  fret  and  stir  of  five  hun- 
dred thousand  new-awakened  human  souls; 
— marking  or  defacing  with  such  smoke-cloud, 
material  or  spiritual,  the  serene  of  our  com- 
mon all-embracing  Heaven.  One  Heaven,  the 
same  for  all,  embraces  that  smoke-cloud  too, 
adopts  it,  absorbs  it,  like  the  rest.  Are  there 
not  dinner-parties,  "oesthetic  teas;"  scandal- 
mongeries,  changes  of  ministry,  police  cases, 
literary  gazettes  1  The  clack  of  tongues,  the 
sound  of  hammers,  mount  up  in  that  corner 
of  the  planet  too,  for  certain  centuries  of  time. 
Berlin  has  its  royalties  and  diplomacies,  its 
lraffickings,travailings ;  literatures,  sculptures, 
cultivated  heads,  male  and  female ;  and  boasts 
itself  to  be  "  the  intellectual  capital  of  Ger- 


*  1.  Rahel.  Ein  Bueh  des  Andenkens  fur  ikre  Freunde. 
(Rahel.  A  Book  of  Memorial  for  her  Friends.)  3  vols. 
Berlin,  1834. 

2.  Gallerie  von  Bildnissen  aus  Rahel's  Umiran^  und 
Bnefwechsel.  (Gallery  of  Portraits  from  Rahel's  Cir- 
cle of  Society  and  Correspondence.)  Edited  by  K.  A. 
Varnhagen  von  Ense.    2  vols.   Leipsic,  1836. 

3.  DenkwUrdifrkeiten  uvd  rermischte  Schriften.  (Me- 
moirs and  Miscellaneous  Writings.)  By  K.  A.  Varnha- 
gen von  Ense.    4  vols.    Mannheim,  1837-38. 


many."  Nine  volumes  of  Memoirs  out  of 
Berlin  will  surely  contain  something  for  us. 

S&,muel  Johnson,  or  perhaps  another,  used 
to  say,  there  was  no  man  on  the  streets  whose 
biography  he  would  not  like  to  be  acquainted 
with.  No  rudest  mortal  walking  there  who 
has  not  seen  and  known  experimentally  some- 
thing, which,  could  he  tell  it,  the  wisest  would 
hear  willingly  from  him !  Nay,  after  all  that 
can  be  said  and  celebrated  about  poetry,  elo- 
quence, and  the  higher  forms  of  composition 
and  utterance;  is  not  the  primary  use  of 
speech  itself  this  same,  to  utter  memoirs,  that  is, 
memorable  experiences  to  our  fellow-crea- 
tures 1  A  fact  is  a  fact;  man  is  for  ever  the 
brother  of  man.  That  thou.  Oh  my  brother, 
impart  to  me  truly  how  it  stands  with  thee  in 
that  inner  man  of  thine,  what  lively  images  of 
things  passed  thy  memory  has  painted  there; 
what  hopes,  what  thoughts,  affections,  know- 
ledges, do  now  dwell  there:  for  this  and  for  no 
other  object  that  I  can  see,  was  the  gift  of 
speech  and  of  hearing  bestowed  on  us  two.  I 
say  not  how  thou  feignest.  Thy  fictions,  and 
thousand  and  one  Arabian  Nights,  promul- 
gated as  fictions,  what  are  they  also  at  bottom 
but  this,  things  that  are  in  thee,  though  only 
images  of  things  1  But  to  bewilder  me  with 
falsehoods,  indeed;  to  ray  out  error  and  dark- 
ness,— misintelligence,  which  means  misat- 
tainment,  otherwise  failure  and  sorrow  ;  to  go 
about  confusing  worse  our  poor  world's  con- 
fusion, and,  as  a  son  of  Nox  and  Chaos,  propa- 
gate delirium  on  earth:  not  surely  with  this 
view,  but  with  a  far  different  one,  was  that 
miraculous  tongue  suspended  in  thy  head,  and 
set  vibrating  there !  In  a  word,  do  not  two 
things,  veracity  and  memoir-writitig,  seem  to  be 
prescribed  by  Nature  herself  and  the  very  con- 
stitution of  man  ]  Let  us  read,  therefore,  ac- 
cording to  opportunity, — and,  with  judicious 
audacity,  review ! 

Our  nine  printed  volumes  we  called  Ger- 
man Memoirs.  They  agree  in  this  general 
character,  but  are  otherwise  to  be  distinguished 
into  kinds,  and  differ  very  much  in  their  worth 
for  us.  The  first  book  on  our  list,  entitled 
"  Rahel,"  is  a  book  of  private  letters ;  three 
thick  volumes  of  Letters  written  by  that  lady: 
selected  from  her  wide  correspondence ;  with 
a  short  introduction,  with  here  and  there  a 
short  note,  and  that  on  Varnhagen's  part  all. 
Then  follows,  in  two  volumes,  the  work  named 
"Gallery  of  Portraits;"  consisting  principally 
of  Letters  to  Rahel,  by  various  persons,  mostly 
persons  of  note ;  to  which  Varnhagen,  as  edi- 
tor, has  joined  some  slight  commentary',  some 
short  biographical  sketch  of  each.  Of  these 
five  volumes  of  German  Letters  we  will  say, 
for  the  present,  that  they  seem  to  be  calculated 
for  Germany,  and  even  for  some  special  circle 
there,  rather  than  for  England  or  us.    A  glance 


686 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


at  them  afterwards,  we  hope,  will  be  possible. 
But  the  third  work,  that  of  Varnhagen  himself, 
is  the  one  we  must  chiefly  depend  on  here ;  the 
four  volumes  of  "  Memoirs  and  Miscellanies ;" 
lively  pieces ;  which  can  be  safely  recom- 
mended as  altogether  pleasant  reading  to 
every  one.  They  are  "  Miscellaneous  Writ- 
ings," as  their  title  indicates;  in  part  col- 
lected and  reprinted  out  of  periodicals,  or 
wherever  they  lay  scattered ;  in  part  sent  forth 
now  for  the  first  time.  There  are  criticisms, 
notices  literary  or  didactic ;  always  of  a  praise- 
worthy sort,  generally  of  small  extent.  There 
are  narrations ;  there  is  a  long  personal  nar- 
rative, as  it  might  be  called,  of  service  in  the 
"Liberation  War,"  of  1814,  wherein  Varnha- 
gen did  duty,  as  a  volunteer  officer,  in  Tetten- 
born's  corps,  among  the  Cossacks :  this  is  the 
longest  piece,  by  no  means  the  best.  There 
is  farther  a  curious  narrative  of  Lafayette's 
escape  (brief  escape  with  recapture)  from  the 
Prison  of  Olmiitz.  Then  also  there  is  a  cu- 
rious biography  of  Doctor  Bollmann,  the  brave 
young  Hanoverian,  who  aided  Lafayette  in 
that  adventure.  Then  other  biographies  not 
so  curious ;  on  the  whole,  there  are  many 
biographies :  Biography,  we  might  say,  is  the 
staple  article ;  an  article  in  which  Varnhagen 
has  long  been  known  to  excel.  Lastly,  as  basis 
for  the  whole,  there  are  presented,  fitfully, 
now  here,  now  there,  and  with  long  intervals, 
considerable  sections  of  Autobiography; — not 
confessions,  indeed,  or  questionable  work  of 
the  Rousseau  sort,  but  discreet  reminiscences, 
personal  and  other,  of  a  man  who  having 
looked  on  much,  may  be  sure  of  willing  audi- 
ence in  reporting  it  well.  These  are  the  four 
volumes  written  by  Varnhagen  von  Ense; 
those  are  the  five  edited  by  him.  We  shall 
regard  his  autobiographic  memorials  as  a 
general  substratum,  upholding  and  uniting 
into  a  certain  coherence  the  multifarious  con- 
tents of  these  publications :  it  is  Varnhagen 
von  Ense's  passage  through  life ;  this  is  what 
it  yielded  him ;  these  are  the  things  and  per- 
sons he  took  note  of,  and  had  to  do  with,  in 
travelling  thus  far. 

Beyond  ascertaining  for  ourselves  what 
manner  of  eyesight  and  way  of  judgment 
this  our  memoir-writer  has,  it  is  not  necessary 
to  insist  much  on  Varnhagen's  qualities  or 
literary  character  here.  He  seems  to  us  a 
man  peculiarly  fitted,  both  by  natural  endow- 
ment and  by  position  and  opportunity,  for 
writing  memoirs.  In  the  space  of  half  a  cen- 
tury that  he  has  lived  in  this  world,  his  course 
has  been  what  we  might  call  erratic  in  a  high 
degree:  from  the  student's  garret  in  Halle  or 
Tiibingen  to  the  Tuileries  hall  of  audience 
and  the  Wagram  battle-field,  from  Chamisso 
the  poet  to  Napoleon  the  Emperor,  his  path 
has  intersected  all  manner  of  paths  of  men. 
He  has  a  fine  intellectual  gift ;  and  what  is 
the  foundation  of  that  and  of  all,  an  honest, 
sympathizing,  manfully  patient,  manfully  cou- 
rageous heart.  His  way  of  life,  too  erratic 
we  should  fear  for  happiness  or  ease,  and  sin- 
gularly checkered  by  vicissitude,  has  had  this 
considerable  advantage,  if  no  other,  that  it 
has  trained  him,  and  could  not  but  train  him, 
to  a  certain   Catholicism   of  mind.    He   has 


been  a  student  of  literature,  an  author,  a  stu- 
dent of  medicine,  a  soldier,  a  secretary,  a 
diplomatist.  A  man  withal  of  modest,  affec- 
tionate nature ;  courteous  and  yet  truthful ; 
of  quick  apprehension,  precise  in  utterance  ; 
of  just,  extensive,  occasionally  of  deep  and 
fine  insight, — this  is  a  man  qualified  beyond 
most  to  write  memoirs.  We  should  call  him 
one  of  the  best  memoir-writers  we  have  met 
with  ;  decidedly  the  best  we  know  of  in  these 
days.  For  clearness,  grace  of  method,  easy 
comprehensibility,  he  is  worthy  to  be  ranked 
among  the  French,  M^ho  have  a  natural  turn 
for  memoir-writing;  and  in  respect  of  honesty, 
valourous  gentleness,  and  simplicity  of  heart, 
his  character  is  German,  not  French. 

Such  a  man,  conducting  us  in  the  spirit  of 
cheerful  friendliness,  along  his  course  of  life, 
and  delineating  what  he  has  found  most  me- 
morable in  it,  produces  one  of  the  pleasantest 
books.  Brave  old  Germany,  in  this  and  the 
other  living  phasis,  now  here,  now  there,  from 
Rhineland  to  the  East-sea,  from  Hamburg  and 
Berlin  to  Deutsch-Wagram  and  the  March- 
field,  paints  itself  in  the  colours  of  reality; 
with  notable  persons,  with  notable  events 
For  consider  withal  in  what  a  time  this  man's 
life  has  lain  :  in  the  thick  of  European  things, 
while  the  Nineteenth  Century  was  opening 
itself.  Amid  convulsions  and  revolutions,  out- 
ward and  inward, — with  Napoleons,  Goethes, 
Fichtes;  while  prodigies  and  battle-thunder 
shook  the  world,  and,  "  amid  the  glare  of  con- 
flagrations, and  the  noise  of  falling  towns  and 
kingdoms,"  a  new  era  of  thought  was  also 
evolving  itself :  one  of  the  wonderfullest  times! 
On  the  whole,  if  men  like  Varnhagen  were  to 
be  met  with,  why  have  we  not  innumerable 
Memoirs  1  Alas,  it  is  because  the  men  like 
Varnhagen  are  not  to  be  met  with  ;  men  with 
the  clear  eye  and  the  open  heart.  Without 
such  qualities,  memoir-writers  are  but  a  nui- 
sance ;  which  so  often  as  they  show  them- 
selves, a  judicious  world  is  obliged  to  sweep 
into  the  cesspool,  with  loudest  possible  prohi- 
bition of  the  like.  If  a  man  is  not  open-minded, 
if  he  is  ignorant,  perverse,  egoistic,  splenetic; 
on  the  whole,  if  he  is  false  and  stupid,  how 
shall  he  write  memoirs  1 — 

From  Varnhagen's  young  years,  especially 
from  his  college  years,  we  could  extract  many 
a  lively  little  sketch,  of  figures  partially  known 
to  the  reader;  of  Chamisso,  La  Motte  Fouqu^, 
Raumer,  and  other  the  like;  of  Platonic 
Schleiermacher,  sharp,  crabbed,  shrunken, 
with  his  wire-drawn  logic,  his  sarcasms,  his 
sly  malicious  ways  ;  of  Homeric  Wolf,  with 
his  biting  wit,  with  his  grim  earnestness  and 
inextinguishable  Homeric  laugh,  the  irascible 
great-hearted  man.  Or  of  La  Fontaine,  the 
sentimental  novelist,  over  whose  rose-coloured 
moral-sublime  what  fair  eye  has  not  wept  ] 
Varnhagen  found  him  "  in  a  pleasant  house 
near  the  Saale-gate"  of  Halle,  with  an  ugly 
good-tempered  wife,  with  a  pretty  niece,  which 
latter  he  would  not  allow  to  read  a  word  of  his 
romance  stuff",  but  "kept  it  locked  from  her 
like  poison  ;"  a  man  jovial  as  Boniface,  swol- 
len out  on  booksellers'  profit,  church,  prefer- 
ments, and  fat  things,  "  to  the  size  of  a  hogs- 


VARNHAGEN  VON  ENSE'S  MEMOIRS. 


637 


head ;"  for  the  rest,  writing  with  such  velocity 
(he  did  some  hundred  and  fifty  weeping  vo- 
lumes in  his  time)  that  he  was  obliged  to  hold 
in,  and  "write  only  two  days  in  the  week;" 
this  was  La  Fontaine,  the  sentimental  novelist. 
But  omitting  all  these,  let  us  pick  out  a  fa- 
mily-picture of  one  far  better  worth  looking 
at,  Jean  Paul  in  his  little  home  at  Bai- 
reulh, — "little  city  of  my  habitation,  which  I 
belong  to  on  this  side  the  grave  !"  It  is  Sun- 
day, the  23d  of  October,  1808,  according  to 
Varnhagen's  note-book.  The  ingenious  youth 
of  four-and-twenty,  as  a  rambling  student, 
passes  the  day  of  rest  there,  and  luckily  for 
us  has  kept  memorandums  : 

"  Visit  to  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter. — This 
forenoon  I  went  to  Jean  Paul's.  Friend  Har- 
scher  was  out  of  humour,  and  would  not  go, 
say  what  I  would.  I  too,  for  that  matter,  am 
but  a  poor,  nameless  student :  but  what  of 
that? 

"A  pleasant,  kindly,  inquisitive,  woman, 
who  had  opened  the  door  to  me,  I  at  once  re- 
cognised for  Jean  Paul's  wife  by  her  likeness 
to  her  sister.  A  child  was  sent  off  to  call  its 
father.  He  came  directly :  he  had  been  for- 
warned  of  my  visit  by  letters  from  Berlin  and 
Leipsic ;  and  received  me  with  great  kindness. 
As  he  seated  himself  beside  me  on  the  sofa,  I 
had  almost  laughed  in  his  face,  for  in  bending 
down  somewhat  he  had  the  very  look  our 
Neumann,  in  his  '  Versuchen  und  Hindernis- 
sen,'  has  jestingly  given  him,  and  his  speaking 
and  what  he  spoke  confirmed  that  impression. 
Jean  Paul  is  of  stout  figure  ;  has  a  full,  well- 
ordered  face  ;  the  eyes  small,  gleaming  out  on 
you  with  lambent  fire,  then  again  veiled  in 
soft  dimness;  the  mouth  friendly,  and  with 
some  slight  motion  in  it  even  when  silent.  His 
speech  is  rapid,  almost  hasty,  even  stuttering 
somewhat  here  and  there  ;  not  without  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  dialect,  difficult  to  designate, 
but  which  probably  is  some  mixture  of  Prank- 
ish and  Saxon,  and  of  course  is  altogether 
kept  down  within  the  rules  of  cultivated  lan- 
guage. 

"  First  of  all  I  had  to  tell  him  what  I  was 
charged  with  in  the  shape  of  messages,  then 
whatsoever  I  could  tell  in  any  way,  about  his 
Berlin  friends.  He  willingly  remembered  the 
time  he  had  lived  in  Berlin,  as  Marcus  Herz's 
neighbour,  in  Leder's  house  where  I,  seven 
years  before,  had  first  seen  him  in  the  garden 
by  the  Spree,  with  papers  in  his  hand,  which 
it  was  privately  whispered  were  leaves  of 
'Hesperus.'  This  talk  about  persons,  and 
then  still  more  about  Literature  growing  out 
of  that,  set  him  fairly  underway,  and  soon  he 
had  more  to  impart  than  to  inquire.  His  con- 
versation was  throughout  amiable  and  good- 
natured,  always  full  of  meaning,  but  in  qui-te 
simple  tone  and  expression.  Though  I  knew 
beforehand  that  his  wit  and  humour  belonged 
only  to  his  pen,  that  he  could  hardly  write  the 
shortest  note  without  these  introducing  them- 
selves, while  on  the  contrary  his  oral  utterance 
seldom  showed  the  like, — yet  it  struck  me 
much  that,  in  this  continual  movement  and 
vivacity  of  mood  to  which  he  yielded  himself, 
I  observed  no  trace  of  these  qualities.  His 
demeanour  otherwise  was  like  his  speaking; 
68 


nothing  forced,  nothing  studied,  nothing  that 
went  beyond  the  burgher  tone.  His  courtesy 
was  the  free  expression  af  a  kind  heart;  his 
way  and  bearing  were  patriarchal,  considerate 
of  the  stranger,  yet  for  himself  too  altogether 
unconstrained.  Neither  in  the  animation  to 
which  some  word  or  topic  would  excite  him, 
was  this  fundamental  temper  ever  altered ; 
nowhere  did  severity  appear,  nowhere  any  ex- 
hibiting of  himself,  any  watching  or  spying  of 
his  hearer;  everywhere  kindheartedness,  free 
movement  of  his  somewhat  loose-flowing  na- 
ture, open  course  for  him,  with  a  hundred 
transitions  from  one  course  to  the  other,  how- 
soever or  whithersoever  it  seemed  good  to 
him  to  go.  At  first  he  praised  every  thing  that 
was  named  of  our  new  appearances  in  Litera- 
ture ;  and  then  when  we  came  a  little  closer 
to  the  matter,  there  was  blame  enough  and  to 
spare.  So  of  Adam  Miiller's  Lectures,  of 
Friedrich  Schlegel,  of  Tieck  and  others.  He 
said,  German  writers  ought  to  hold  by  the 
people,  not  by  the  upper  classes,  among  whom 
all  was  already  dead  and  gone;  and  yet  he  had 
just  been  praising  Adam  Miiller,  that  he  had 
the  gift  of  speaking  a  deep  word  to  cultivated 
people  of  the  world.  He  is  convinced  that, 
from  the  opening  of  the  old  Indian  world, 
nothing  is  to  be  got  for  us,  except  the  adding 
of  one  other  mode  of  jwetry  to  the  many  modes 
we  have  already,  but  no  increase  of  ideas  :  and 
yet  he  had  just  been  celebrating  Friedrich 
Schlegel's  labours  with  the  Sanscrit,  as  if  a 
new  salvation  were  to  issue  out  of  that.  He 
was  free  to  confess  that  a  right  Christian  in 
these  days,  if  not  a  Protestant  one,  was  incon- 
ceivable to  him ;  that  changing  from  Protest- 
antism to  Catholicism  seemed  a  monstrous 
perversion;  and  with  this  opinion  great  hope 
had  been  expressed,  a  few  minutes  before, 
that  the  Catholic  spirit  in  Friedrich  Schlegel, 
combined  with  the  Indian,  would  produce 
much  good !  Of  Schleiermacher  he  spoke 
with  respect ;  signified,  however,  that  he  did 
not  relish  his  'Plato'  greatly;  that  in  Jacobi's, 
in  Herder's  soaring  flight  of  soul  he  traced  far 
more  of  those  divine  old  sages  than  in  the 
learned  acumen  of  Schleiermacher;  a  deliver- 
ance which  I  could  not  let  pass  without  pro- 
test. Fichte,  of  whose  *  Addresses  to  the  Ger- 
man Nation,'  held  in  Berlin  under  the  sound 
of  French  drums,  I  had  much  to  say,  was  not 
a  favourite  of  his;  the  decisiveness  of  that 
energy  gave  him  uneasiness ;  he  said  he  could 
only  read  Fichte  as  an  exercise,  '  gymnastic- 
ally,'  and  that  with  the  purport  of  his  Philo- 
sophy he  had  now  nothing  more  to  do. 

"Jean  Paul  was  called  out,  and  I  staid 
awhile  alone  with  his  wife.  I  had  now  to 
answer  many  new  questions  about  Berlin ;  her 
interest  in  persons  and  things  of  her  native 
town  was  by  no  means  sated  with  what  she 
had  already  heard.  The  lady  pleased  me  ex- 
ceedingly; soft,  refined,  acute,  she  united  with 
the  loveliest  expression  of  household  goodness 
an  air  of  higher  breeding  and  freer  manage- 
ment than  Jean  Paul  seemed  to  manifest.  Yet, 
in  this  respect  too,  she  willingly  held  herself 
inferior,  and  looked  up  to  her  gifted  husband. 
It  was  apparent  every  way  that  their  life  toge- 
ther was  a  right  happy  one.    Their  three 


538 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


children,  a  boy  and  two  girls,  are  beautiful, 
healthy,  well-conditioned  creatures.  I  had  a 
hearty  pleasure  in  them;  they  recalled  other 
dear  children  to  my  thoughts,  whom  I  had 
lately  been  beside »     *     *     * 

"With  continual  copiousness  and  in  the 
best  humour,  Jean  Paul  (we  were  now  at 
table)  expatiated  on  all  manner  of  objects. 
Among  the  rest,  I  had  been  charged  with  a 
salutation  from  Rahel  Levin  to  him,  and  the 
modest  question,  'Whether  he  remembered 
her  still  V  His  face  beamed  with  joyful  satis- 
faction: *How  could  one  forget  such  a  per- 
son 1'  cried  he  impressively.  '  That  is  a  woman 
alone  of  her  kind:  I  liked  her  heartily  well,  and 
more  now  than  ever,  as  I  gain  in  sense  an  ap- 
prehension to  do  it;  she  is  the  only  woman  in 
whom  I  have  found  genuine  humour,  the  one 
woman  of  this  world  who  had  humour  !*  He 
called  me  a  lucky  fellow  to  have  such  a  friend ; 
and  asked,  as  if  proving  me  and  measuring 
my  value, '  How  I  had  deserved  thati* 

"  Monday,  24ith  October. — Being  invited,  I 
went  a  second  time  to  dine.  Jean  Paul  had 
just  returned  from  a  walk;  his  wife,  with  one 
of  the  children,  was  still  out.  We  came  upon 
his  writings;  that  questionable  string  with 
most  authors,  which  the  one  will  not  have  you 
touch,  which  another  will  have  you  keep 
jingling  continually.  He  was  here  what  I  ex- 
pected him  to  be ;  free,  unconstrained,  good- 
natured,  and  sincere  with  his  whole  heart. 
His  *  Dream  of  a  Madman,'  just  published  by 
Cotta,  was  what  had  led  us  upon  this.  He 
said  he  could  write  such  things  at  any  time ; 
the  mood  for  it,  when  he  was  in  health,  lay  in 
his  own  power;  he  did  but  seat  himself  at  the 
harpsichord,  and  fantasying  for  a  while  on  it, 
in  the  wildest  way,  deliver  himself  over  to  the 
feeling  of  the  moment,  and  then  write  his  ima- 
ginings,— according  to  a  certain  predetermined 
course,  indeed,  which  however  he  would  often 
alter  as  he  went  on.  In  this  kind  he  had  once 
undertaken  to  write  a  *  Hell,'  such  as  mortal 
never  heard  of;  and  a  great  deal  of  it  is  actu- 
ally done,  but  not  fit  for  print.  Speaking  of 
descriptive  composition,  he  also  started  as  in 
fright  when  I  ventured  to  say  that  Goethe  was 
less  complete  in  this  province;  he  reminded 
me  of  two  passages  in  *  Werter,'  which  are  in- 
deed among  the  finest  descriptions.  He  said 
that  to  describe  any  scene  well  the  poet  must 
make  the  bosom  of  a  man  his  camera  obscura, 
and  look  at  it  through  this,  then  would  he  see 
it  poetically.     *     * 

'*  The  conversation  turned  on  public  occur- 
rences, on  the  condition  of  Germany,  and  the 
oppressive  rule  of  the  French.  To  me  discus- 
sions of  that  sort  are  usually  disagreeable ;  but 
it  was  delightful  to  hear  Jean  Paul  express,  on 
such  occasion,  his  noble  patriotic  sentiments ; 
and  for  the  sake  of  this  rock-island  I  willingly 
swam  through  the  empty  tide  of  uncertain 
news  and  wavering  suppositions  which  envi- 
roned it.  What  he  said  was  deep,  considerate, 
hearty,  valiant,  German  to  the  marrow  of  the 
bone.  I  had  to  tell  him  much;  of  Napoleon, 
whom  he  knew  only  by  portraits ;  of  Johannes 
von  Muller;  of  Fichte,  whom  he  now  as  a 
patriot  admired  cordially;  of  the  Marquez  de 
la  Romana  and  his  Spaniards,  whom  I  had 


seen  in  Hamburgh.  Jean  Paul  said  he  at  no 
moment  doubted,  but  the  Germans,  like  the 
Spaniards,  would  one  day  rise,  and  Prussia 
would  avenge  its  disgrace,  and  free  the  coun- 
try ;  he  hoped  his  son  would  live  to  see  it,  and 
did  not  deny  that  he  was  bringing  him  up  for 
a  soldier.     *     *     • 

"  October  25M. — I  staid  to  supper,  contrary 
to  my  purpose,  having  to  set  out  next  morning 
early.  The  lady  was  so  kind,  and  Jean  Paul 
himself  so  trustful  and  blithe,  I  could  not  with- 
stand their  entreaties.  At  the  neat  and  well- 
furnished  table  (reminding  you  that  South 
Germany  was  now  near)  the  best  humour 
reigned.  Among  other  things  we  had  a  good 
laugh  at  this,  that  Jean  Paul  offered  me  an  in- 
troduction to  one  of,  what  he  called  his  dearest 
friends  in  Stuttgart, — and  then  was  obliged  to 
give  it  up,  having  irrevocably  forgotten  his 
name  I  Of  a  more  serious  sort  again  was  our 
conversation  about  Tieck,  Friedrich  and  Wil- 
helm  Schlegel,  and  others  of  the  romantic 
school.  He  seemed  in  ill  humour  with  Tieck 
at  the  moment.  Of  Goethe  he  said:  'Goethe 
is  a  consecrated  head;  he  has  a  place  of  his 
own,  high  above  us  all.'  We  spoke  of  Goethe 
afterwards  for  some  time :  Jean  Paul,  with 
more  and  more  admiration,  nay,  with  a  sort  of 
fear  and  awe-struck  reverence. 

"Some  beautiful  fruit  was  brought  in  for 
dessert.  On  a  sudden,  Jean  Paul  started  up, 
gave  me  his  hand,  and  said :  '  Forgive  me,  I 
must  go  to  bed !  Stay  you  here  in  God's  name, 
for  it  is  still  early,  and  chat  with  my  wife; 
there  is  much  to  say,  between  you,  which  my 
talking  has  kept  back.  I  am  a  Spiessburger' 
(of  the  Club  of  Odd  Fellows,)  '  and  my  hour  is 
come  for  sleep.'  He  took  a  candle,  and  said, 
good  night.  We  parted  with  great  cordiality, 
and  the  wish  expressed  on  both  sides,  that  I 
might  stay  at  Baireuth  another  time." 

These  biographic  phenomena  ;  Jean  Paul's 
loose-flowing  talk,  his  careless  variable  judg- 
ments of  men  and  things ;  the  prosaic  basis 
of  the  free-and-easy  in  domestic  life  with  the 
poetic  Shandean,  Shakspearean,  and  even 
Dantesque,  that  grew  from  it  as  its  public  out- 
come ;  all  this  Varnhagen  had  to  rhyme  and 
reconcile  for  himself  as  he  best  could.  The 
loose-flowing  talk  and  variable  judgments,  the 
fact  that  Richter  went  along,  "looking  only 
right  before  him  as  with  blinders  on,"  seemed 
to  Varnhagen  a  pardonable,  nay,  an  amiable 
peculiarity,  the  mark  of  a  trustful,  spontane- 
ous, artless  nature ;  connected  with  whatever 
was  best  in  Jean  Paul.  He  found  him  on  the 
whole  (what  we  at  a  distance  have  always 
done)  "  a  genuine  and  noble  man :  no  decep- 
tion or  impunity  exists  in  his  life:  he  is  alto- 
gether as  he  writes,  loveable,  hearty,  robust, 
and  brave.  A  valiant  man  I  do  believe :  did 
the  cause  summon,  I  fancy  he  would  be  rea- 
dier with  his  sword  too  than  the  most."  And 
so  we  quit  our  loved  Jean  Paul,  and  his  sim- 
ple little  Baireuth  home.  The  lights  are  blown 
out  there,  the  fruit  platters  swept  away,  a  do- 
zen years  ago,  and  all  is  dark  now, — swal- 
lowed in  the  long  night.  Thanks  to  Varnha- 
gen that  he  has,  though  imperfectly,  rescued 
any  glimpse  of  it,  one  scene  of  it,  still  visible 
to  eyes,  by  the  magic  of  pen  and  ink. 


VARNHAGEN  VON  ENSE'S  MEMOIRS. 


BM^ 


The  next  picture  that  strikes  us  is  not  a 
family-piece,  but  a  battle-piece:  Deutsch-Wag- 
ram,  in  the  hot  weather  of  1809;  whither 
Vamhagen,  with  a  great  change  of  place  and 
plan,  has  wended,  proposing  now  to  be  a  sol- 
dier, and  rise  by  fighting  the  tyrannous  French. 
It  is  a  fine  picture  ;  with  the  author's  best  la- 
lent  in  it.  Deutsch-Wagram  village  is  filled 
with  soldiers  of  every  uniform  and  grade ;  in 
all  manner  of  movements  and  employments  ; 
Archduke  Karl  is  heard  "fan tasying  for  an 
hour  on  the  piano-forte,"  before  his  serious  ge- 
neralissimo duties  begin.  The  Marchfeld  has 
its  camp,  the  Marchfeld  is  one  great  camp  of 
many  nations — Germans,  Hungarians,  Italians, 
Madshars;  advanced  sentinels  walk  steadily, 
drill  Serjeants  bustle,  drums  beat ;  Austrian 
generals  gallop,  "  in  blue-gray  coat  and  red 
breeches  " — combining  "  simplicity  with  con- 
spicuousness."  Faint  on  our  south-western 
horizon  appears  the  Stepham-thurm  (St.  Ste- 
phen's Steeple)  of  Vienna;  south,  over  the 
Danube,  are  seen  endless  French  hosts  defiling 
towards  us,  with  dust  and  glitter,  along  the 
hill-roads ;  one  may  hope,  though  with  mis- 
givings, there  will  be  work  soon. 

Meanwhile,  in  every  regiment  there  is  but 
one  tent,  a  chapel,  used  also  for  shelter  to  the 
chief  officers ;  you,  a  subaltern,  have  to  lie 
on  the  ground,  in  your  own  dug  trench,  to 
which,  if  you  can  contrive  it,  some  roofing 
of  branches  and  rushes  may  be  added.  It 
is  burning  sun  and  dust,  occasionally  it  is 
thunder-storm  and  water-spouts  ;  a  volunteer, 
if  it  were  not  for  the  hope  of  speedy  battle, 
has  a  poor  time  of  it:  your  soldiers  speak 
little,  except  unintelligible  Bohemian  Sclavo- 
nic ;  your  brother  ensigns  know  nothing  of 
Xenophon,  Jean  Paul,  of  patriotism,  or  the 
higher  philosophies ;  hope  only  to  be  soon 
back  at  Prague,  where  are  billiards  and  thin»gs 
suitable.  "The  following  days  were  heavy 
and  void :  the  great  summer-heat  had  withered 
the  grass  and  grove ;  the  willows  of  the  Russ- 
bach  were  long  since  leafless,  in  part  bark- 
less  ;  on  the  endless  plain  fell  nowhere  a  sha- 
dow ;  only  dim  dust-clouds,  driven  up  by 
sudden  whirlblasts,  veiled  for  a  moment  the 
glaring  sky,  and  sprinkled  all  things  with  a 
hot  rain  of  sand.  We  gave  up  drilling  as  im- 
possible, and  crept  into  our  earth-holes."  It 
is  feared,  too,  there  will  be  no  battle :  Vamha- 
gen has  thoughts  of  making  ofl^  to  the  fighting 
Duke  of  Brunswick-Oels,  or  some  other  that 
will  fight.  "  However,"  it  would  seem,  "  the 
worst  trial  was  already  over.  After  a  hot, 
wearying,  wasting  day,  which  promised  no- 
thing but  a  morrow  like  it,  there  arose  on  the 
30th  of  June,  from  beyond  the  Danube,  a 
sound  of  cannon-thunder  ;  a  solacing  refresh- 
ment to  the  languid  soul !  A  party  of  French, 
as  we  soon  learned,  had  got  across  from  the 
Lobau,  by  boats,  to  a  little  island  named  Miihle- 
ninsel,  divided  only  by  a  small  arm  from  our 
side  of  the  river ;  they  had  then  thrown  a 
bridge  over  this  too,  with  defences ;  our  bat- 
teries at  Esslingen  were  for  hindering  the  ene- 
my's passing  there,  and  his  nearest  cannons 
about  the  Lobau  made  answer."  On  the  fourth 
day  after, 
"Archduke  John   got   orders  to    advance 


again  as  far  as  Marcheck ;  that,  in  the  event 
of  a  battle  on  the  morrow,  he  might  act  on  the 
enemy's  right  flank.  With  us  too  a  resolute 
engagement  was  arranged.  On  the  4th  of 
July,  in  the  evening,  we  were  ordered,  if  there 
was  cannonading  in  the  night,  to  remain  quiet 
till  daybreak ;  but  at  daybreak  to  be  under 
arms.  Accordingly,  so  soon  as  it  was  dark, 
there  began  before  us,  on  the  Danube,  a  vio- 
lent fire  of  artillery  ;  the  sky  glowed  ever  and 
anon  with  the  cannon  flashes,  with  the  courses 
of  bombs  and  grenadoes :  for  nearly  two  hours 
this  thunder-game  lasted  on  both  sides;  for 
the  French  had  begun  their  attack  almost  at 
the  same  time  with  ours,  and  while  we  were 
striving  to  ruin  their  works  on  the  Jjobauj 
they  strove  to  burn  Enzersdorf  town,  and  ruin 
ours.  The  Austrian  cannon  could  do  little 
against  the  strong  works  on  the  Lobau.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  enemy's  attack  began  to 
tell ;  in  his  object  was  a  wider  scope,  more 
decisive  energy ;  his  guns  were  more  nume- 
rous, more  effectual :  in  a  short  time  Enzers- 
dorf burst  out  in  flamCvS,  and  our  artillery- 
struggled  without  effect  against  their  superi- 
ority of  force.  The  region  round  had  been 
illuminated  for  some  time  with  the  conflagra- 
tion of  that  little  town,  when  the  sky  grew 
black  with  heavy  thunder:  the  rain  poured 
down,  the  flames  dwindled,  the  artillery  fired 
seldomer,  and  at  length  fell  silent  altogether. 
A  frightful  thunder-storm,  such  as  no  one 
thought  he  had  ever  seen,  now  raged  over  the 
broad  Marchfeld,  which  shook  with  the  crash- 
ing of  the  thunder,  and,  in  the  pour  of  rain- 
floods  and  howl  of  winds,  was  in  such  a  roar, 
that  even  the  artillery  could  not  have  been 
heard  in  it." 

On  the  morrow  morning,  in  spite  of  Austria 
and  the  war  of  elements.  Napoleon,  with  his 
endless  hosts,  and  "  six  hundred  pieces  of  ar- 
tillery" in  front  of  them,  is  across,  advancing 
like  a  conflagration,  and  soon  the  whole  March- 
feld, far  and  wide,  is  in  a  blaze. 

"Ever  stronger  batteries  advanced,  ever 
larger  masses  of  troops  came  into  action  ;  the 
whole  line  blazed  with  fire,  and  moved  for- 
ward and  forward.  We,  from  our  higher  po- 
sition, had  hitherto  looked  at  the  evolutions 
and  fightings  before  us,  as  at  a  show;  but  now 
the  battle  had  got  nigher;  the  air  over  us  sang 
with  cannon-balls,  which  were  lavishly  hurled 
at  us,  and  soon  our  batteries  began  to  bellow 
in  answer.  The  infantry  got  orders  to  lie  flat 
on  the  ground,  and  the  enemy's  balls  at  first 
did  little  execution  ;  however,  as  they  kept  in- 
cessantly advancing,  the  regiments  ere  long 
stood  to  their  arms.  The  Archduke  General- 
issimo, with  his  staff,  came  galloping  along, 
drew  bridle  in  front  of  us  ;  he  gave  his  com- 
mands ;  looked  down  into  the  plain,  where  the 
French  still  kept  advancing.  You  saw  by  his 
face  that  he  heeded  not  danger  or  death,  that 
he  lived  altogether  in  his  work ;  his  whole 
bearing  had  got  a  more  impressive  aspect,  a 
loftier  determination,  full  of  joyous  courage, 
which  he  seemed  to  diffuse  round  him;  the 
soldiers  looked  at  him  with  pride  and  trust, 
many  voices  saluted  him.  He  had  ridden  a 
little  towards  Baumersdorf,  when  an  adjutant 
came  galloping  back,  and  cried:  "Volunteers 


540 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


forward !"  In  an  instant,  almost  the  whole 
company  of  Captain  Marais  stept  out  as  vo- 
lunteers :  we  fancied  it  was  to  storm  the  ene- 
my's nearest  battery,  which  was  advancing 
through  the  corn-fields  in  front;  and  so,  cheer- 
ing with  loud  shout,  we  hastened  down  the  de- 
clivity, when  a  second  adjutant  came  in  with 
the  order  that  we  were  but  to  occupy  the 
Russbach,  defend  the  passage  of  it,  and  not  to 
fire  till  the  enemy  was  quite  close.  Scattering 
ourselves  into  skirmishing  order,  behind  wil- 
low-trunks, and  high  corn,  we  waited  with 
firelocks  ready;  covered  against  cannon-balls, 
but  hit  by  musket  shots  and  howitzer  grenades, 
which  the  enemy  sent  in  great  numbers  to  our 
quarter.  About  an  hour  we  waited  here,  in 
the  incessant  roar  of  the  artillery,  which  shot 
both  ways  over  our  heads ;  with  regret  we  soon 
remarked  that  the  enemy's  were  superior,  at 
least,  in  number,  and  delivered  twice  as  many 
shots  as  ours,  which,  however,  was  far  better 
served;  the  more  did  we  admire  the  active 
zeal  and  valorous  endurance  by  which  the 
unequal  match  was  nevertheless  maintained. 

"The  Emperor  Napoleon  meanwhile  saw, 
with  impatience,  the  day  passing  on  without  a 
decisive  result;  he  had  calculated  on  striking 
the  blow  at  once,  and  his  great  accumulated 
force  was  not  to  have  directed  itself  all  hither- 
ward  in  vain.  Rapidly  he  arranged  his  troops 
for  storming.  Marshal  Bernadotte  got  orders 
to  press  forward,  over  Atterkla,  towards  Wa- 
gram ;  and,  by  taking  this  place,  break  the 
middle  of  the  Austrian  line.  Two  deep  storm- 
ing columns  were  at  the  same  time  to  advance, 
on  the  right  and  left,  from  Baumersdorf  over 
the  Russbach ;  to  scale  the  heights  of  the  Aus- 
trian position,  and  sweep  away  the  troops 
there.  French  infantry  had,  in  the  mean  while, 
got  up  close  to  where  we  stood;  we  skirmish- 
ers were  called  back  from  the  Russbach,  and 
again  went  into  the  general  line ;  along  the 
whole  extent  of  which  a  dreadful  fire  of  mus- 
ketry now  began.  This  monstrous  noise  of 
the  universal,  never-ceasing  crack  of  shots, 
and  still  more,  that  of  the  infinite  jingle  of  iron, 
in  handling  more  than  twenty  thousand  mus- 
kets, all  crowded  together  here,  was  the  only 
new  and  entirely  strange  impression  that  I,  in 
these  my  first  experiences  in  war,  could  say  I 
had  got ;  all  the  rest  was  in  part  conformable 
to  my  preconceived  notion,  in  part  even  below 
it:  but  every  thing,  the  thunder  of  artillery 
never  so  numerous,  every  noise,  I  had  heard 
or  figured,  was  trifling,  in  comparison  with 
this  continuous  storm-tumult  of  the  small 
arms,  as  we  call  them — that  weapon  by  which 
indeed  our  modern  battles  do  chiefly  become 
deadly." 

What  boots  iti  Ensign  Varnhagen  and 
Generalissimo  Archduke  Karl  are  beaten ; 
have  to  retreat  in  the  best  possible  order. — 
The  sun  of  Wagram  sets  as  that  of  Austerlitz 
had  done ;  the  war  has  to  end  in  submission 
and  marriage ;  and,  as  the  great  Atlantic  tide- 
stream  rushes  into  every  creek  and  alters  the 
current  there,  so  for  our  Varnhagen  too  a  new 
chapter  opens — the  diplomatic  one,  in  Paris 
first  of  all.  Varnhagen's  experiences  "  At  the 
Court  of  Napoleon,"  as  one  of  his  sections  is 
headed,  are  extremely  entertaining.    They  are 


tragical,  comical,  of  mixed  character ;  always 
dramatic,  and  vividly  given.  We  have  a 
grand  Schwartzen berg  Festival,  and  the  Em- 
peror himself,  and  all  high  persons  present  in 
grand  gala,  with  music,  light,  and  crowned 
goblets,  in  a  wooden  pavilion,  with  upholstery 
and  draperies :  a  rag  of  drapery  flutters  the 
wrong  way  athwart  some  wax-light,  shrivels 
itself  up  in  quick  fire,  kindles  the  other  drape- 
ries, kindles  the  gums  and  woods,  and  all 
blazes  into  swift  choking  ruin ;  a  beautiful 
Princess  Schwartzenberg,  lost  in  the  mad  tu- 
mult, is  found  on  the  morrow  as  ashes  amid 
the  ashes  !  Then  also  there  are  soirees  of  Im- 
perial notabilities;  "the  gentlemen  walking 
about  in  varied  talk,  wherein  you  detect  a  cer- 
tain cautiousness;  the  ladies  all  solemnly 
ranged  in  their  chairs,  rather  silent  for  ladies." 
Berthier  is  a  "man  of  composure,"  not  without 
higher  capabilities.  Denon,  in  spite  of  his 
kind  speeches,  produces  an  ill  eflfect  on  one  ; 
and  in  his  habit  habile,  with  court-rapier  and 
lace-cufl^s,  " looks  like  a  dizened  ape"  Car- 
dinal Maury  in  red  stockings,  he  that  was 
once  Abbe  Maury,  "pet  son  of  the  scarlet 
woman,"  whispers  diplomatically  in  your  ear, 
in  passing.  Nous  avons  beaucoup  de  joie  de  vous 
voir  id.  But  the  thing  that  will  best  of  all  suit 
us  here,  is  the  presentation  to  Napoleon  him- 
self: 

"On  Sunday,  the  22d  of  July,  (1810,)  was 
to  be  the  Emperor's  first  levee  after  that  fatal 
occurrence  of  the  fire;  and  we  were  told  it 
would  be  uncommonly  fine  and  grand.  In 
Berlin  I  had  often  accidentally  seen  Napoleon, 
and  afterwards  at  Vienna  and  Schonbrunn; 
but  always  too  far  off  for  a  right  impression 
of  him.  At  Prince  Schwartzenberg's  festival, 
the  look  of  the  man,  in  that  whirl  of  horrible 
occurrences,  had  elTaced  itself  again.  I  as- 
sume, therefore,  that  I  saw  him  for  the  first 
time  now,  when  I  saw  him  rightly,  near  at 
hand,  with  convenience,  and  a  sufficient  length 
of  time.  The  frequent  opportunities  I  after- 
wards had,  in  the  Tuileries  and  at  St.  Cloud, 
(in  the  latter  place  especially,  at  the  brilliant 
theatre,  open  only  to  the  Emperor  and  his 
guests,  where  Talma,  Fleury,  and  La  Raucourt 
figured,)  did  but  confirm,  and,  as  it  were,  com- 
plete that  first  impression. 

"  We  had  driven  to  the  Tuileries,  and  ar- 
rived through  a  great  press  of  guards  and 
people  at  a  chamber,  of  which  I  had  already 
heard,  under  the  name  of  Salle  des  Jmbassa- 
deurs.  The  Avay  in  which,  here  in  this  narrow 
ill-furnished  pen,  so  many  high  personages 
stood  jammed  together,  had  something  ludi- 
crous and  insulting  in  it,  and  was  indeed  the 
material  of  many  a  Paris  jest. — The  richest 
uniforms  and  court  dresses  were,  with  difli- 
culty  and  anxiety,  struggling  hitherward  and 
thitherward ;  intermixed  with  Imperial  liveries 
of  men  handing  refreshments,  who  always,  by 
the  near  peril,  suspended  every  motion  of 
those  about  them.  The  talk  was  loud  and  vi- 
vacious on  all  sides;  people  seeking  acquaint- 
ances, seeking  more  room,  seeking  better  light. 
Seriousness  of  mood,  and  dignified  concentra- 
tion of  oneself,  seemed  foreign  to  all ;  and  what 
a  man  could  not  bring  with  him,  there  was 
nothing  here  to  produce.    The  whole  matter 


VARNHAGEN  VON  ENSE'S  MEMOIRS. 


5«t 


had  a  distressful,  offensive  air;  you  found 
yourself  ill  off,  and  waited  out  of  humour.  My 
look,  however,  dwelt  with  especial  pleasure  on 
the  members  of  our  Austrian  Embassy,  whose 
bearing  and  demeanour  did  not  discredit  the 
dignity  of  the  old  Imperial  house. — Prince 
Schwartzenberg,  in  particular,  had  a  stately 
aspect;  ease  without  negligence,  gravity  with- 
out assumption,  and  over  all  an  honest  good- 
ness of  expression ;  beautifully  contrasted 
with  the  smirking  saloon-activity,  the  perked 
up  courtierism  and  pretentious  nullity  of  many 
here.     *     *     * 

♦'  At  last  the  time  came  for  going  up  to  au- 
dience. On  the  first  announcement  of  it,  all 
rushed  without  order  towards  the  door;  you 
squeezed  along,  you  pushed  and  shoved  your 
neighbour  without  ceremony.  Chamberlains, 
pages,  and  guards,  filled  the  passages  and 
ante-chamber ;  restless,  overdone  oflSciousness 
struck  you  here  too ;  the  soldiers  seemed  the 
only  figures  that  knew  how  to  behave  in  their 
business, — and  this,  truly,  they  had  learned, 
not  at  Court,  but  from  their  drill-sergeants. 

"We  had  formed  ourselves  into  a  half-cir- 
cle in  the  Audience  Hall,  and  got  placed  in 
several  crowded  ranks,  when  the  cry  of 
'  VEmpereur!'  announced  the  appearance  of 
Napoleon,  who  entered  from  the  lower  side  of 
the  apartment.  In  simple  blue  uniform,  his 
little  hat  under  his  arm,  he  walked  heavily  to- 
wards us.  His  bearing  seemed  to  me  to  ex- 
press the  contradiction  between  a  will  that 
would  attain  something,  and  a  contempt  for 
those  by  whom  it  was  to  be  attained.  An  im- 
posing appearance  he  would  undoubtedly  have 
liked  to  have ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him  not 
worth  the  trouble  of  acquiring ;  acquiring,  I 
may  say,  for  by  nature  he  certainly  had  it  not. 
Thus  there  alternated  in  his  manner  a  negli- 
gence and  a  studiedness,  which  combined 
themselves  only  in  unrest  and  dissatisfaction. 
He  turned  first  to  the  x\ustrian  Embassy, 
which  occupied  one  extremity  of  the  half- 
circle.  The  consequences  of  the  unlucky  fes- 
tival gave  occasion  to  various  questions  and 
remarks.  The  Emperor  sought  to  appear 
sympathetic,  he  even  used  words  of  emotion ; 
but  this  tone  by  no  means  succeeded  with  him, 
and  accordingly  he  soon  let  it  drop.  To  the 
Russian  Ambassador,  Kurakin,  who  stood 
next,  his  manner  had  already  changed  into  a 
rougher;  and  in  his  farther  progress  some  face 
or  some  thought  must  have  stung  him,  for  he 
got  into  violent  anger ;  broke  stormfully  out  on 
some  one  or  other,  not  of  the  most  important 
there,  whose  name  has  now  escaped  me; 
could  be  pacified  with  no  answer,  but  demand- 
ed always  new;  rated  and  threatened,  and  held 
the  poor  man,  for  a  good  space,  in  tormenting 
annihilation.  Those  who  stood  nearer,  and 
were  looking  at  this  scene,  not  without  anx- 
ieties of  their  own,  declared  afterwards  that 
there  was  no  cause  at  all  for  such  fury ;  that 
the  Emperor  had  merely  been  seeking  an  op- 
portunity to  vent  his  ill  humour,  and  had  done 
so  even  intentionally  on  this  poor  wight,  that 
all  the  rest  might  be  thrown  into  due  terror, 
and  every  opposition  beforehand  beaten  down. 

"As  he  walked  on,  he  again  endeavoured  to 
speak  more  mildly;  but  his  jarred  humour 


still  sounded  through.  His  words  were  short, 
hasty,  as  if  shot  from  him,  and  on  the  most  in- 
different matters  had  a  passionate  rapidity; 
nay,  when  he  wished  to  be  kindly,  it  still 
sounded  as  if  he  were  in  anger.  Such  a  raspy, 
untamed  voice  as  that  of  his  I  have  hardly 
heard. 

"  His  eyes  were  dark,  overclouded,  fixed  on 
the  ground  before  him;  and  only  glanced 
backwards  in  side-looks  now  and  then,  swift 
and  sharp,  on  the  persons  there.  When  he 
smiled,  it  was  but  the  mouth  and  a  part  of  the 
cheeks  that  smiled  ;  brow  and  eyes  remained 
gloomily  motionless.  If  he  constrained  these 
also,  as  I  have  subsequently  seen  him  do,  his 
countenance  took  a  still  more  distorted  expres- 
sion. This  union  of  gloom  and  smile  had 
something  frightfully  repulsive  in  it.  I  know 
not  what  to  think  of  the  people  who  have 
called  this  countenance  gracious,  and  its  kind- 
liness attractive.  Were  not  his  features, 
though  undeniably  beautiful  in  the  plastic 
sense,  yet  hard  and  rigourous  like  marble; 
foreign  to  all  trust,  incapable  of  any  hearti- 
ness'? 

"What  he  said,  whenever  I  heard  him 
speaking,  was  always  trivial  both  in  purport 
and  phraseology ;  without  spirit,  without  wit, 
without  force,  nay,  at  times,  quite  poor  and 
ridiculous.  Faber,  in  his  'Notices  sur  ITn- 
terieur  de  la  France,'  has  spoken  expressly 
of  his  questions,  those  questions  which  Na- 
poleon was  wont  to  prepare  before-hand  for 
certain  persons  and  occasions,  to  gain  credit 
thereby  for  acuteness  and  special  knowledge. 
This  is  literally  true  of  a  visit  he  had  made  a 
short  while  before  to  the  great  Library :  all 
the  way  on  the  stairs  he  kept  calling  out  about 
that  passage  in  Josephus  where  Jesus  is  made 
mention  of;  and  seemed  to  have  no  other  task 
here  but  that  of  showing  off  this  bit  of  learn- 
ing ;  it  had  altogether  the  air  of  a  question  got 
by  heart.  *  *  *  His  gift  lay  in  saying  things 
sharp,  or  at  least  unpleasant ;  nay,  when  he 
wanted  to  speak  in  another  sort,  he  often  made 
no  more  of  it  than  insignificance:  thus  it  be- 
fel  once,  as  I  myself  witnessed  in  Saint-Cloud, 
he  went  through  a  whole  row  of  ladies,  and 
repeated  twenty  times  merely  these  three 
words,  "  II.  fait  chaud"     *     *     * 

"  At  this  time  there  circulated  a  song  on  his 
second  marriage ;  a  piece  composed  in  the 
lowest  popular  tone,  but  which  doubtless  had 
originated  in  the  higher  classes.  Napoleon 
saw  his  power  and  splendour  stained  by  a 
ballad,  and  breathed  revenge;  but  the  police 
could  no  more  detect  the  author  than  they 
could  the  circulators.  To  me  among  others  a 
copy,  written  in  a  bad  hand  and  without  name, 
had  been  sent  by  the  city  post ;  I  had  privately 
with  friends  amused  myself  over  the  bur- 
lesque, and  knew  it  by  heart.  Altogether  at 
the  wrong  time,  exactly  as  the  Emperor, 
gloomy  and  sour  of  humour,  was  now  passing 
me,  the  words  and  tune  of  that  song  came  into 
my  head  ;  and  the  more  I  strove  to  drive  them 
back,  the  more  decidedly  they  forced  them- 
selves forward ;  so  that  my  imagination,  ex- 
cited by  the  very  frightfulness  of  the  thing, 
was  getting  giddy,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of 
breaking  forth  into  the  deadliest  ofi'ence,— 
2  Z 


54S 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


when  happily  the  audience  came  to  an  end ; 
and  deep  repeated  bows  accompanied  the  exit 
of  Napoleon ;  who  to  me  had  addressed  none 
of  his  words,  but  did,  as  he  passed,  turn  on  me 
one  searching  glance  of  the  eye,  with  the  de- 
parture of  which  it  seemed  as  if  a  real  danger 
had  vanished. 

"The  Emperor  gone,  all  breathed  free,  as 
if  disloaded  from  a  heavy  burden.  By  degrees 
the  company  again  grew  loud,  and  then  went 
over  altogether  into  the  noisy  disorder  and 
haste  which  had  ruled  at  the  commencement. 
The  French  courtiers  especially  took  pains  to 
redeem  their  late  downbent  and  terrified  bear 
ing  by  a  free  jocularity  now ;  and  even  in  de 
scending  the  stairs  there  arose  laughter  and 
quizzing  at  the  levee,  the  solemnity  of  which 
had  ended  here." 

Such  was  Varnhagen  von  Ense's  presenta- 
tion to  Napoleon  Bonaparte  in  the  Palace  of 
the  Tuileries.  What  Varnhagen  saw  remains 
a  possession  for  him  and  for  us.  The  judg- 
ment he  formed  on  what  he  saw  will — depend 
upon  circumstances.  For  the  eye  of  the  in- 
tellect "  sees  in  all  objects  what  it  brought 
with  it  the  means  of  seeing."  Napoleon  is  a 
man  of  the  sort  which  Varnhagen  elsewhere 
calls  daimonisch,  a  "  demonic  man ;"  whose 
meaning  or  magnitude  is  not  very  measurable 
by  men  ;  who,  with  his  ownness  of  impulse  and 
insight,  with  his  mystery  and  strength,  in  a 
word,  with  his  originality,  (if  we  will  under- 
stand that,)  reaches  down  into  the  region  of  the 
perennial  and  primeval,  of  the  inarticulate  and 
unspeakable ;  concerning  whom  innumerable 
things  may  be  said,  and  the  right  thing  not 
said  for  a  long  while,  or  at  all.  We  will  leave 
him  standing  on  his  own  basis,  at  present; 
bullying  the  hapless,  obscure  functionary 
there ;  declaring  to  all  the  world  the  meteoro 
logical  fact,  E  fait  chaud. 

Varnhagen,  as  we  see,  has  many  things  to 
write  about ;  but  the  thing  which  beyond  all 
others  he  rejoices  to  write  about,  and  would 
gladly  sacrifice  all  the  rest  to,  is  the  memory 
of  Rahel,  his  deceased  wife.  Mysterious  indi- 
cations have  of  late  years  flitted  round  us,  con- 
cerning a  certain  Rahel,  a  kind  of  spiritual 
queen  in  Germany,  who  seems  to  have  lived 
in  familiar  relation  to  most  of  the  distinguish- 
ed persons  of  that  country  in  her  time.  Travel- 
lers to  Germany,  now  a  numerous  sect  with 
us,  ask  you  as  they  return  from  aesthetic  capi- 
tals and  circles,  "Do  you  know  RaheH" 
Marquis  Custine,  in  the  "Revue  de  Paris," 
(treating  of  this  book  of  "  Rahel's  Letters,") 
says,  by  experience:  "She  was  a  woman  as 
extraordinary  as  Madame  de  Stael,  for  her 
faculties  of  mind,  for  her  abundance  of  ideas, 
her  light  of  soul,  and  her  goodness  of  heart: 
she  had,  moreover,  what  the  author  of 
*Corinne'  did  not  pretend  to,  a  disdain  for 
oratory;  she  did  not  write.  The  silence  of 
minds  like  hers  is  a  force  too.  With  more 
vanity,  a  person  so  superior  would  have 
sought  to  make  a  public  for  herself:  but 
Rahel  desired  only  friends.  She  spoke  to 
communicate  the  life  that  was  in  her;  never 
did  she  speak  to  be  admired."  Goethe  testi- 
fies that  she  is  a  "  right  woman ;  with  the 


strongest  feelings  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the 
completest  mastery  of  them."  Richter  ad- 
dresses her  by  the  title  geflilgelte,  "  winged 
one."     Such  a  Rahel  might  be  worth  knowing. 

We  find,  on  practical  inquiry,  that  Rahel 
was  of  Berlin  ;  by  birth  a  Jewess,  in  easy  not 
afiiuent  circumstances ;  who  lived,  mostly 
there,  from  1771  to  1833.  That  her  youth 
passed  in  studies,  struggles,  disappointed  pas- 
sions, sicknesses,  and  other  sufferings  and  vi- 
vacities to  which  one  of  her  excitable  organi- 
zation was  liable.  That  she  was  deep  in 
many  spiritual  provinces,  in  poetry,  in  art,  in 
philosophy ; — the  first,  for  instance,  or  one  of 
the  first  to  recognise  the  significance  of 
Goethe,  and  teach  the  Schlegels  to  do  it.  That 
she  wrote  nothing;  but  thought,  did,  and 
spoke,  many  things,  which  attracted  notice, 
admiration  spreading  wider  and  wider.  That 
in  1814  she  became  the  wife  of  Varnhagen ; 
the  loved  wife,  though  her  age  was  forty-three, 
exceeding  his  by  some  twelve  years  or  more, 
and  she  could  never  boast  of  beauty.  That 
without  beauty,  without  wealth,  foreign  ce- 
lebrity, or  any  artificial  nimbus  whatsoever,, 
she  had  grown  in  her  silently  progressive  way 
to  be  the  most  distinguished  woman  in  Berlin; 
admired,  partly  worshipped  by  all  manner  of 
high  persons,  from  Prince  Louis  of  Prussia 
downwards;  making  her  mother's,  and  then 
her  husband's  house  the  centre  of  an  alto- 
gether brilliant  circle  there.  This  is  the 
"  social  phenomenon  of  Rahel."  What  farther 
could  be  readily  done  to  understand  such  a 
social  phenomenon  we  have  endeavoured  to 
do ;  with  what  success  the  reader  shall  see. 

First  of  all,  we  have  looked  at  the  Portrait 
of  Rahel  given  in  these  volumes.  It  is  a  face 
full  of  thought,  of  aflfection,  and  energy ;  with 
no  pretensions  to  beauty,  yet  loveable  and  at- 
tractive in  a  singular  degree.  The  strong 
high  brow  and  still  eyes  are  full  of  contempla- 
tion ;  the  long  upper  lip  (sign  of  genius,  some 
say)  protrudes  itself  to  fashion  a  curved 
mouth,  condemnable  in  academies,  yet  beauti- 
fully expressive  of  laughter  and  affection,  of 
strong  endurance,  of  noble  silent  scorn ;  the 
whole  countenance  looking  as  with  cheerful 
clearness  through  a  world  of  great  pain  and 
disappointment ;  one  of  those  faces  which  the 
lady  meant  when  she  said,  "But  are  not  all 
beautiful  faces  ugly,  then,  to  begin  with  ]"  In 
the  next  place,  we  have  read  diligently  what- 
soever we  could  anywhere  find  written  about 
Rahel ;  and  have  to  remark  here  that  the  things 
written  about  her,  unlike  some  things  written 
by  her,  are  generally  easy  to  read.  Varnha- 
gen's  account  of  their  intercourse  ;  of  his  first 
young  feelings  towards  her,  his  long  waiting, 
and  final  meeting  of  her  in  snowy  weather 
under  the  Lindens,  in  company  with  a  lady 
whom  he  knew,  his  tremulous  speaking  to  her 
there,  the  rapid  progress  of  their  intimacy ; 
and  so  onwards,  to  love,  to  marriage:  all  this 
is  touching  and  beautiful ;  a  Petrarcan  ro- 
mance, and  yet  a  reality  withal. 

Finally,  we  have  read  in  these  three  thick 
volumes  of  Letters, — till  in  the  second  thick  vo- 
lume, the  reading  faculty  unhappily  broke 
down,  and  had  to  skip  largely  thenceforth, 
only  diving  here  and  there  at  a  venture  with 


VARNHAGEN  VON  ENSE'S  MEMOIRS. 


643 


considerable  intervals !  Such  is  the  melan- 
choly fact.  It  must  be  urged  in  defence  that 
these  volumes  are  of  the  toughest  reading; 
calculated,  as  we  said  for  Germany,  rather  than 
for  England  or  us.  To  be  written  with  such 
indisputable  marks  of  ability,  nay  of  genius, 
of  depth  and  sincerity,  they  are  the  heaviest 
business  we  perhaps  ever  met  with.  The  truth 
is,  they  do  not  suit  us  at  all.  They  are  subjec- 
tive letters,  what  the  metaphysicians  call  sub- 
jective, not  objective ;  the  grand  material  of  them 
is  endless  depicturing  of  moods,  sensations, 
miseries,  joys,  and  lyrical  conditions  of  the 
writer;  no  definite  picture  drawn,  or  rarely 
any,  of  persons,  transactions,  or  events  which 
the  writer  stood  amidst :  a  wrong  material,  as 
it  seems  to  us.  To  what  end  1  To  what  end  1 
we  always  ask.  Not  by  looking  at  itself,  but 
by  looking  at  things  out  of  itself,  and  ascer- 
taining and  ruling  these,  shall  the  mind  become 
known.  "  One  thing  above  all  other,"  says 
Goethe  once,  "  I  have  never  thought  about  think- 
ing.^' What  a  thrift  almost  of  itself  equal  to  a 
fortune  in  these  days :  "  habe  nie  ans  Benken 
gedacht!"  But  how  much  wastefuUer  still  it  is 
to  feel  about  Feeling!  One  is  wearied  of  that; 
the  healthy  soul  avoids  that.  Thou  shalt  look 
outward,  not  inward.  Gazing  inward  on  one's 
own  self, — why,  this  can  drive  one  mad,  like 
the  monks  of  Athos,  if  at  last  too  long.  Un- 
profitable writing  this  subjective  sort  does  seem  ; 
— at  all  events,  to  the  present  reviewer,  no  read- 
ing is  so  insupportable.  Nay,  we  ask,  might 
not  the  world  be  entirely  deluged  by  it,  unless 
prohibited  1  Every  mortal  is  a  microcosm ;  to 
himself  a  macrocosm,  or  universe  large  as 
nature ;  universal  nature  would  barely  hold 
what  he  could  say  about  himself.  Not  a  dys- 
peptic tailor  on  any  shopboard  of  this  city  but 
could  furnish  all  England,  the  year  through, 
with  reading  about  himself,  about  his  emotions, 
and  internal  mysteries  of  wo  and  sensibility, 
if  England  ^ould  read  him.  It  is  a  course 
which  leads  nowhither ;  a  course  which  should 
be  avoided. 

Add  to  all  this,  that  such  self-utterance  on  the 
part  of  Rahel,  in  these  letters,  is  in  the  highest 
degree  vapourous,  vague.  Her  very  mode  of 
writing  is  complex,  nay,  is  careless,  incondite ; 
with  dashes  and  splashes,  with  notes  of  admi- 
ration, of  interrogation,  (nay,  both  together 
sometimes,)  with  involutions,  abruptness, 
whirls,  and  tortuosities ;  so  that  even  the 
grammatical  meaning  is  altogether  burden- 
some to  seize.  And  then  when  seized,  alas,  it 
is  as  we  say,  of  due  likeness  to  the  phraseo- 
logy ;  a  thing  crude,  not  articulated  into  pro- 
positions, but  flowing  out  as  in  bursts  of  inter- 
jection and  exclamation.  No  wonder  the 
reading  faculty  breaks  down !  And  yet  we 
do  gather  gold  grains  and  precious  thought 
here  and  there  ;  though  out  of  large  wastes  of 
sand  and  quicksand.  In  fine,  it  becomes  clear, 
beyond  doubting,  both  that  this  Rahel  was  a 
woman  of  rare  gifts  and  worth,  a  woman  of 
true  genius ;  and  also  that  her  genius  has 
passed  away,  and  left  no  impress  of  itself 
there  for  us.  These  printed  volumes  produce 
the  efllect  not  of  speech,  but  of  multifarious, 
confused  wind-music.  It  seems  to  require 
the  aid  of  pantomime,  to  tell  us  what  it  means. 


But  after  all,  we  can  understand  how  talk  of 
that  kind,  in  an  expressive  mouth,  with  bright 
deep  eyes,  and  the  vivacity  of  social  move- 
ment, of  question  and  response,  may  have  been 
delightful ;  and  moreover  that,  for  those  to 
whom  they  vividly  recall  such  talk,  these  letters 
may  still  be  delightful.  Hear  Marquis  de  Cus- 
tine  a  little  farther : 

"  You  could  not  speak  with  her  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  without  drawing  from  that  fountain 
of  light  a  shower  of  sparkles.  The  comic 
was  at  her  command  equally  with  the  highest 
degree  of  the  sublime.  The  proof  that  she 
was  natural  is,  that  she  understood  laughter  as 
she  did  grief;  she  took  it  as  a  readier  means 
of  showing  truth ;  all  had  its  resonance  in  her, 
and  her  manner  of  receiving  the  impressions 
which  you  wished  to  communicate  to  her  mo- 
dified them  in  yourself:  you  loved  her  at  first 
because  she  had  admirable  gifts ;  and  then, 
what  prevailed  over  every  thing,  because  she 
was  entertaining.  She  was  nothing  for  you, 
or  she  was  all ;  and  she  could  be  all  to  several 
at  a  time  without  exciting  jealousy,  so  much 
did  her  noble  nature  participate  in  the  source 
of  all  life,  of  all  clearness.  When  one  has  lost 
in  youth  such  friend,"  &c.,  &c. ..."  It  seems  to 
me  you  might  define  her  in  one  word;  she  had 
the  head  of  a  sage  and  the  heart  of  an  apostle, 
and  in  spite  of  that,  she  was  a  child  and  a 
woman  as  much  as  any  one  can  be.  Her  mind 
penetrated  into  the  obscurest  depths  of  nature; 
she  was  a  thinker  of  as  much  and  more  clear- 
ness than  our  Theosophist  Saint  Martin,  whom 
she  comprehended  and  admired ;  and  she  felt 
like  an  artist.  Her  perceptions  were  always 
double;  she  attained  the  sublimest  truths  by 
two  faculties  which  are  incompatible  in  ordi- 
nary men,  by  feeling  and  by  reflection.  Her 
friends  asked  of  themselves, — Whence  came 
these  flashes  of  genius  which  she  threw  from 
her  in  conversation?  Was  it  theefiectof  long 
studies  1  Was  it  the  efiect  of  sudden  inspir 
rations  1  It  was  the  intuition  granted  as  re- 
compense by  Heaven  to  souls  that  are  true. 
These  martyr  souls  wrestle  for  the  truth,  which 
they  have  a  forecast  of;  they  suffer  for  the  God 
whom  they  love,  and  their  whole  life  is  the 
school  of  eternity."* 

This  enthusiastic  testimony  of  the  clever  sen- 
timental marquis  is  not  at  all  incredible  to  us, 
in  its  way :  yet  from  these  letters  we  have  no- 
thing whatever  to  produce  that  were  adequate 
to  make  it  good.  As  was  said  alread}',  it  is 
not  to  be  made  good  by  excerpts  and  written 
documents ;  its  proof  rests  in  the  memory  of 
living  witnesses.  Meanwhile,  from  these  same 
wastes  of  sand,  and  even  of  quicksand  danger- 
ous to  linger  in,  we  will  try  to  gather  a  few 
grains  the  most  like  gold,  that  it  may  be  guessed, 
by  the  charitable,  whether  or  not  a  Pactolus 
once  flowed  there  : 

"  If  there  be  miracles,  they  are  those  that 
are  in  our  breast ;  what  we  do  not  know,  we 
call  by  that  name.  How  astonished,  almost 
how  ashamed  are  we,  when  the  inspired  mo- 
ment comes,  and  we  get  to  know  them  !" 

"  One  is  late  in  learning  to  lie  :  and  late  in 
learning  to  speak  the  truth." — "  I  cannot,  be- 

•♦•  Revue  de  Parifl,"  Novembre,  1837. 


644 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


cause  I  cannot  lie.  Fancy  not  that  I  take 
credit  for  it :  I  cannot,  just  as  one  cannot  play 
upon  the  flute." 

"In  the  meanest  hut  is  a  romance,  if  you 
knew  the  hearts  there." 

"So  long  as  we  do  not  take  even  the  injus- 
tice which  is  done  us,  and  which  forces  the 
burning  tears  from  us;  so  long  as  we  do  not 
take  even  this  for  just  and  right,  we  are  in  the 
thickest  darkness,  without  dawn." 

"  Manure  with  despair, — but  let  it  be  genu- 
ine ;  and  you  will  have  a  noble  harvest." 

"True  misery  is  ashamed  of  itself:  hides 
itself,  and  does  not  complain.  You  may  know 
it  by  that." 

"  What  a  commonplace  man  !  If  he  did  not 
live  in  the  same  time  with  us,  no  mortal  would 
mention  him." 

"Have  you  remarked  that  Homer,  when- 
ever he  speaks  of  the  water,  is  always  great ; 
as  Goethe  is,  when  he  speaks  of  the  stars." 

"  If  one  were  to  say,  'You  think  it  easy  to 
be  original :  but  no,  it  is  difficult ;  it  costs  a 
whole  life  of  labour  and  exertion,' — 5^ou  would 
think  him  mad,  and  ask  no  more  questions  of 
him.  And  yet  his  opinion  would  be  altogether 
true,  and  plain  enough  withal.  Original,  I 
grant,  every  man  might  be,  and  must  be,  if 
men  did  not  almost  always  admit  mere  undi- 
gested hearsays  into  their  head,  and  fling  them 
out  again  undigested.  Whoever  honestly  ques- 
tions himself,  and  faithfully  answers,  is  busied 
continually  with  all  that  presents  itself  in  life  ; 
and  is  incessantly  inventing,  had  the  thing  been 
invented  never  so  long  before.  Honesty  be- 
longs as  a  first  condition  to  good  thinking ;  and 
there  are  almost  as  few  absolute  dunces  as 
geniuses.  Genuine  dunces  would  always  be 
original ;  but  there  are  none  of  them  genuine  : 
they  have  almost  always  understanding  enough 
to  be  dishonest." 

"He  (the  blockhead)  tumbled  out  on  me 
his  definition  of  genius  ;  the  trivial  old  dis- 
tinctions of  intellect  and  heart ;  as  if  there 
ever  was,  or  could  be,  a  great  intellect  with  a 
mean  heart !" 

"  Goethe  1  When  I  think  of  him,  tears  come 
into  my  eyes :  all  other  men  I  love  with  my 
own  strength;  he  teaches  me  to  love  with  his. 
My  Poet !" 

"  Slave-trade,  war,  marriage,  working-class- 
es : — and  they  are  astonished,  and  keep  clout- 
ing and  remending  1" 

"  The  whole  world  is,  properly  speaking,  a 
tragic  embarras" 

" .  .  .  .1  here,  Rahel  the  Jewess,  feel 
that  I  am  as  unique  as  the  greatest  appearance 
in  this  earth.  The  greatest  artist,  philosopher 
or  poet,  is  not  above  me.  We  are  of  the  same 
element ;  in  the  same  rank,  and  stand  together. 
Whichever  would  exclude  the  other,  excludes 
only  himself.  But  to  me  it  was  appointed  not 
to  write,  or  act,  but  to  live :  I  lay  in  embryo  till 
my  century  ;  and  then  was,  in  outward  respects, 
sojluns  aivaij. — It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  tell 
you.  But  pain,  as  I  know  it,  is  a  life  too  :  and 
I  think  with  myself,  I  am  one  of  those  figures 
which  Humanity  was  fated  to  evolve,  and  then 
never  to  use  more,  never  to  have  more:  Me 
no  one  can  comfort." — "Why  not  be  beside 
oneself,  dear  friend  1     There  are  beautiful  pa- 


rentheses in  life,  which  belong  neither  to  us  nor 
to  others  :  beautiful  I  name  them,  because  they 
give  us  a  freedom  we  could  not  get  by  sound 
sense.  Who  would  volunteer  to  have  a  ner- 
vous fever]  And  yet  it  may  save  one's  life. 
I  love  rage  ;  I  use  it,  and  patronize  it." — "Be 
not  alarmed;  I  am  commonly  calmer.  But 
when  I  write  to  a.  friend's  heart,  it  comes  to  pass 
that  the  sultry  laden  horizon  of  my  soul  breaks 
out  in  lightning.  Heavenly  men  love  lightning." 

^' To  Varnhagen.  .  .  One  thing  I  must  write 
to  thee  ;  what  I  thought  of  last  night  in  bed, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  That  I,  as  a 
relative  and  pupil  of  Shakspeare,  have,  from 
my  childhood  upwards,  occupied  myself  much 
with  death,  thou  mayest  believe.  But  never 
did  my  own  death  afl^ect  me ;  nay,  I  did  not 
even  think  of  this  fact,  that  I  was  affected  by 
it.  Now,  last  night  there  was  something  I  had 
to  write ;  I  said  Varnhagen  must  know  this 
thing,  if  he  is  to  think  of  me  after  I  am  dead. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  must  die;  as  if  my 
heart  were  flitting  away  over  this  earth,  and  I 
must  follow  it;  and  my  death  gave  me  pity: 
for  never  before,  as  I  now  saw,  had  I  thought 
that  it  would  give  anybody  pity  :  of  thee  I 
knew  it  would  do  so,  and  yet  it  was  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  had  seen  this,  or  known  that  I 
had  never  seen  it.  In  such  solitude  have  I  lived : 
comprehend  it !  I  thought,  when  I  am  dead, 
then  first  will  Varnhagen  know  what  suffer- 
ings I  had;  and  all  his  lamenting  will  be  in 
vain ;  the  figure  of  me  meets  him  again  through 
all  eternity  no  more  ;  swept  away  am  I  then,  as 
our  poor  Prince  Louis  is.  And  no  one  can  be 
kind  to  me  then  ;  with  the  strongest  will,  with 
the  exertion  of  despair,  no  one :  and  this 
thought  of  thee  about  me  was  what  at  last  af- 
fected me.  I  must  write  of  this,  though  it  af- 
flict thee  never  so."  *  *  * 

"  To  Rose,  a  younger  sister,  on  her  marriage  in 

Amsterdam. — Paris,    1801 Since    thy 

last  letter  I  am  sore  downcast.  Gone  art  thou ! 
No  Rose  comes  stepping  in  to  me  with  true  foot 
and  heart,  who  knows  me  altogether,  knows 
all  my  sorrows  altogether.  When  I  am  sick  of 
body  or  soul,  alone,  alone  thou  comest  not  to 
me  any  more ;  thy  room  empty,  quite  empt)% 
for  ever  empty.  Thou  art  away,  to  try  thy  for- 
tune. O  Heaven !  and  to  me  not  even  trying 
is  permitted.  Am  not /in  luck!  The  garden 
in  the  Lindenstrasse  where  we  used  to  be  with 
Hanne  and  Feu — was  it  not  beautiful  1  I  will 
call  it  Rose  now ;  with  Hanne  and  Hanse  will 
I  go  often  thither,  and  none  shall  know  of  it. 
Dost  thou  recollect  that  night  when  I  was  to  set 
out  with  Fink  the  time  before  last  ]  How 
thou  hadst  to  sleep  up  stairs,  and  then  to  stay 
with  me?  O  my  sister,  I  might  be  as  ill  again 
— though  not  for  that  cause  :  and  thou  too, 
what  may  not  lie  before  thee !  But,  no,  thy 
name  is  Rose ;  thou  hast  blue  eyes,  and  a  far 
other  life  than  I  with  my  stars  and  black  ones. 
*  *  *  Salute  mamma  a  million  times  ;  tell 
her  I  congratulate  her  from  the  heart;  the 
more  so  as  /can  never  give  her  such  a  plea- 
sure !  God  willed  it  not.  But  I,  in  her  place, 
would  have  great  pity  for  a  child  so  circum- 
stanced. Yet  let  her  not  lament  for  me.  I 
know  all  her  goodness,  and  thank  her  with  my 
soul.    Tell  her  I  have  the  fate  of  nations  and 


VARNHAGEN  VON  ENSE'S  MEMOIRS. 


645 


of  the  greatest  men  before  my  eyes  here  :  they 
too  go  tumbling  even  so  on  the  great  sea  of 
Existence,  mounting,  sinking,  swallowed  up. 
From  of  old  all  men  have  seemed  to  me  like 
spring  blossoms,  which  the  wind  blows  off  and 
whirls;  none  knows  where  they  fall,  and  the 
fewest  come  to  fruit." 

Poor  Rahel !  The  Frenchman  said  above 
she  was  an  artist  and  apostle,  yet  had  not 
ceased  to  be  a  child  and  woman.  But  we  must 
stop  short.  One  other  little  scene,  a  scene 
from  her  death-bed  by  Varnhagen,  must  end 
the  tragedy : 

"  .  .  .  .  She  said  to  me  one  morning,  after  a 
dreadful  night,  with  the  penetrating  tone  of  that 
lovely  voice  of  hers :  *  0, 1  am  still  happy ;  I 
am  God's  creature  still ;  He  knows  of  me ;  I 
shall  come  to  see  how  it  was  good  and  needful 
forme  to  suffer:  of  a  surety  I  had  something 
to  learn  by  it.  And  am  I  not  already  happy 
in  this  trust,  and  in  all  the  love  that  I  feel  and 
meet  with  V 

"In  this  manner  she  spoke,  one  day,  among 
other  things,  with  joyful  heartiness,  of  a  dream 
which  always  from  childhood  she  had  remem- 
bered and  taken  comfort  from.  *In  my  seventh 
year,'  said  she,  'I  dreamt  that  I  saw  God  quite 
near  me ;  he  stood  expanded  above  me,  and 
his  mantle  was  the  whole  sky ;  on  a  corner  of 
this  mantle  I  had  leave  to  rest,  and  lay  there 
in  peaceable  felicity  till  I  awoke.  Ever  since, 
through  my  whole  life,  this  dream  has  return- 
ed on  me,  and  in  the  worst  times  was  present 
also  in  my  waking  moments,  and  a  heavenly 
comfort  to  me.  I  had  leave  to  throw  myself 
at  God's  feet,  on  a  corner  of  his  mantle,  and 
he  screened  me  from  all  sorrow  there  :  He  per- 
mitted it.'  *  •  *  The  following  words, 
which  I  felt  called  to  write  down  exactly  as  she 
spoke  them  on  the  2d  of  March,  are  also  re- 
markable :  *  What  a  history !'  cried  she  with 
deep  emotion :  '  A  fugitive  from  Egypt  and 
Palestine  am  I  here;  and  find  help,  love,  and 
kind  care  among  you.  To  thee,  dear  August, 
was  I  sent  by  this  guiding  of  God,  and  thou  to 
me ;  from  afar,  from  the  old  times  of  Jacob 
and  the  Patriarchs  !  With  a  sacred  joy  I  think 
of  this  my  origin,  of  all  this  wide  web  of  pre- 
arrangement.  How  the  oldest  remembrances 
of  mankind  are  united  with  the  newest  reality 
of  things,  and  the  most  distant  times  and  places 
are  brought  together.  What  for  so  long  a  pe- 
riod of  my  life  I  considered  as  the  worst  igno- 
miny, the  sorest  sorrow  and  misfortune,  that  I 
was  born  a  Jewess,  this  I  would  not  part  with 
now  for  any  price.  Will  it  not  be  even  so  with 
these  pains  of  sickness  1  Shall  I  not  one  day 
mount  joyfully  aloft  on  them,  too  ;  feel  that  I 
could  not  want  them  for  any  price  ]  O  August, 
this  is  just,  this  is  true ;  we  will  try  to  go  on 
thus  !'  Thereupon  she  said,  with  many  tears, 
'  Dear  August,  my  heart  is  refreshed  to  its  in- 
most ;  I  have  thought  of  Jesus,  and  wept  over 
his  sorrows  ;  I  have  felt,  for  the  first  time  felt, 
that  he  is  my  Brother.  And  Mary,  what  must 
she  have  suffered !  She  saw  her  beloved  Son 
in  agony,  and  did  not  sink;  she  stood  at  the 
Cross.  That  I  could  not  have  done  ;  I  am  not  i 
strong  enough  for  that.  Forgive  me,  God,  I 
confess  how  weak  I  am.'     *     *     •  j 

"  At  nightfall,  on  the  6th  of  March,  Rahel , 


felt  herself  easier  than  for  long  before,  and 
expressed  an  irresistible  desire  to  be  new 
dressed.  As  she  could  not  be  persuaded  from  it, 
this  was  done,  though  with  the  utmost  precau- 
tion. She  herself  was  busily  helpful  in  it,  and 
signified  great  contentment  that  she  had  got  it 
accomplished.  She  felt  so  well  she  expected 
to  sleep.  She  wished  me  good-night,  and  bade 
me  also  go  and  sleep.  Even  the  maid,  Dora, 
was  to  go  and  sleep  ;  however,  she  did  not. 

"  It  might  be  about  midnight,  and  I  was  still 
awake,  when  Dora  called  me:  *Iwas  to  come, 
she  was  much  worse.'  Instead  of  sleep,  Ra- 
hel had  found  only  suffering,  one  distress  added 
to  another;  and  now  all  had  combined  into 
decided  spasm  of  the  breast.  I  found  her  in  a 
state  little  short  of  that  she  had  passed  six  days 
ago.  The  medicines  left  for  such  an  occur- 
rence (regarded  as  possible,  not  probable)  were 
tried  ;  but  this  time  with  little  effect.  The 
frightful  struggle  continued;  and  the  beloved 
sufferer,  writhing  in  Dora's  arms,  cried,  several 
times,  '  This  pressure  against  her  breast  was 
not  to  be  borne,  was  pushing  her  heart  out:' 
the  breathing,  too,  was  painfully  difficult.  She 
complained  that '  it  was  getting  into  her  head 
now,  that  she  felt  like  a  cloud  there ;'  she  lean- 
ed back  with  that.  A  deceptive  hope  of  some 
alleviation  gleamed  on  us  for  a  moment,  and 
then  went  out  for  ever ;  the  eyes  were  dimmed, 
the  mouth  distorted,  the  limbs  lamed  !  In  this 
state  the  doctors  found  her;  their  remedies 
were  all  bootless.  An  unconscious  hour  and 
half,  during  which  the  breast  still  occasionally 
struggled  in  spasmodic  efforts — and  this  noble 
life  breathed  out  its  last.  The  look  I  got  then, 
kneeling  almost  lifeless  at  her  bed,  stamped 
itself,  glowing,  for  ever  into  my  heart." 

So  died  Rahel  Varnhagen  von  Ense,  bom 
Levin,  a  singular  biographic  phenomenon  of 
this  century ;  a  woman  of  genius,  of  true 
depth  and  worth,  whose  secluded  life,  as  one 
cannot  but  see,  had  in  it  a  greatness  far  be- 
yond what  has  many  times  fixed  the  public  ad- 
miration of  the  whole  world ;  a  woman  equal 
to  the  highest  thoughts  of  her  century;  in 
whom  it  was  not  arrogance,  we  do  believe,  but 
a  just  self-consciousness,  to  feel  that  "the 
highest  philosopher,  or  poet,  or  artist  was  not 
above  her,  but  of  a  like  element  and  rank 
with  her."  That  such  a  woman  should  have 
lived  unknown  and,  as  it  were,  silent  to  the 
world,  is  peculiar  in  this  time. 

We  say  not  that  she  was  equal  to  De  Stael, 
nor  the  contrary  ;  neither  that  she  might  have 
written  De  Stael's  books,  nor  even  that  she 
might  not  have  written  far  better  books.  Sh3 
has  ideas  unequalled  in  De  Stael ;  a  sincerity, 
a  pure  tenderness  and  genuineness  which  that 
celebrated  person  had  not,  or  had  lost.  But  what 
then  1  The  subjunctive,  the  optative  are  vague 
moods :  there  is  no  tense  one  can  found  on  but 
the  preterite  of  the  indicative.  Enough  for  us, 
Rahel  did  not  write.  She  sat  imprisoned,  or  it 
might  be  sheltered  and  fosteringly  embowered, 
in  those  circumstances  of  hers ;  she  "  was  not 
appointed  to  write  or  to  act,  but  only  to  live." 
Call  her  not  unhappy  on  that  account,  call  her 
not  useless;  nay,  perhaps,  call  her  happier 
and  usefuller.  Blessed  are  the  humble,  are 
they  that  are  not  known.  It  is  written,  "  Seek- 
2  z  2 


546 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


est  thou  great  things,  seek  them  not;"  live 
where  thou  art,  only  live  wisely,  live  diligently. 
Rahel's  life  was  not  an  idle  one  for  herself  or 
for  others :  how  many  souls  may  "  the  sparkles 
showering  from  that  light-fountain"  have 
kindled  and  illuminated ;  whose  new  virtue  goes 
on  propagating  itself,  increasing  itself,  under  in- 
calculable combinations,  and  will  be  found  in 
far  places,  after  many  days  !  She  left  no  stamp 
of  herself  on  paper ;  but  in  other  ways,  doubt  it 
not,  the  virtue  of  her  working  in  this  world  will 
survive  all  paper.  For  the  working  of  the  good 
and  brave,  seen  or  unseen,  endures  literally 
for  ever,  and  cannot  die.  Is  a  thing  nothing 
because  the  morning  papers  have  not  men- 
tioned itl  Or  can  a  nothing  be  made  some- 
thing, by  ever  so  much  babbling  of  it  there  1 
Far  better,  probably,  that  no  morning  or  even- 
ing paper  mentioned  it ;  that  the  right  hand 
knew  not  what  the  left  was  doing !  Rahel  might 
have  written  books,  celebrated  books.  And  yet, 
what  of  books  1  Hast  thou  not  already  a  bible 
to  write,  and  publish  in  print,  that  is  eternal; 
namely,  a  Life  to  lead  1  Silence,  too,  is  great ; 
there  should  be  great  silent  ones,  too. 

Beautiful  it  is  to  see  and  understand  that  no 
worth,  known  or  unknown,  can  die  even  in  this 
earth.  The  work  an  unknown  good  man  has 
done  is  like  a  vein  of  water  flowinsr  hidden 


under  ground,  secretly  making  the  ground 
green;  it  flows  and  flows,  it  joins  itself  with 
other  veins  and  veinlets  ;  one  day  it  will  start 
forth  as  a  visible  perennial  well.  Ten  dumb 
centuries  had  made  the  speaking  Dante ;  a 
well  he  of  many  veinlets.  William  Burnes,  or 
Burns,  was  a  poor  peasant;  could  not  prosper 
in  his  "  seven  acres  of  nursery-ground,"  nor 
any  enterprise  of  trade  and  toil;  had  to  "thole 
a  factor's  snash,"  and  read  attorney  letters,  in 
his  poor  hut,  "  which  threw  us  all  into  tears ;" 
a  man  of  no  money-capital  at  all,  of  no  account 
at  all;  yet  a  brave  man,  a  wise  and  just,  in 
evil  fortune  faithful,  unconquerable  to  the 
death.  And  there  wept  withal  among  the 
others  a  boy  named  Robert,  with  a  heart  of 
melting  pity,  of  greatness  and  fiery  wrath ;  and 
his  voice,  fashioned  here  by  this  poor  father, 
does  it  not  already  reach,  like  a  great  elegy, 
like  a  stern  prophecy,  to  the  ends  of  the  world "? 
"  Let  me  make  the  songs,  and  you  shall  make 
the  laws !"  What  chancellor,  king,  senator, 
begirt  with  never  such  sumptuosity,  dyed  vel- 
vet, blaring,  and  celebrity,  could  you  have 
named  in  England  that  was  so  momentous  as 
that  William  Burns  1  Courage! — 

We  take  leave  of  Varnhagen  with  true  good- 
will, and  heartily  thank  him  for  the  pleasure 
and  instruction  he  has  given  us. 


PETITION  ON  THE  COPY-RIGHT  BILL. 


[THE  (London)  Examiner,  1839.] 


To  the  Honourable  the  Commons  of  Eng- 
land in  Parliament  assembled,  the  Petition  of 
Thomas  Carlyle,  a  Writer  of  Books, 
Humbly  showeth. 

That  your  petitioner  has  written  certain 
books,  being  incited  thereto  by  various  inno- 
cent or  laudable  considerations,  chiefly  by  the 
thought  that  said  books  might  in  the  end  be 
found  to  be  worth  something. 

That  your  petitioner  had  not  the  happiness 
to  receive  from  Mr.  Thomas  Tegg,  or  any  Pub- 
lisher, Republisher,  Printer,  Bookseller,  Book- 
buyer,  or  other  the  like  man  or  body  of  men, 
any  encouragement  or  countenance  in  writing 
of  said  books,  or  to  discern  any  chance  of  re- 
ceiving such  ;  but  wrote  them  by  effort  of  his 
own  and  the  favour  of  Heaven. 

That  all  useful  labour  is  worthy  of  recom- 
pense; that  all  honest  labour  is  worthy  of  the 
chance  of  recompense ;  that  the  giving  and 
assuring  to  each  man  what  recompense  his 
labour  has  actually  merited,  may  be  said  to  be 
the  business  of  all  Legislation,  Polity,  Govern- 
ment, and  Social  Arrangement  whatsoever 
among  men ; — a  business  indispensable  to  at- 
tempt, impossible  to  accomplish  accurately, 
difficult  to  accomplish  without  inaccuracies 
that  become  enormous,  un supportable,  and  the 
parent  of  Social  Confusions  which  never  alto- 
gether end. 

That  your  petitioner  does  not  undertake  to 


say  what  recompense  in  money  this  labour  of 
his  may  deserve  ;  whether  it  deserve  any  re- 
compense in  money,  or  whether  money  in  any 
quantity  could  hire  him  to  do  the  like. 

That  this  his  labour  has  found  hitherto,  in 
money  or  money's  worth,  smaU  recompense  or 
none ;  that  he  is  by  no  means  sure  of  its  ever 
finding  recompense,  but  thinks,  that,  if  so,  it 
will  be  at  a  distant  time,  when  he,  the  laborer, 
will  probably  no  longer  be  in  need  of  money, 
and  those  dear  to  him  will  still  be  in  need 
of  it. 

That  the  law  does  at  least  protect  all  persons 
in  selling  the  production  of  their  labour  at  what 
they  can  get  for  it,  in  all  market  places,  to  all 
lengths  of  time.  Much  more  than  this  the  law 
does  to  many,  but  so  much  it  does  to  all,  and 
less  than  this  to  none. 

That  your  petitioner  cannot  discover  him- 
self to  have  done  unlawfully  in  this  his  said 
labour  of  writing  books,  or  to  have  become 
criminal,  or  have  forfeited  the  law's  protection 
thereby.  Contrariwise  your  petitioner  believes 
firmly  that  he  is  innocent  in  said  labour;  that 
if  he  be  found  in  the  long  run  to  have  written 
a  genuine  enduring  book,  his  merit  therein, 
and  desert  towards  England  and  English  and 
other  men,  will  be  considerable,  not  easily  esti- 
mable in  money;  that  on  the  other  hand,  if  his 
book  prove  false  and  ephemeral,  he  and  it  will 
be  abolished  and  forgotten,  and  no  harm  done. 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


647 


That,  in  this  manner,  your  petitioner  plays 
no  unfair  game  against  the  world;  his  stake 
being  life  itself,  so  to  speak,  (for  the  penalty  is 
death  by  starvation,)  and  the  world's  stake 
nothing  till  once  it  see  the  dice  thrown ;  so 
that  in  any  case  the  world  cannot  lose. 
.  That  in  the  happy  and  long-doubtful  event 
of  the  game's  going  in  his  favour,  your  peti- 
tioner submits  that  the  small  winnings  thereof 
do  belong  to  him  or  his,  and  that  no  other 
mortal  has  justly  either  part  or  lot  in  them  at 
all,  now,  henceforth,  or  for  ever. 


May  it  therefore  please  your  Honourable 
House  to  protect  him  in  said  happy  and  long- 
doubtful  event;  and  (by  passing  your  Copy- 
Right  Bill)  forbid  all  Thomas  Teggs  and 
other  extraneous  persons,  entirely  unconcerned 
in  this  adventure  of  his,  to  steal  from  him  his 
small  winnings,  for  a  space  of  sixty  years  at 
the  shortest.  After  sixty  years,  unless  your 
Honourable  House  provide  otherwise,  they 
may  begin  to  steal. 

And  your  petitioner  will  ever  pray. 

Thomas  Cakltle. 


DR.  FRANCIA.' 


[Foreign  Quarterly  Review.] 


The  confused  South  American  revolution, 
and  set  of  revolutions,  like  the  South  American 
continent  itself,  is  doubtless  a  great  confused 
phenomenon;  worthy  of  better  knowledge  than 
men  yet  have  of  it.  Several  books,  of  which 
we  here  name  a  few  known  to  us,  have  been 
written  on  the  subject ;  but  bad  books  mostly, 
and  productive  of  almost  no  effect.  The  heroes 
of  South  America  have  not  yet  succeeded  in 
picturing  any  image  of  themselves,  much  less 
any  true  image  of  themselves,  in  the  Cis-Atlan- 
tic  mind  or  memory. 

Iturbide,  "  the  Napoleon  of  Mexico,"  a  great 
man  in  that  narrow  country,  who  was  he  1  He 
made  the  thrice-celebrated  "  Plan  of  Iguala :" 
a  constitution  of  no  continuance.  He  became 
Emperor  of  Mexico,  most  serene  "  Augustin 
I. :"  was  deposed,  banished  to  Leghorn,  to  Lon- 
don ;  decided  on  returning; — landed  on  the 
shore  at  Tampico,  and  was  there  met,  and  shot : 
this,  in  a  vague  sort,  is  what  the  world  knows 
of  the  Napoleon  of  Mexico,  most  serene  Au- 
gustin the  First,  most  unfortunate  Augustin 
the  Last.  He  did  himself  publish  memoirs  or 
memorials,!  but  few  can  read  them.  Oblivion, 
and  the  deserts  of  Panama,  have  swallowed 
this  brave  Don  Augustin  :  vate  caruit  sacro. 

And  Bolivar,  "the  Washington  of  Colum- 
bia," Liberator  Bolivar,  he  too  is  gone  without 


*  1.  Funeral  Discourse  delirercd  on  occasion  of  celebrat- 
ing the  obsequies  of  his  late  Excellency  the  Perpetval  Dic- 
tator of  the  Republic  of  Paraguay,  the  Citizen  Dr.  Josi 
Oaspar  Francia,  by  Citizen  the  Rev.  Manuel  J^ntonia 
Perez,  of  the  Church  of  the  Incarnation,  on  the  20f/i  of 
October,  1840.  In  the  "British  Packet  and  Arpentine 
News."  No.  813.     Buenos  Ayres  :  March  19,  1842. 

2.  Essai  Historique  sur  la  Revolution  de  Paraguay,  et  le 
Gouvernement  Dictatorial  du  Dnctcur  Francia.  Par  MM. 
Ren'rper  et  Lonjrchamp.     2de  Edition.    Paris,  1827. 

3.  Letters  on  Paraffuay.  By  J.  P.  and  W.  P.  Robertson. 
2  vols.     Second  edition.    London,  1S39. 

4.  Francia's  Reign  of  Terror.  By  the  same.  Lon- 
don, 1629. 

5.  Letter.^  on  South  America.  By  the  same.  3  vols. 
London.  1843. 

6.  Travels  in  Chile  and  La  Plata.  By  John  Miers. 
2  vols.    London,  1826. 

7.  Memoirs  of  General  Miller,  in  the  Service  of  the  Re- 
public nf  Peru.    2  vols.     2d  edition.     London^  1829. 

t  A  Statement  of  some  of  the  principal  Events  in  the 
Public  Life  of  Augustin  de  Iturbide  :  written  by  iliui- 
BClf.    London,  1843. 


his  fame.  Melancholy  lithographs  represent 
to  us  a  long-faced,  square-browed  man ;  of 
stern, considerate,co«scjoMs/3/  considerate  aspect, 
mildly  aquiline  form  of  nose ;  with  terrible 
angularity  of  jaw  ;  and  dark  deep  eyes,  some- 
what too  close  together,  (for  which  latter  cir- 
cumstance we  earnestly  hope  the  lithograph 
alone  is  to  blame  :)  this  is  Liberator  Bolivar : — 
a  man  of  much  hard  fighting,  hard  riding,  of 
manifold  achievements,  distresses,  heroisms 
and  histrionisms  in  this  world;  a  many-coun- 
selled, much-enduring  man;  now  dead  and 
gone  : — of  whom,  except  that  melancholy  litho- 
graph, the  cultivated  European  public  knows 
as  good  as  nothing.  Yet  did  he  not  fly  hither 
and  thither,  often  in  the  most  desperate  man- 
ner, with  wild  cavalry  clad  in  blankets,  with 
War  of  Liberation,  "  to  the  death  ]"  Clad  in 
blankets,  ponchos  the  South  Americans  call 
them ;  it  is  a  square  blanket,  with  a  short  slit 
in  the  centre,  which  you  draw  over  your  head, 
and  so  leave  hanging:  many  a  liberative  cava- 
lier has  ridden,  in  those  hot  climates,  without 
further  dress  at  all ;  and  fought  handsomely 
too,  wrapping  the  blanket  round  his  arm,  when 
it  came  to  the  charge. 

With  such  cavalry,  and  artillery  and  infantry 
to  match,  Bolivar  has  ridden,  fighting  all  the 
way,  through  torrid  deserts,  hot  mud  swamps, 
through  ice-chasms  beyond  the  curve  of  per- 
petual frost, — more  miles  than  Ulysses  ever 
sailed :  let  the  coming  Homers  take  note  of  it. 
He  has  marched  over  the  Andes  more  than 
once ;  a  feat  analogous  to  Hannibal's ;  and 
seemed  to  think  little  of  it.  Often  beaten, 
banished  from  the  firm  land,  he  always  returned 
again,  truculently  fought  again.  He  gained  in 
the  Cumana  regions  the  "immortal  victory" 
of  Carababo  and  several  others ;  under  him 
was  gained  the  finishing  "immortal  victory" 
of  Ayacucho  in  Peru,  where  Old  Spain,  for 
the  last  time,  burnt  powder  in  those  latitudes, 
and  then  fled  without  return.  He  was  Dicta- 
tor, Liberator,  almost  emperor,  if  he  had  lived. 
Some  three  times  over  did  he,  in  solemn 
Columbian  parliament,  lay  down  his  Dictator- 
ship with  Washington  eloquence ;  and  as  often, 


548 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


on  pressing  request,  take  it  up  again,  being  a 
man  indispensable.  Thrice,  or  at  least  twice, 
did  he,  in  different  places,  painfully  construct 
a  Free  Constitution ;  consisting  of  "  two  cham- 
bers, and  a  supreme  governor  for  life  with 
liberty  to  name  his  successor,"  the  reasonablest 
democratic  constitution  you  could  well  con- 
struct; and  twice,  or  at  least  once,  did  the 
people,  on  trial,  declare  it  disagreeable.  He 
was  of  old,  well  known  in  Paris ;  in  the  disso- 
lute, the  philosophico-political  and  other  cir- 
cles there.  He  has  shone  in  many  a  gay 
Parisian  soiree,  this  Simon  Bolivar;  and  he, 
in  his  later  years,  in  autumn,  1825,  rode 
triumphant  into  Potosi  and  the  fabulous  Inca 
Cities,  with  clouds  of  feathered  Indians  somer- 
setting  and  warwhopping  round  him* — and 
"as  the  famed  Cen-o,  metalliferous  Mountain, 
came  in  sight,  the  bells  all  pealed  out,  and 
there  was  a  thunder  of  artillery,"  says  General 
Miller !  If  this  is  not  a  Ulysses,  Polytlas  and 
Polymetis,  a  much  enduring  and  many  coun- 
selled man;  where  was  there  one?  Truly  a 
Ulysses  whose  history  were  worth  its  ink, — 
had  the  Homer  that  could  do  it,  made  his  ap- 
pearance ! 

Of  General  San  Martin,  too,  there  will  be 
something  to  be  said.  General  San  Martin, 
when  we  last  saw  him,  twenty  years  ago  or 
more, — through  the  organs  of  the  authentic 
steadfast  Mr.  Miers,— -had  a  handsome  house 
in  Mendoza,  and  "his  own  portrait,  as  I  re- 
marked, hung  up  between  those  of  Napoleon 
and  the  Duke  of  Wellington."  In  Mendoza, 
cheerful,  mudbuilt,  whitewashed  Town,  seated 
at  the  eastern  base  of  the  Andes,  "with  its 
shady  public  walk  well  paved  and  swept;" 
looking  out  pleasantly,  on  this  hand,  over  wide 
horizons  of  Pampa  wilderness ;  pleasantly  on 
that,  to  the  Rocky-chain,  Cordillera  they  call  it, 
of  the  sky-piercing  Mountains,  capt  in  snow, 
or  with  volcanic  fumes  issuing  from  them: 
there  dwelt  General  iVGeneralissimo  San 
Martin,  ruminating  past  adventures  over  half 
the  world ;  and  had  his  portrait  hung  up  be- 
tween Napoleon's  and  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton's. 

Did  the  reader  ever  hear  of  San  Martin's 
march  over  the  Andes  in  Chile  1  It  is  a  feat 
worth  looking  at;  comparable,  most  likely,  to 
Hannibal's  march  over  the  Alps,  while  there 
was  yet  no  Simplon  or  Mont-Cenis  highway; 
and  it  transacted  itself  in  the  year  1817. 
South  American  armies  think  little  of  picking 
their  way  through  the  gullies  of  the  Andes ;  so 
the  Buenos-Ayres  people,  having  driven  out 
their  own  Spaniards,  and  established  the  reign 
of  freedom,  though  in  a  precarious  manner, 
thought  it  were  now  good  to  drive  the  Spaniards 
out  of  Chile,  and  establish  the  reign  of  freedom 
there  also  instead:  whereupon  San  Martin, 
commander  at  Mendoza,  was  appointed  to  do 
it.  By  way  of  preparation,  for  he  began  from 
afar,  San  Martin,  while  an  army  is  getting 
ready  at  Mendoza,  assembles  "  at  the  fort  of 
San  Carlos  by  the  Aguanda  river,"  some  days' 
journey  to  the  south,  all  attainable  tribes  of 
the  Pehuenche  Indians,  to  a  solemn  Palaver, 
so  they  name  it,  and  civic  entertainment,  on 


*  Memoirs  of  General  Miller. 


the  esplanade  there.  The  ceremonies  and  de- 
liberations, as  described  by  General  Miller,  are 
somewhat  surprising;  still  more  the  conclud- 
ing civic  feast,  which  lasts  for  three  days,  which 
consists  of  horses'  flesh  for  the  solid  part,  and 
horses'  blood  with  ardent  spirits  ad  libitum  for 
the  liquid,  consumed  with  such  alacrity,  with 
such  results  as  one  may  fancy.  However,  the 
women  had  prudently  removed  all  the  arms 
beforehand;  nay,  "five  or  six  of  these  poor 
women,  taking  it  by  turns,  were  always  found 
in  a  sober  state,  watching  over  the  rest;"  so 
that  comparatively  little  mischief  was  done, 
and  only  "one  or  two"  deaths  by  quarrel  took 
place. 

The  Pehuenches  having  drunk  their  ardent- 
water  and  horses'  blood  m  this  manner,  and 
sworn  eternal  friendship  to  San  Martin,  went 
home,  and — communicated  to  his  enemies, 
across  the  Andes,  the  road  he  meant  to  take. 
This  was  what  San  Martin  had  foreseen  and 
meant,  the  knowing  man!  He  hastened  his 
preparations,  got  his  artillery  slung  on  poles, 
his  men  equipt  with  knapsacks  and  haversacks, 
his  mules  in  readiness ;  and,  in  all  stillness, 
set  forth  from  Mendoza  by  another  road.  Few 
things  in  late  war,  according  to  General  Mil- 
ler, have  been  more  noteworthy  than  this 
march.  The  long  straggling  line  of  soldiers, 
six  thousand  and  odd,  with  their  quadrupeds 
and  baggage,  winding  through  the  heart  of  the 
Andes,  breaking  for  a  brief  moment  the  old 
abysmal  solitudes ! — For  you  farre  along,  on 
some  narrow  roadway,  through  stony  laby- 
rinths ;  huge  rock-mountains  hanging  over 
your  head,  on  this  hand  ;  and  under  your  feet, 
on  that,  the  roar  of  mountain-cataracts,  horror 
of  bottomless  chasms  ; — the  very  winds  and 
echoes  howling  on  you  in  an  almost  preter- 
natural manner.  Towering  rock-barriers  rise 
sky-high  before  you,  and  behind  you,  and 
around  you  ;  intricate  the  outgate  !  The  road- 
way is  narrow ;  footing  none  of  the  best.  Sharp 
turns  there  are,  where  it  will  behove  you  to 
mind  your  paces ;  one  false  step,  and  you  will 
need  no  second;  in  the  gloomy  jaws  of  the 
abyss  you  vanish,  and  the  spectral  winds 
howl  requiem.  Somewhat  better  are  the  sus- 
pension bridges,  made  of  bamboo  and  leather, 
though  they  swing  like  see-saws :  men  are 
stationed  with  lassos,  to  gin  you  dexterously, 
and  fish  you  up  from  the  torrent,  if  you  trip 
there. 

Through  this  kind  of  country  did  San  Mar- 
tin march;  straight  towards  San  lago,  to  fight 
the  Spaniards  and  deliver  Chile.  For  am- 
munition wagons  he  had  sorras,  sledges,  canoe- 
shaped  boxes,  made  of  dried  buU's-hide.  His 
cannons  were  carried  on  the  back  of  mules, 
each  cannon  on  two  mules  judiciously  harness- 
ed: on  the  packsaddle  of  your  foremost  mule, 
there  rested  with  firm  girths  a  long  strong 
pole;  the  other  end  of  which  (forked  end,  we 
suppose)  rested,  with  like  girths,  on  the  pack- 
saddle  of  the  hindmost  mule ;  your  cannon 
was  slung  with  leathern  straps  on  this  pole, 
and  so  travelled,  swaying  and  dangling,  yet 
moderately  secure.  In  the  knapsack  of  each 
soldier  was  eight  days'  provender,  dried  beef 
ground  into  snutF-powder,  with  a  modicum  of 
pepper,  and  a  slight  seasoning  of  biscuit  or 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


549 


maizemeal ;  "  store  of  onions,  of  garlic,"  was 
not  wanting:  Paraguay  tea  could  be  boiled  at 
eventide,  by  fire  of  scrub-bushes,  or  almost 
of  rock-lichens  or  dried  mule-dung.  No  further 
baggage  was  permitted:  each  soldier  lay,  at 
night,  wrapt  in  his  poncho,  with  his  knapsack 
for  pillow,  under  the  canopy  of  heaven ;  lulla- 
bied  by  hard  travail :  and  sank  soon  enough 
into  steady  nose-melody,  into  the  foolishest 
rough  colt-dance  of  unimaginable  Dreams. 
Had  he  not  left  much  behind  him  in  the  Pam- 
pas,— mother,  mistress,  what  not;  and  was 
like  to  find  somewhat,  if  he  ever  got  across  to 
Chile  living]  What  an  entity,  one  of  those 
night-leaguers  of  San  Martin;  all  steadily 
snoring  there,  in  the  heart  of  the  Andes,  under 
the  eternal  stars !  Wayworn  sentries  with 
difficulty  keep  themselves  awake :  tired  mules 
chew  barley  rations,  or  doze  on  three  legs ; 
the  feeble  watchfire  will  hardly  kindle  a  cigar ; 
Canopus  and  the  Southern  Cross  glitter  down  ; 
and  all  snores  steadily,  begirt  by  granite 
deserts,  looked  on  by  the  constellations  in  that 
manner!  San  Martin's  improvident  soldiers 
ate  out  their  week's  rations  almost  in  half  the 
time  ;  and  for  the  last  three  days,  had  to  rush 
on,  spurred  by  hunger:  this  also  the  knowing 
San  Martin  had  foreseen ;  and  knew  that  they 
could  bear  it,  these  rugged  Guachos  of  his ; 
nay,  that  they  would  march  all  the  faster  for  it. 
On  the  eighth  day,  hungry  as  wolves,  swift 
and  sudden  as  a  torrent  from  the  mountains, 
they  disembogued  ;  straight  towards  San  lago, 
to  the  astonishment  of  men ; — struck  the 
doubly  astonished  Spaniards  into  dire  mis- 
givings; and  then,  in  pitched  fight,  after  due 
manoeuvres,  into  total  defeat  on  the  "  Plains 
of  Maypo,"  and  again,  positively  for  the  last 
time,  on  the  Plains  or  Heights  of"  Chacabuco ;" 
and  completed  the  "  deliverance  of  Chile,"  as 
was  thought,  for  ever  and  a  day. 

Alas,  the  "deliverance  of  Chile  was  but 
commenced;  very  far  from  completed.  Chile, 
after  many  more  deliverances,  up  to  this  hour, 
is  always  but  "delivered,"  from  one  set  of 
evil  doers  to  another  set !  San  Martin's  Ma- 
noBuvres  to  liberate  Peru,  to  unite  Peru  and 
Chile,  and  become  some  Washington-Napoleon 
of  the  same,  did  not  prosper  so  well.  The 
suspicion  of  mankind  had  to  rouse  itself; 
Liberator  Bolivar  had  to  be  called  in ;  and 
some  revolution  or  two  to  take  place  in  the 
interim.  San  Martin  sees  himself  peremptorily, 
though  with  courtesy,  complimented  over  the 
Andes  again ;  and  in  due  leisure,  at  Mendoza, 
hangs  his  portrait  between  Napoleon's  and 
Wellington's.  Mr.  Miers  considered  him  a 
fairspoken,  obliging,  if  somewhat  artful  man. 
Might  not  the  Chilenos  as  well  have  taken 
him  for  their  Napoleon?  They  have  gone 
farther,  and,  as  yet,  fared  little  better! 

The  world-famous  General  O'Higgins,  for 
example,  he,  after  some  revolution  or  two, 
became  Director  of  Chile  ;  but  so  terribly  ham- 
pered by  "  class-legislation,"  and  the  like, 
what  could  he  make  of  it?  Almost  nothing! 
O'Higgins  is  clearly  of  Irish  breed;  and, 
though  a  Chileno  born,  and  "natural  son  of 
Don  Ambrosio  O'Higgins,  formerly  the  Spa- 
nish Viceroy  of  Chile,"  carries  his  Hibernian- 
ism  in  his  very  face.    A  most  cheery,  jovial, 


buxom  countenance,  radiant  with  pepticity, 
good  humour,  and  manifold  effectuality  in 
peace  and  war !  Of  his  battles  and  adven- 
tures let  some  luckier  epic  writer  sing  or 
speak.  One  thing  we  Foreign  Reviewers  will 
always  remember:  his  father's  immense  merits 
towards  Chile  in  the  matter  of  highways. 
Till  Don  Ambrosio  arrived  to  govern  Chile, 
some  half  century  ago,  there  probably  was  not 
a  made  road  of  ten  miles  long  from  Panama  to 
Cape  Horn.  Indeed,  except  his  roads,  we  fear 
there  is  hardly  any  yet.  One  omits  the  old 
Inca  causeways,  as  too  narrow  (being  only 
three  feet  broad)  and  altogether  unfrequented 
in  the  actual  ages.  Don  Ambrosia  made, 
with  incredible  industry  and  perseverance  and 
skill,  in  every  direction,  roads.  From  San 
lago  to  Valparaiso,  where  only  sure-footed 
mules  with  their  packsaddles  carried  goods, 
there  can  now  wooden-axled  cars,  loud-sound- 
ing, or  any  kind  of  vehicle,  commodiously  roll. 
It  was  he  that  shaped  these  passes,  through  the 
Andes,  for  most  part;  hewed  them  out  from 
mule-tracks  into  roads,  certain  of  them.  And 
think  of  his  casuchas.  Always  on  the  higher 
inhospitable  solitudes,  at  every  few  miles'  dis- 
tance, stands  a  trim  brick  cottage,  or  cashucha, 
into  which  the  forlorn  traveller,  introducing 
himself,  finds  covert  and  grateful  safety;  nay- 
food  and  refection, — for  there  are  "iron  boxes*'- 
of  pounded  beef  or  other  provender,  iron 
boxes  of  charcoal ;  to  all  which  the  traveller, 
having  bargained  with  the  Post-office  authori- 
lies,  carries  a  key.*  Steel  and  tinder  are  not 
wanting  to  him,  nor  due  iron  skillet,  with 
water  from  the  stream:  there  he,  striking  a 
light,  cooks  hoarded  victuals  at  eventide,  amid 
the  lonely  pinnacles  of  the  world,  and  blesses 
Governor  O'Higgins.  With  "  both  hands," 
it  may  be  hoped, — if  there  is  vivacity  of  mind 
in  him: 

Had  you  seen  this  road  before  it  was  made. 

You  would  lift  both  your  hands  and  bless  General  Wade. 

It  aflfects  one  with  real  pain  to  hear  from 
Mr.  Miers,  that  the  war  of  liberty  has  half 
ruined  these  O'Higgins  casuchas.  Patriot  sol- 
diers, in  want  of  more  warmth  than  the  char- 
coal box  could  yield,  have  not  scrupled  to  tear 
down  the  door,  doorcase,  or  whatever  wooden 
thing  could  be  come  at,  and  burn  it,  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment.  The  storm-stayed  travel- 
ler, who  sometimes,  in  threatening  weather, 
has  to  linger  here  for  days,  "for  fifteen  days 
together,"  does  not  lift  both  his  hands,  and 
bless  the  Patriot  soldier! 

Nay,  it  appears,  the  O'Higgins  roads,  even 
in  the  plain  country,  have  not,  of  late  years, 
been  repaired,  or  in  the  least  attended  to,  so 
distressed  was  the  finance  department;  and 
are  now  fast  verging  towards  impassability 
and  the  condition  of  mule-tracks  again.  What 
a  set  of  animals  are  men  and  Chilenos  !  If  an 
O'Higgins  did  not  now  and  then  appear  among 
them^ what  would  become  of  the  unfortunates'? 
Can  you  wonder  that  an  O'Higgins  sometimes 
loses  temper  with  them ;  shuts  the  persuasive 
outspread  hand,  clutching  some  sharpest  hide- 
whip,  some  terrible  sword  of  justice  or  gallows- 


*  Mlera. 


550 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLAINEOUS  WRITIN^GS. 


lasso  therewith,  instead, — and  becomes  a  Dr. 
Francia  now  and  then  !  Both  the  O'Higgins 
and  Francia,  it  seems  probable,  are  phases 
of  the  same  character;  both,  one  begins  to 
fear,  are  indispensable  from  time  to  time,  in  a 
world  inhabited  by  men  and  Chilenos  ! 

As  to  O'Higgins  the  Second,  Patriot,  Natural 
son  O'Higgins,  he,  as  we  said,  had  almost  no 
success  whatever  as  a  governor;  being  ham- 
pered by  class-legislation.    Alas,  a  governor 
in  Chile  cannot  succeed.     A  governor  there 
has  to  resign  himself  to  the  want  of  success; 
and  should  say,  in  cheerful  interrogative  tone, 
like  that  Pope  elect,  who,  showing  himself  on 
the  balcony,  was  greeted  with    mere  howls, 
"  Nonpiacemmo  alpopolo?" — and  thereupon  pro- 
ceed cheerfully  to  the  next  fact.  Governing  is  a 
rude  business  everywhere;  but  in  South  Ame- 
rica it  is  of  quite  primitive  rudeness ;   they 
have  no  parliamentary  way  of  changing  minis- 
tries as  yet;  nothing  but  the  rude  primitive 
way  of  hanging  the  old  ministry  on  gibbets, 
that  the  new  may  be  installed  !  Their  govern- 
ment has  altered  its  name,  says  the  sturdy  Mr. 
Miers,  rendered  sulky  by  what  he   saw  there  : 
altered  its  name,  but  its  nature  continues  as 
before.     Shameless  peculation,  malversation, 
that  is  their  government :  oppression  formerly 
by  Spanish  officials,  now  by  native  hacienda- 
dos,  land-proprietors, — the  thing  called  justice 
still  at  a  great  distance  from  them,  says  the 
sulky  Mr.  Miers! — Yes,  but  coming  always, 
answer  we;  every  new  gibbeting  of  an  old  in- 
effectual ministry  bringing  justice  somewhat 
nearer!     Nay,  as  Miers  himself  has  to  admit, 
certain  improvements  are  already  indisputa- 
ble.   Trade  everywhere,  in  spite  of  multiplex 
confusions,  has  increased,  is  increasing:  the 
days  of  somnolent  monopoly  and  the  old  Ac- 
apulco  ship  are  gone,  quite  over  the  horizon. 
Two   good,  or  partially  good  measures,  the 
very   necessity   of    things    has    everywhere 
brought  about  in  those  poor  countries:  clip- 
ping of  the  enormous  bat-wings  of  the  clergy, 
and  emancipating  of  the  slaves.     Bat-wings, 
we  say;  for  truly  the  South  American  clergy 
had  grown  to  be  as  a  kind  of  bat-vampires  : — 
readers  have  heard  of  that  huge  South  Ameri- 
can blood-sucker,  which  fixes  its  bill  in  your 
circulating  vital-fluid   as    you   lie  asleep,  and 
there    sucks ;    waving   you   with    the  motion 
of  its  detestable  leather  wings  into  ever  deeper 
sleep  ;  and  so  drinking  till  it  is  satisfied,  and 
you — do  not  awaken  any  more  !     The  South 
American   governments,  all  in  natural  feud 
with  the  old  church-dignitaries,  and  likewise 
all  in  great  straits  for  cash,  have  everywhere 
confiscated  the  monasteries,  cashiered  the  dis- 
obedient dignitaries,  melted  the   superfluous 
church-plate  into  piasters;  and,  on  the  whole, 
shorn  the  wings  of  their  vampire  ;  so  that  if  it 
still  suck,  you  will  at  least  have  a  chance  of 
awakening  before   death !— Then   again,  the 
very  want  of  soldiers   of  liberty  led  to   the 
emancipating  of  blacks,  yellows,  and  other 
coloured   persons;    your  mulatto,   nay   your 
negro,  if  well  drilled,  will  stand  fire  as  well  as 
another. 

Poor  South  American  emancipators ;  they 
began  with  Volney,  Raynal  and  Company,  at 
that  gospel  of  Social  Contract  and  the  Rights 


of  Man ;  under  the  most  unpropilious  circum- 
stances ;  and  have  hitherto  got   only  to  the 
length  we  see  !    Nay  now,  it  seems,  they  do 
possess   "  universities,"    which    are   at  least 
schools  with  other  than  monk  teachers :  they 
have  got  libraries,  though  as  yet  almost  no- 
body reads  them,  and  our   friend  Miers,  re- 
peatedly knocking  at  all  doors  of  the  Grand 
Chile  National  Library,  could  never  to  this 
hour  discover  where  the  key  lay,  and  had  to 
content  himself  with  looking  in  through  the 
windows.*     Miers,  as   already  hinted,  deside- 
rates unspeakable  improvements  in  Chile  ;— 
desiderates,  indeed,  as  the  basis  of  all,  an  im- 
mense increase  of  soap-and-water.     Yes,  thou 
sturdy  Miers,  dirt  is  decidedly  to  be  removed, 
whatever  improvements,  temporal  or  spiritual, 
may  be  intended  next"?     According  to  Miers, 
the  open,  still  more  the  secret  personal  nasti- 
ness  of  those  remote  populations,  rises  almost 
towards  the  sublime.     Finest  silks,  gold  bro- 
cades, pearl  necklaces,  and  diamond  ear-drops, 
are  no  security  against  it :  alas,  all  is  not  gold 
that  glitters ;  somewhat  that  glitters  is  mere 
putrid   fish-skin  !      Decided,   enormously   in- 
creased appliance  of  soap-and-water,  in  all  its 
branches,  with  all  its  adjuncts  ;  this,  according 
to  Miers,  would  be  an  improvement.   He  says 
also  ("  in  his  haste,"  as  is  probable,  like  the 
Hebrew  Psalmist)  that  all  Chileno  men  are 
liars ;  all,  or  in  appearance,  all !     A  people 
that  uses  almost  no  soap,  and  speaks  almost 
no  truth,  but  goes  about  in  that  fashion,  in  a 
state  of  personal  nastiness,  and  also  of  spiritual 
nastiness,  approaching  the  sublime;  such  peo- 
ple is  not  easy  to  govern  well ! — 

But  undoubtedly  by  far  the  notablest  of 
all  these  South  American  phenomena  is  Dr. 
Francia  and  his  Dictatorship  in  Paraguay; 
concerning  whom  and  which  we  have  now 
more  particularly  to  speak.  Francia  and  his 
"  reign  of  terror"  have  excited  some  interest, 
much  vague  wonder  in  this  country ;  and 
especially  given  a  great  shock  to  constitution- 
al feeling.  One  would  rather  wish  to  know 
Dr.  Francia ; — but  unhappily  one  cannot !  Out 
of  such  a  murk  of  distracted  shadows  and 
rumours,  in  the  other  hemisphere  of  the  world, 
who  would  pretend  at  present  to  decipher  the 
real  portraiture  of  Dr.  Francia  and  his  Life  ? 
None  of  us  can.  A  few  credible  features, 
wonderful  enough,  original  enough  in  our 
constitutional  time,  will  perhaps  to  the  im- 
partial eye  disclose  themselves ;  these,  with 
some  endeavour  to  interpret  these,  may  lead 
certain  readers  into  various  reflections,  con- 
stitutional and  other,  not  entirely  without  benefit. 

Certainly,  as  we  say,  nothing  could  well 
shock  the  constitutional  feeling  of  mankind, 
as  Dr.  Francia  has  done.  Dionysius  the  tyrant 
of  Syracuse,  and  indeed  the  whole  breed  of 
tyrants,  one  hoped,  had  gone  many  hundred 
years  ago,  with  their  reward;  and  here,  under 
our  very  nose,  rises  a  new  "tyrant,"  claiming 
also  his  reward  from  us !  Precisely  when 
constitutional  liberty  was  beginning  to  be 
understood  a  little,  and  we  flattered  ourselves 
that  by  due  ballot-boxes,  by  due  registration- 

•  Travels  in  Chile. 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


«51 


courts,  and  bursts  of  parliamentary  eloquence, 
something  like  a  real  National  Palaver  would 
be  got  up  in  those  countries, — arises  this  tawny- 
visaged,  lean,  inexorable  Dr.  Francia ;  claps 
you  an  embargo  on  all  that ;  says  to  con- 
stitutional liberty,  in  the  most  tyrannous  man- 
ner. Hitherto,  and  no  farther !  It  is  an  un- 
deniable, though  an  almost  incredible  fact, 
that  Francia,  a  lean  private  individual,  Practi- 
tioner of  Law,  and  Doctor  of  Divinity,  did, 
for  twenty  or  near  thirty  years,  stretch  out  his 
rod  over  the  foreign  commerce  of  Paraguay, 
saying  to  it.  Cease  !  The  ships  lay  high  and 
dry,  their  pitchless  seams  all  yawning  on  the 
clay  banks  of  the  Parana;  and  no  man  could 
trade  but  by  Francia's  license.  If  any  person 
entered  Paraguay,  and  the  Doctor  did  not  like 
his  papers,  his  talk,  conduct,  or  even  the  cut 
of  his  face, — it  might  be  the  worse  for  such 
person !  Nobody  could  leave  Paraguay  on 
any  pretext  whatever.  It  mattered  not  that 
you  were  man  of  science,  astronomer,  geo- 
loger,  astrologer,  wizard  of  the  north ;  Francia 
heeded  none  of  these  things.  The  whole  world 
knows  of  M.  Aime  Bonpland ;  how  Francia 
seized  him,  descending  on  his  tea-establish- 
ment in  Entre  Rios,  like  an  obscene  vulture, 
and  carried  him  into  the  interior,  contrary 
even  to  the  law  of  nations  ;  how  the  great 
Humboldt  and  other  high  persons  expressly 
applied  to  Dr.  Francia,  calling  on  him,  in  the 
name  of  human  science,  and  as  it  were  under 
penalty  of  reprobation,  to  liberate  M.  Bonpland ; 
and  how  Dr.  Francia  made  no  answer,  and  M. 
Bonpland  did  not  return  to  Europe,  and  in- 
deed has  never  yet  returned.  It  is  also  ad- 
mitted that  Dr.  Francia  had  a  gallows,  had 
jailers,  law-fiscals,  officials;  and  executed,  in 
his  time,  "upwards  of  forty  persons,"  some  of 
them  in  a  very  summary  manner.  Liberty 
of  private  judgment,  unless  it  kept  its  mouth 
shut,  was  at  an  end  in  Paraguay.  Paraguay 
lay  under  interdict,  cut  off  for  above  twenty 
years  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  by  a  new 
Dionysius  of  Paraguay.  All  foreign  commerce 
had  ceased ;  how  much  more  all  domestic 
constitution-building!  These  are  strange  facts. 
Dr.  Francia,  we  may  conclude  at  least,  was 
not  a  common  man  but  an  uncommon. 

How  unfortunate  that  there  is  almost  no 
knowledge  of  him  procurable  at  present ! 
Next  to  none.  The  Paraguenos  can  in  many 
cases  spell  and  read,  but  they  are  not  a  litera- 
ry people ;  and,  indeed,  this  Doctor  was,  per- 
haps, too  awful  a  practical  phenomenon  to  be 
calmly  treated  of  in  the  literary  way.  Your 
Breughel  paints  his  sea-storm,  not  while  the 
ship  is  labouring  and  cracking,  but  after  he 
has  got  to  shore,  and  is  safe  under  cover ! 
Our  Buenos-Ayres  friends,  again,  who  are  not 
without  habits  of  printing,  lay  at  a  great  dis- 
tance from  Francia,  under  great  obscurations 
of  quarrel  and  controversy  with  him;  their 
constitutional  feeling  shocked  to  an  extreme 
degree  by  the  things  he  did.  To  them,  there 
could  little  intelligence  float  down,  on  those 
long  muddy  waters,  through  those  vast  dis- 
tracted countries,  that  was  not  more  or  less  of 
a  distracted  nature ;  and  then  from  Buenos- 
Ayres  over  into  Europe,  there  is  another  long 
tract  of  distance,  liable  to  new   distractions. 


Francia,  Dictator  of  Paraguay,  is,  at  present, 
to  the  European  mind,  little  other  than  a 
chimera ;  at  best,  the  statement  of  a  puzzle, 
to  which  the  solution  is  still  to  seek.  As  the 
Paraguenos,  though  not  a  literary  people,  can 
many  of  them  spell  and  write,  and  are  not 
without  a  discriminating  sense  of  true  and 
untrue,  why  should  not  some  real  "Life  of 
Francia,"  from  those  parts,  be  still  possible  ? 
If  a  writer  of  genius  arise  there,  he  is  hereby 
invited  to  the  enterprise.  Surely  in  all  places 
your  writing  genius  ought  to  rejoice  over  an 
acting  genius,  when  he  falls  in  with  such  ; 
and  say  to  himself:  "Here  or  nowhere  is  the 
thing  for  me  to  write  of!  Why  do  I  keep  pen 
and  ink  at  all,  if  not  to  apprize  men  of  this 
singular  acting  genius  and  the  like  of  him? 
My  fine-arts  and  aesthetics,  my  epics,  litera- 
tures, poetics,  if  I  will  think  of  it,  do  all  at 
bottom  mean  either  that  or  else  nothing  what- 
ever !" 

Hitherto  our  chief  source  of  information  as 
to  Francia  is  a  little  book,  the  second  on  our 
list,  set  forth  in  French  some  sixteen  years  ago, 
by  the  Messrs.  Rengger  and  Longchamp. 
Translations  into  various  languages  were  exe- 
cuted ;  of  that  into  English  it  is  our  painful  duty 
to  say  that  no  man,  except  in  the  case  of  ex- 
treme necessity,  shall  use  it  as  reading.  The 
translator,  having  little  fear  of  human  detection, 
and  seemingly  none  at  all  of  divine  or  diabolic, 
has  done  his  work  even  unusually  ill ;  with  ig- 
norance, with  carelessness,  with  dishonesty 
prepense ;  coolly  omitting  whatsoever  he  saw 
that  he  did  not  understand: — poor  man,  if  he 
yet  survive,  let  him  reform  in  time !  He  has 
made  a  French  book,  which  was  itself  but  lean 
and  dry,  into  the  most  wooden  of  English  false 
books ;  doing  evil  as  he  could  in  that  matter  ;— 
and  claimed  wages  for  it,  as  if  the  feat  deserved 
ivagcs  first  of  all !  Reformation,  even  on  the 
small  scale,  is  highly  necessary. 

The  Messrs.  Rengger  and  Longchamp  were, 
and  we  hope  still  are,  two  Swiss  Surgeons  ; 
who  in  the  year  1819  resolved  on  carrying  their 
talents  into  South  America,  into  Paraguay,  with 
views  towards  "natural  history,"  among  other 
things.  After  long  towing  and  struggling  in 
those  Parana  floods,  and  distracted  provinces, 
after  much  detention  by  stress  of  weather  and. 
of  war,  they  arrived  accordingly  in  Francia's 
country;  but  found  that  without  Francia's 
leave  they  could  not  quit  it  again.  Francia 
was  now  a  Dionysius  of  Paraguay.  Paraguay 
had  grown  to  be,  like  some  mousetraps  and 
other  contrivances  of  art  and  nature,  easy  to 
enter,  impossible  to  get  out  of.  Our  brave  Sur- 
geons, our  brave  Rengger  (for  it  is  he  alone  of 
the  two  that  speaks  and  writes)  reconciled  them- 
selves ;  were  set  to  doctoring  of  Francia's  sol- 
diery, of  Francia's  self;  collected  plants  and 
beetles ;  and,  for  six  years,  endured  their  lot 
rather  handsomely  :  at  length,  in  1825,  the  em- 
bargo was  for  a  time  lifted,  and  they  got  home. 
This  book  was  the  consequence.  It  is  not  a 
good  book,  but  at  that  date  there  was,  on  the 
subject,  no  other  book  at  all;  nor  is  there  yet 
any  other  better,  or  as  good.  We  consider  it  to 
be  authentic,  veracious,  moderately  accurate ; 
though  lean  and  dry,  it  is  intelligible,  rational ;  in 
the  French  original,  not  unreadable.    We  may 


658 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


say  it  embraces  up  to  this  date,  the  present  date, 
all  of  importance  that  is  yet  known  in  Europe 
about  the  Doctor  Despot;  add  to  this  its  indispu- 
table brevity ;  the  fact  that  it  can  be  read  sooner 
by  several  hours  than  any  other  Dr.  Francia  : 
these  are  its  excellences, — considerable,  though 
wholly  of  a  comparative  sort. 

After  all,  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit !  There 
is  an  endless  merit  in  a  man's  knowing  when 
to  have  done.  The  stupidest  man,  if  he  will 
be  brief  in  proportion,  may  fairly  claim  some 
hearing  from  us ;  he  too,  the  stupidest  man, 
has  seen  something,  heard  something,  which 
is  his  own,  distinctly  peculiar,  never  seen  or 
heard  by  any  man  in  this  world  before ;  let  him 
tell  us  that, — he,  brief  in  proportion,  shall  be 
welcome  ! 

The  Messrs.  Robertson,  with  their  "  Francia's 
Reign  of  Terror,"  and  other  books  on  South 
America,  have  been  much  before  the  world  of 
late ;  and  failed  not  of  a  perusal  from  this  re- 
viewer ;  whose  next  sad  duty  it  now  is  to  say 
a  word  about  them.  The  Messrs.  Robertson, 
some  thirty  or  five-and-thirty  years  ago,  were 
two  young  Scotchmen,  from  the  neighbourhood 
of  Edinburgh,  as  would  seem  :  who,  under  fair 
auspices,  set  out  for  Buenos-Ayres,  thence  for 
Paraguay,  and  other  quarters  of  that  remote 
continent,  in  the  way  of  commercial  adventure. 
Being  young  men  of  vivacity  and  open  eye- 
sight, they  surveyed  with  attentive  view  those 
convulsed  regions  of  the  world;  wherein  it  was 
evident  that  revolution  raged  not  a  little;  but 
also  that  precious  metals,  cowhides,  Jesuits' 
bark,  and  multiplex  commodities,  were  never- 
theless extant ;  and  iron  or  brazen  implements, 
ornaments,  cotton  and  woollen  clothing,  and  Bri- 
tish manufactures  not  a  few,  were  objects  of  de- 
sire to  mankind.  The  brothers  Robertson,  acting 
on  these  facts,  appear  to  have  prospered,  to 
have  extensively  flourished  in  their  commerce ; 
which  they  gradually  extended  up  the  river 
Plate,  to  the  city  of  the  Seven  Streams  or  Cur- 
rents, (Corrkntes  so  called,)  and  higher  even  to 
Assumpcion,  metropolis  of  Paraguay;  in  which 
latter  place,  so  extensive  did  the  commercial 
interests  grow,  it  seemed  at  last  expedient  that 
one  or  both  of  the  prosperous  brothers  should 
take  up  his  personal  residence.  Personal  resi- 
dence accordingly  they  did  take  up,  one  or  both 
of  them,  and  maintain,  in  a  fluctuating  way,  now 
in  this  city,  now  in  that,  of  the  De  la  Plata, 
Parana  or  Paraguay  country,  for  a  considera- 
ble space  of  years ;  how  many  years,  in  precise 
arithmetic,it  is  impossible,  from  these  inextrica- 
bly complicated  documents  now  before  us,  to  as- 
certain. In  Paraguay  itself,  in  Assumpcion  city 
itself,  it  is  very  clear,  the  brothers  Robertson  did, 
successively  or  simultaneously,  in  a  fluctuating 
inextricable  manner,  live  for  certain  years ;  and 
occasionally  saw  Dr.  F.rancia  with  their  own 
eyes, — though  to  the^#r  others,^hehad  notyet 
become  notable.  ''  i^tiA- 

Mountains  of  cow  and  other  ml^s,  it  would 
appear  quitted  those  countries  by  movement 
of  the  brothers  Robertson,  to  be  worn  out  in 
Europe  as  taiined  boots  and  horse-harness,  with 
more  or  less  satisfaction, — not  without  due 
profit  to  thrmerchants,  we  shall  hope.  About 
the  time  of  Di\  Francia's  beginning  his  "reign 
of  terror,"  or  earlier  it  may  be,  (for  there  are 


no  dates  in  these  inextricable  documents,)  the 
Messrs.  Robertson  were  lucky  enough  to  take 
final  farewell  of  Paraguay,  and  carry  their  com- 
mercial enterprises  into  other  quarters  of  that 
vast  continent,  where  the  reign  was  not  of 
terror.  Their  voyagings,  counter-voyagings, 
comings  and  goings,  seem  to  have  been  exten- 
sive, frequent,  inextricably  complex;  to  Europe, 
to  Tucuman,  to  Glasgow,  to  Chile,  to  Laswade 
and  elsewhither;  too  complex  for  a  succinct 
intelligence,  as  that  of  our  readers  has  to  be  at 
present.  Suflicient  for  us  to  know,  that  the 
Messrs.  Robertson  did  bodily,  and  for  good,  re- 
turn to  their  own  country  some  few  years  since ; 
with  what  net  result  of  cash  is  but  dimly 
adumbrated  in  these  documents;  certainly  with 
some  increase  of  knowledge — had  the  unfold- 
ing of  it  but  been  brief  in  proportion  !  Indis- 
putably the  Messrs.  Robertson  had  somewhat 
to  tell :  their  eyes  had  seen  some  new  things, 
of  which  their  hearts  and  understandings  had 
taken  hold  more  or  less.  In  which  circum- 
stances the  Messrs.  Robertson  decided  on  pub- 
lishing a  book.  Arrangements  being  made, 
two  volumes  of  "Letters  on  Paraguay"  came 
out,  with  due  welcome  from  the  world,  in  1839. 
We  have  read  these  "  Letters"  for  the  first 
time  lately  :  a  book  of  somewhat  ayucows  struc- 
ture :  immeasurably  thinner  than  one  could 
have  wished  ;  otherwise  not  without  merit.  It 
is  written  in  an  ofl'-hand,  free-glowing,  very  art- 
less, very  incorrect  style  of  language,  of  thought, 
and  of  conception ;  breathes  a  cheerful,  eupep- 
tic, social  spirit,  as  of  adventurous  South-Ame- 
rican Britons,  worthy  to  succeed  in  business; 
gives  one,  here  and  there,  some  visible  concrete 
feature,  some  lively  glimpse  of  those  remote 
sun-burnt  countries ;  and  has  throughout  a  kind 
of  bantering  humour  or  quasi-humour,  a  jovi- 
ality and  healthiness  of  heart,  which  is  com- 
fortable to  the  reader,  in  some  measure.  A 
book  not  to  be  despised  in  these  dull  times :  one 
of  that  extensive  class  of  books  which  a  reader 
can  peruse,  so  to  speak,  "with  one  eye  shut 
and  the  other  not  open;"  a  considerable  luxury 
for  some  readers.  These  "Letters  on  Para- 
guay" meeting,  as  would  seem,  a  unanimous 
approval,  it  was  now  determined  by  the  Messrs. 
Robertson  that  they  would  add  a  third  volume, 
and  entitle  it  "  Dr.  Francia's  Reign  of  Terror." 
They  did  so,  and  this  likewise  the  present  re- 
viewer has  read.  Unluckily  the  authors  had, 
as  it  were,  nothing  more  whatever  to  say  about 
Dr.  Francia,  or  next  to  nothing;  and  under  this 
condition,  it  must  be  owned  they  have  done 
their  book  with  what  success  was  well  possi- 
ble. Given  a  cubic  inch  of  respectable  Castile 
soap.  To  lather  it  up  in  water  so  as  to  fill  one 
puncheon  wine-measure:  this  is  the  problem; 
let  a  man  have  credit  (of  its  kind)  for  doing 
his.  problem!  The  Messrs.  Robertson  have 
picked  almost  every  fact  of  significance  from 
"  Rengger  and  Longchamp,"  adding  some  not 
very  significant  reminiscences  of  their  own ; 
this  is  the  square  inch  of  soap ;  you  lather  it 
up  in  Robertsonian  loquacity,  joviality,  Com- 
mercial-Inn banter,  Leading-Article  philoso- 
phy, or  other  aqueous  vehicles,  till  it  fills  the 
puncheon,  the  volume  of  four  hundred  pages, 
and  say  "  There  !"  The  public,  it  would  seem, 
did  not  fling   even   this   in   the  face   of  the 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


608 


venders,  but  bought  it  as  a  puncheon  filled ;  and 
the  consequences  are  already  here :  Three  vo- 
lumes more  on  "South  America,"  from  the 
same  assidious  Messrs  Robertson  !  These  also, 
in  his  eagerness,  this  present  reviewer  has 
read  ;  and  has,  alas,  to  say  that  they  are  simply 
the  old  volumes  in  new  vocables,  under  a  new 
figure.  Intrinsically  all  that  we  did  not  already 
know  of  these  three  volumes, — there  are  crafts- 
men of  no  great  eminence  who  will  undertake 
to  write  it  in  one  sheet !  Yet  there  they  stand, 
three  solid-looking  volumes,  a  thousand  printed 
pages  and  upwards ;  three  puncheons  more 
lathered  out  of  the  old  square  inch  of  Castile 
soap !  It  is  too  bad.  A  necessitous  ready- 
witted  Irishman  sells  you  an  indifferent  grey- 
horse  ;  steals  it  overnight,  paints  it  black,  and 
sells  it  to  you  again  on  the  morrow;  he  is 
haled  before  judges,  sharply  cross-questioned, 
tried  and  almost  executed,  for  such  adroitness 
in  horse-flesh :  but  there  is  no  law  yet  as  to 
books ! 

M.  de  la  Condamine,  about  a  century  ago, 
was  one  of  a  world-famous  company  that  went 
into  those  equinoctial  countries,  and  for  the 
space  of  nine  or  ten  years  did  exploits  there. 
From  Quito  to  Cuenga  he  measured  you  de- 
grees of  the  meridian,  climbed  mountains,  took 
observations,  had  adventures  ;  wild  Creoles  op- 
posing Spanish  nescience  to  human  science  ; 
wild  Indians  throwing  down  your  whole  cargo 
of  instruments  occasionally  in  the  heart  of  re- 
mote deserts,  and  striking  work  there.*  M.  de 
la  Condamine  saw  bull-fights  at  Cuenga,  five 
days  running ;  and,  on  the  fifth  day,  saw  his 
unfortunate  too  audacious  surgeon  massacred 
by  popular  tumult  there.  He  sailed  the  entire 
length  of  the  Amazons  River,  in  Indian  canoes ; 
over  narrow  Pongo  rapids,  over  infinite  mud- 
waters,  the  infinite  tangled  wilderness  with  its 
reeking  desolation  on  the  right  hand  of  him 
and  on  the  left ; — and  had  mischances,  adven- 
tures, and  took  celestial  observations  all  the 
way,  and  made  remarks !  Apart  altogether 
from  his  meridian  degrees,  which  belong  in  a 
very  strict  sense  to  world-history  and  the  ad- 
vancement of  all  Adam's  sinful  posterity,  this 
man  and  his  party  saw  and  suffered  many 
hundred  times  as  much  of  mere  romance  ad- 
venture as  the  Messrs.  Robertson  did: — 
Madame  Godin's  passage  down  the  Amazons, 
and  frightful  life-in-death  amid  the  howling 
forest-labyrinths,  and  wrecks  of  her  dear 
friends,  amounts  to  more  adventure  of  itself 
than  was  ever  dreamt  of  in  the  Robertsonian 
world.  And  of  all  this  M.  de  la  Condamine 
gives  pertinent,  lucid,  and  conclusively  intel- 
ligible and  credible  account  in  one  very  small 
octavo  volume;  not  quite  the  eighth  part  of 
what  Messrs.  Robertson  have  already  written, 
in  a  not  pertinent,  not  lucid,  or  conclusively 
intelligible  and  credible  manner.  And  the 
Messrs.  Robertson  talk  repeatedly,  in  their  last 
volumes,  of  writing  still  other  volumes  on 
Chile  '*  if  the  public  will  encourage."  The 
Public  will  be  a  monstrous  fool  if  it  do.  The 
Public  ought  to  stipulate  first  that  the  real 
new  knowledge  forthcoming  thereabout  Chile 
be  separated  from  the  knowledge  or  ignorance 

*  Condamine:  Relation  d'un  Voyage  dans  I'lnt^rieur 
de  I'Anierique  tu^ridionale. 
70 


already  known  ;  that  the  preliminary  question 
be  rigorously  put,  Are  several  volumes  the 
space  to  hold  it,  or  a  small  fraction  of  one  vo- 
lume 1 

On  the  whole,  it  is  a  sin,  good  reader,  though 
there  is  no  Act  of  Parliament  against  it;  an 
indubitable  wa/efaction  or  crime.  No  mortal 
has  a  right  to  wag  his  tongue,  much  less  to 
wag  his  pen,  without  saying  something;  he 
knows  not  what  mischief  he  does,  past  compu- 
tation ;  scattering  words  without  meaning, — 
to  afflict  the  whole  world  yet,  before  they 
cease  !  For  thistle-down  flies  abroad  on  all 
winds  and  airs  of  wind :  idle  thistles,  idle  dande- 
lions, and  other  idle  products  of  Nature  or  the 
human  mind,  propagate  themselves  in  that 
way ;  like  to  cover  the  face  of  the  earth,  did 
not  man's  indignant  providence  with  reap-hook, 
with  rake,  with  autumnal  steel-and-tinder,  in- 
tervene. It  is  frightful  to  think  how  every  idle 
volume  flies  abroad  like  an  idle  globular  down- 
beard,  embryo  of  new  millions ;  every  word 
of  it  a  potential  seed  of  infinite  new  downbeards 
and  volumes  ;  for  the  mind  of  man  isferacious, 
is  voracious ;  germinative,  above  all  things, 
of  the  downbeard  species!  Why,  the  author 
corps  in  Great  Britain,  every  soul  of  them  m- 
clined  to  grow  mere  dandelions  if  permitted,  is 
now  supposed  to  be  about  ten  thousand  strong ; 
and  the  reading  corps,  who  read  merely  to  es- 
cape from  themselves,  with  one  eye  shut  and 
the  other  not  open,  and  will  put  up  with  almost 
any  dandelion  or  thing  which  they  can  read 
without  opening  both  their  eyes,  amounts  to 
twenty-seven  millions  all  but  a  few  !  O  could 
the  Messrs.  Robertson,  spirited,  articulate- 
speaking  men,  once  know  well  in  what  a 
comparatively  blessed  mood  you  close  your 
brief,  intelligent,  conclusive  M.  de  la  Conda- 
mine, and  feel  that  you  have  passed  your 
evening  well  and  nobly,  as  in  a  temple  of  wis- 
dom,— not  ill  and  disgracefully,  as  in  brawling 
tavern  supper-rooms,  with  fools  and  noisy  per- 
sons,— ah,  in  that  case,  perhaps  the  Messrs.  Ro- 
bertson would  write  their  new  work  on  Chile 
in  part  of  a  volume  ! 

But  enough  of  this  Robertsonian  department ; 
which  we  must  leave  to  the  Fates  and  Supreme 
Providences.  These  spirited,  articulate-speak- 
ing Robertsons  are  far  from  the  worst  of  their 
kind  ;  nay,  among  the  best,  if  you  will ; — only 
unlucky  in  this  case,  in  coming  across  the 
autumnal  steel  and  tinder!  Let  it  cease  to 
rain  angry  sparks  on  them  :  enough  now,  and 
more  than  enough.  To  cure  that  unfortunate 
department  by  philosophical  criticism — the  at- 
tempt is  most  vain.  Who  will  dismount  on  a 
hasty  journey,  with  the  day  declining,  to  at- 
tack musquito-swarms  with  the  horsewhip  1 
Spur  swiftly  through  them;  breathing  perhaps 
some  pious  prayer  to  heaven.  By  the  horse- 
whip they  cannot  be  k|il^.  Drain  out  the 
swamps  wher|^^y  are  br?a, — Ah,couldst  thou 
do  something \&'-u^'ards  that !  4M^"  the  mean 
while :  How  to  get  on  with  thi^^-w^^^Jrancia. 

The  materials,  as  our  re  ;uler  see^jLe^of  the 
miserablest:  mere  intricate  iuaniiya^we  ex- 
cept poor  wooden  Iiena'j:^ ;.)  and  IiSJ^more ; 
not  facts,  but  broken  shadous  of  facts;  clouds 
of  confused  bluster  and  jargon; — the  whole 
still  more  bewildered  in  the  ivoim'sons,  by  what 
3A 


654 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


we  may  call  a  running  shriek  of  constitutional 
denunciation,  "sanguinary  tyrant,"  and  so 
forth.  How  is  any  picture  of  Francia  to  be 
fabricated  out  of  that  1  Certainly,  first  of  all, 
by  omission  of  the  running  shriek  !  This  latter 
we  shall  totally  omit.  Francia,  the  sanguinary 
tyrant,  was  not  bound  to  look  at  the  world 
through  Rengger's  eyes,  through  Parish  Robert- 
son's eyes,  but  faithfully  through  his  own  eyes, 
"We  are  to  consider  that,  in  all  human  likeli- 
hood, this  Dionysius  of  Paraguay  did  mean 
something;  and  then  ask  in  quietness,  Whaf? 
The  running  shriek  once  hushed,  perhaps 
many  things  will  compose  themselves,  and 
straggling  fractions  of  information,  almost  infi- 
nitessimally  small,  may  become  unexpectedly 
luminous ! 

An  unscientific  cattle-breeder  and  tiller  of 
the  earth,  in  some  nameless  chacra  not  far  from 
the  city  of  Assumpcion,  was  the  father  of  this 
remarkable  human  individual ;  and  seems  to 
have  evoked  him  into  being  some  time  in  the 
year  1757.  The  man's  name  is  not  known  to 
us  ;  his  very  nation  is  a  point  of  controversy : 
Francia  himself  gave  him  outfor  an  immigrant 
of  French  extraction  ;  the  popular  belief  was, 
that  he  had  Avandered  over  from  Brazil.  Por- 
tuguese or  French,  or  both  in  one,  he  produced 
this  human  individual,  and  had  him  christened 
by  the  name  of  Jose  Gaspar  Rodriguez  Fran- 
cia, in  the  year  above  mentioned.  Rodriguez  no 
doubt  had  a  mother  too ;  but  her  name  also, 
nowhere  found  mentioned,  must  be  omitted  in 
this  delineation.  Her  name,  and  all  her  fond 
maternities,  and  workings,  and  sufferings, 
good  brown  lady,  are  sunk  in  dumb  forgetful- 
ness  ;  and  buried  there  along  with  her,  under 
the  twenty-fifth  parallel  of  Southern  Latitude; 
and  no  British  reader  is  required  to  interfere 
with  them  !  Jose  Rodriguez  must  have  been 
a  loose-made  tawny  creature,  much  given  to 
taciturn  reflection ;  probably  to  crying  hu- 
mours, with  fits  of  vehement  ill-nature  :  such 
a  subject,  it  seemed  to  the  parent  Francia 
cautiously  reflecting  on  it,  would,  of  all  attain- 
able trades,  be  suitablest  for  preaching  the  gos- 
pel, and  doing  the  divine  oifices,  in  a  country 
like  Paraguay.  There  were  other  young  Fran- 
cias  ;  at  least  one  sister  and  one  brother  in  ad- 
dition ;  of  whom  the  latter  by  and  by  went 
mad.  The  Francias,  with  their  adust  charac- 
ter, and  vehement  French-Portuguese  blood, 
had  perhaps  all  a  kind  of  aptitude  for  madness. 
The  Dictator  himself  was  subject  to  the  terri- 
blest  fits  of  hypochondria,  as  5'^our  adust  "men 
of  genius"  too  frequently  are!  The  lean  Rod- 
riguez, we  fancy,  may  have  been  of  a  devo- 
tional turn  withal ;  born  half  a  century  earlier, 
he  had  infallibly  been  so.  Devotional  or  not, 
he  shall  be  a  priest,  and  do  the  divine  oflices 
in  Paraguay,  perhaps  in  a  very  unexpected 
way. 

Rodriguez  having  learned  his  hornbooks  and 
elementary  branches  at  Assumpcion,  was  ac- 
cordingly despatched  to  the  University  of  Cor- 
dova in  Tucuman,  to  pursue  his  curricul.um  in 
that  seminary.  So  far  we  know,  but  almost  no 
farther.  What  kind  of  curriculum  it  was, 
what  lessons,  spiritual  spoonmeat,  the  poor 
lank  sallow  boy  was  crammed  with,  in  Cor- 


dova High  Seminary ;  and  how  he  took  to  it, 
and  pined  or  throve  on  it,  is  entirely  uncertain. 
Lank  sallow  boys  in  the  Tucuman  and  other 
high  Seminaries  are  often  dreadfully  ill-dealt 
with,  in  respect  to  their  spiritual  spoonmeat, 
as  the  times  go  !  Spoon-poison  you  might  often 
call  it  rather :  as  if  the  object  were  to  make 
them  Mithridateses,  able  to  live  on  poison  ! 
Which  maybe  a  useful  art,  too,  in  its  kind! 
Nay,  in  fact,  if  we  consider  it,  these  high  semi- 
naries and  establishments  exist  there,  in 
Tucuman  and  elsewhere,  not  for  that  lank 
sallow  boy's  special  purposes,  but  for  their 
own  wise  purposes ;  they  were  made  and 
put  together,  a  long  while  since,  without  taking 
the  smallest  counsel  of  the  sallow  boy  !  Fre- 
quently they  seem  to  say  to  him,  all  along: 
"This  precious  thing  that  lies  in  thee,  O  sallow 
boy,  of 'genius,'  so  called,  it  may  to  thee  and 
to  eternal  Nature,  be  precious;  but  to  us  and 
to  temporary  Tucuman,  it  is  not  precious,  but 
pernicious,  deadly  :  we  require  thee  to  quit  this, 
or  expectpenalties  !"  And  yet  the  poor  boy,  how 
can  he  quit  it ;  eternal  Nature  herself,  from 
the  depths  of  the  Universe,  ordering  him  to  go 
on  with  it]  From  the  depths  of  the  Universe, 
and  of  his  own  Soul,  latest  revelation  of  the 
Universe,  he  is,  in  a  silent,  imperceptible,  but 
irrefragable  manner,  directed  to  go  on  with  it, 
— and  has  to  go,  though  under  penalties.  Pe- 
nalties of  very  death,  or  worse !  Alas,  the 
poor  boy,  so  willing  to  obey  temporary  Tucu- 
mans,  and  yet  unable  to  disobey  eternal  Na- 
ture, is  truly  to  be  pitied.  Thou  shalt  be 
Rodriguez  Francia !  cries  Nature,  and  the 
poor  boy  to  himself.  Thou  shalt  be  Ignatius 
Loyola,  Friar  Ponderoso,  Don  Fatpauncho 
Usandwonto!  cries  Tucuman.  The  poor  crea- 
ture's whole  boyhood  is  one  long  lawsuit : 
Rodriguez  Francia  against  All  Persons  in  ge- 
neral. It  is  sa  in  Tucuman,  so  in  most  places. 
You  cannot  advise  effectually  into  what  high 
seminary  he  had  best  be  sent;  the  only  safe 
way  is  to  bargain  beforehand,  that  he  have 
force  born  with  him  sufficient  to  make  itself 
good  against  all  persons  in  general ! 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  lean  Francia  prose- 
cutes his  studies  at  Cordova,  waxes  gradually 
taller  towards  new  destinies.  Rodriguez  Fran- 
cia, in  some  kind  of  Jesuit  scullcap,  and  black 
college  serge  gown,  a  lank  rawboned  creature, 
stalking  with  a  down-look  through  the  irregu- 
lar public  streets  of  Cordova  in  those  years, 
with  an  infinitude  of  painful  unspeakabilities 
in  the  interior  of  him,  is  an  interesting  object 
to  the  historical  mind.  So  much  is  unspeak- 
able, 0  Rodriguez ;  and  it  is  a  most  strange 
Universe  this  we  are  born  into;  and  the  theo- 
rem of  Ignatius  Loyola  and  Don  Fatpauncho 
Usandwonto  seems  to  me  to  hobble  somewhat ! 
Much  is  unspeakable  ;  lying  within  one  like  a 
dark  lake  of  doubt,  of  Acherontic  dread  lead- 
ing down  to  Chaos  itself.  Much  is  unspeak- 
able, answers  Francia ;  but  somewhat  also  is 
speakable, — this  for  example  :  That  I  will  not 
be  a  priest  in  Tucuman  in  these  circum- 
stances ;  that  I  should  like  decidedly  to  be  a 
secular  person  rather,  were  it  even  a  lawyer ! 
Francia,  arrived  at  man's  years,  changes  from 
Divinity  to  Law.  Some  say  it  was  in  Divinity 
that  he  graduated,  and  got  his  Doctor's  hat ; 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


555 


Rengger  says,  Divinity ;  the  Robertsons,  like- 
lier to  be  incorrect,  call  him  Doctor  of  Laws. 
To  our  present  readers  it  is  all  one,  or  nearly 
so.  Rodriguez  quitted  the  Tucuman  Alma 
Mater,  with  some  beard  on  his  chin,  and  reap- 
peared in  Assumpcion  to  look  out  for  practice 
at  the  bar. 

What  had  Rodriguez  contrived  to  learn,  or 
grow  to,  under  this  his  Jlma  Mater  in  Cordova, 
when  he  quitted  her  1  The  answer  is  a  mere 
guess  ;  his  curriculum,  we  again  say,  is  not  yet 
known.  Some  faint  smattering  of  Arithmetic, 
or  the  everlasting  laws  of  numbers;  faint 
smattering  of  Geometry,  everlasting  laws  of 
Shapes  ;  these  things  we  guess,  not  altogether 
in  the  dark,  Rodriguez  did  learn,  and  found 
extremely  remarkable.  Curious  enough  :  That 
round  Globe  put  into  that  round  Drum,  to 
touch  it  at  the  ends  and  all  round,  it  is  pre- 
cisely as  if  you  clapt  2  into  the  inside  of  3, 
not  a  jot  more,  not  a  jot  less  :  wonder  at  it,  O 
Francia;  for  in  fact  it  is  a  thing  to  make  one 
pause !  Old  Greek  Archimedeses,  Pythago- 
rases,  dusky  Indians,  old  nearly  as  the  hills, 
detected  such  things  ;  and  they  have  got  across 
into  Paraguay,  into  this  brain  of  thine,  thou 
happy  Francia.  How  is  it,  too,  that  the  Al- 
mighty Maker's  planets  run  in  those  heavenly 
spaces,  in  paths  which  are  conceivable  in  thy 
poor  human  head  as  Sections  of  a  cone  1 
The  thing  thou  conceivest  as  an  Ellipse,  the 
Almighty  Maker  has  set  his  Planets  to  roll  in 
that.  Clear  proof,  which  neither  Loyola  nor 
Usandwonto  can  contravene,  that  Thou  too  art 
denizen  of  this  universe;  that  thou  too,  in 
some  inconceivable  manner,  wert  present  at 
the  Conncil  of  the  Gods!— Faint  smatterings 
of  such  things  Francia  did  learn  iq  Tucuman. 
Endless  heavy  fodderings  of  Jesuit  theology, 
poured  on  him  and  round  him  by  the  wagon- 
load,  incessantly,  and  year  after  year,  he  did 
not  learn;  but  left  lying  there  as  shot  rubbish. 
On  the  other  hand,  some  slight  inkling  of  hu- 
man grammatical  vocables,  especially  of 
French  vocables,  seems  probable.  French 
vocables  ;  bodily  garments  of  the  "  Encyclo- 
pedie"  and  Gospel  according  to  Volney,  Jean 
Jacques  and  Company;  of  infinite  import  to 
Francia ! 

Nay,  is  it  not  in  some  sort  beautiful  to  see 
the  sacred  flame  of  ingenuous  human  curi- 
osity, love  of  knowledge,  awakened,  amid  the 
damp  somnolent  vapours,  real  and  metaphori- 
cal, the  damp  tropical  poison-jungles,  and  fat 
Lethean  stupefactions  and  entanglements,  even 
in  the  heart  of  a  poor  Paraguay  Creole  1  Sa- 
cred flame,  no  bigger  yet  than  that  of  a  far- 
thing rushlight,  and  with  nothing  but  second- 
hand French  class-books  in  science,  and  in 
politics  and  morals  nothing  but  the  Raynals 
and  Rousseaus,  to  feed  it:  an  t//-fed,  lank-qua- 
vering, most  blue-coloured,  almost  ghastly- 
looking  flame ;  but  a  needful  one,  a  kind  of 
sacred  one  even  that!  Thou  shalt  love  know- 
ledge, search  what  is  the  truth  of  this  God's 
Universe;  thou  art  privileged  and  bound  to 
love  it,  to  search  for  it,  in  Jesuit  Tucuman,  in 
all  places  that  the  sky  covers ;  and  shall  try 
even  Volneys  for  help,  if  there  be  no  other 
help!  This  poor  blue-coloured  inextinguish- 
able flame  in  the  soul  of  Rodriguez  Francia, 


there  as  it  burns  better  or  worse,  in  many 
figures,  through  the  whole  life  of  him,  is  very 
notable  to  me.  Blue  flame  though  it  be,  it 
has  to  burn  up  considerable  quantities  of  poi- 
sonous lumber  from  the  general  face  of  Para- 
guay ;  and  singe  the  profound  impenetrable 
forest-jungle,  spite  of  all  its  brambles  and  lia- 
nas, into  a  very  black  condition, — intimating 
that  there  shall  be  disease  and  removal  on  the 
part  of  said  forest-jungle  ;  peremptory  removal; 
that  the  blessed  Sunlight  shall  again  look  in 
upon  his  cousin  Earth,  tyrannously  hidden 
from  him,  for  so  many  centuries  now !  Cou- 
rage, Rodriguez  ! 

Rodriguez,  indifferent  to  such  remote  consi- 
derations, successfully  addicts  himself  to  law- 
pleadings,  and  general  private  studies,  in  the 
city  of  Assumpcion.  We  have  always  under- 
stood he  was  one  of  the  best  advocates,  per- 
haps the  very  best,  and,  what  is  still  more,  the 
justest  that  ever  took  briefs  in  that  country. 
This  the  Robertsonian  *'  Reign  of  Terror  "  it- 
self is  willing  to  admit,  nay  repeatedily  as- 
serts, and  impresses  on  us.  He  was  so  just 
and  true,  while  a  young  man ;  gave  such  di- 
vine prognostics  of  a  life  of  nobleness ;  and 
then,  in  his  riper  years,  so  belied  all  that! 
Shameful  to  think  of;  he  bade  fair,  at  one  time, 
to  be  a  friend  of  humanity  of  the  first  water ; 
and  then  gradually,  hardened  by  political  suc- 
cess, and  love  of  power,  he  became  a  mere 
ravenous  goul,  or  solitary  thief  in  the  night; 
stealing  the  constitutional  palladiums  from 
their  parliament  houses — and  executed  up- 
ward of  forty  persons !  Sad  to  consider  what 
men  and  friends  of  humanity  will  come  to ! 

For  the  rest  it  is  not  given  to  this  or  as  yet  to 
any  editor,  till  a  Biography  arrive  from  Para- 
guay, to  shape  out,  with  the  smallest  clearness, 
a  representation  of  Francia's  existence  as  an 
Assumpcion  Advocate;  the  scene  is  so  distant, 
the  conditions  of  it  so  unknown.  Assumpcion 
city,  near  three  hundred  years  old  now,  lies  in 
free-and-easy  fashion,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Pa- 
ran  a  River,  embosomed  among  fruit-forests,  rich 
tropical  umbrage;  thick  wood  round  it  every- 
where,— which  serves  for  defence  too  against 
the  Indians.  Approach  by  which  of  the  vari- 
ous roads  you  will,  it  is  through  miles  of  soli- 
tary shady  avenue,  shutting  out  the  sun's  glare; 
over-canopying,  as  with  grateful  green  awn- 
ing, the  loose  sand-highway, — where,  in  the 
early  part  of  this  century,  (date  undiscoverable 
in  those  intricate  volumes,)  Mr.  Parish  Robert- 
son, advancing  on  horseback,  met  one  cart 
driven  by  a  smart  brown  girl,  in  red  bodice, 
with  long  black  hair,  not  unattractive  to  look 
upon;  and  for  a  spjce  of  twelve  miles,  no 
other  articulate-speaking  thing  whatever.* 

The  people  of  that  profuse  climate  live  in 
a  careless  abundance,  troubling  themselves 
about  few  things  ;  build  what  wooden  carts, 
hide-beds,  mud-brick  houses,  are  indispens- 
able; import  what  of  ornamental  lies  handiest 
abroad  ;  exchanging  it  for  Paraguay  tea  in 
sewed  goatskins.  Riding  through  the  town  of 
Santa  Fe,  with  Parish  Robertson  at  three  in 
the  afternoon,  you  will  find  the  entire  popula- 
tion just  risen  from  its  siesta  ;  slipshod,  half- 


♦  Letters  on  Paraguay. 


556 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


buttoned ;  sitting  in  its  front  verandahs  open 
to  the  street,  eating  pumpkins  with  voracity, — 
sunk  to  the  ears  in  pumpkins  ;  imbibing  the 
grateful  saccharine  juices,  in  a  free  and  easy 
way.  They  look  up  at  the  sound  of  your 
hoofs,  not  without  good  humour.  Frondent 
trees  parasol  the  streets, — thanks  to  Nature 
and  the  Virgin.  You  will  be  welcome  at  their 
tertulias, — a  kind  of  " swarrie"  as  the  flunkey 
says,  "consisting  of  flirtation  and  the  usual 
trimmings  :  swarrie  on  the  table  about  seven 
o'clock."  Before  this,  the  whole  population,  it 
is  like,  has  gone  to  bathe  promiscuously,  and 
cool  and  purify  itself  in  the  Parana :  promis- 
cuously, but  you  have  all  got  linen  bathing- 
garments  and  can  swash  about  with  some  de- 
cency; a  great  relief  to  the  human  taberna- 
cle in  those  climates.  At  your  tertulia,  it  is 
said,  the  Andalusian  eyes,  still  bright  to  the 
tenth  or  twelfth  generation,  are  distractive, 
seductive  enough,  and  argue  a  soul  that  would 
repay  cultivating.  The  beautiful  half-savages  ; 
full  of  wild  sheet-lightning,  which  might  be 
made  continuously  luminous  !  Tertulia  well 
over,  you  sleep  on  hide  stretchers,  perhaps 
here  and  there  on  a  civilized  mattrass,  within 
doors  or  on  the  housetops. 

In  the  damp  flat  country  parts,  where  the 
mosquitoes  abound,  you  sleep  on  high  stages, 
mounted  on  four  poles,  forty  feet  above  the 
ground,  attained  by  ladders ;  so  high,  blessed 
be  the  Virgin,  no  mosquito  can  follow  to  sting, 
— it  is  a  blessing  of  the  Virgin  or  some  other. 
You  sleep  there,  in  an  indiscriminate  arrange- 
ment, each  in  his  several  poncho  or  blanket- 
cloak;  with  some  saddle,  deal-box,  wooden 
log,  or  the  like,  under  your  head.  For  bed- 
tester  is  the  canopy  of  everlasting  blue:  for 
night-lamp  burns  Canopus  in  his  infinite 
spaces ;  mosquitoes  cannot  reach  you,  if  it 
please  the  Powers.  And  rosy-fingered  Morn, 
sufiusingthe  east  with  sudden  red  and  gold,  and 
other  flame-heraldry  of  swift-advancing  Day, 
attenuat-es  all  dreams  ;  and  the  sun's  first  level 
light-volley  sheers  away  sleep  from  living 
creatures  everywhere;  and  living  men  do 
ihen  awaken  on  their  four-post  stage  there,  in 
the  PampaSj — and  might  begin  with  prayer  if 
they  liked,  one  fancies !  There  is  an  altar 
decked  on  the  horizon's  edge  yonder,  is  there 
not;  and  a  cathedral  wide  enough? — How, 
over  night,  you  have  defended  yourselves 
against  vampires,  is  unknown  to  this  editor. 

The  Guacho  population,  it  must  be  owned, 
is  not  yet  fit  for  constitutional  liberty.  They 
are  a  rude  people ;  lead  a  drowsy  life,  of  ease 
and  sluttish  abundance, — one  shade,  and  but 
one,  above  a  dog's  life,  which  is  defined  as 
"  ease  and  scarcity."  The  arts  are  in  their  in- 
fancy; and  not  less  the  virtues.  For  equip- 
ment, clothing,  bedding,  household  furniture, 
and  general  outfit  of  every  kind,  those  simple 
populations  depend  much  on  the  skin  of  the 
cow  ;  making  of  it  most  things  wanted,  lasso, 
bolas,  ship-cordage,  rimmings  of  cart-wheels, 
spatterdashes,  beds,  and  house-doors.  In  coun- 
try places  they  sit  on  the  skull  of  the  cow : 
General  Artigas  was  seen,  and  spoken  with, 
by  one  of  the  Robertsons,  sitting  among  field- 
officers,  all  on  cow-skulls,  toasting  stripes  of 
beef,  and  "dictating  to   three   secretaries  at 


once."*  They  sit  on  the  skull  of  the  cow  in 
country  places;  nay  they  heat  themselves, 
and  even  burn  lime,  by  igniting  the  carcass  of 
the  cow. 

One  art  they  seem  to  have  perfected,  and 
one  only — that  of  riding.  Astleys  and  Ducrows 
must  hide  their  head,  all  glories  of  Newmarket 
and  Epsom  dwindle  to  extinction,  in  compari- 
son of  Guacho  horsemanship.  Certainly  if 
ever  Centaurs  lived  upon  the  earth,  these  are 
of  them.  They  stick  on  their  horses  as  if  both 
were  one  flesh ;  galloping  where  there  seems 
hardly  path  for  an  ibex;  leaping  like  kan- 
garoos, and  flourishing  their  nooses  and  bolases 
the  while.  They  can  whirl  themselves  round 
under  the  belly  of  the  horse,  in  cases  of  war- 
stratagem,  and  stick  fast,  hanging  on  by  the 
mere  great  toe  and  heel.  You  think  it  is  a 
drove  of  wild  horses  galloping  up:  on  a  sud- 
den, with  wild  scream,  it  becomes  a  troop  of 
Centaurs  with  pikes  in  their  hands.  Nay,  they 
have  the  skill,  which  most  of  all  transcends 
Newmarket,  of  riding  on  horses  that  are  not 
fed ;  and  can  bring  fresh  speed  and  alacrity 
out  of  a  horse  which,  with  you,  was  on  the 
point  of  lying  down.  To  ride  on  three  horses 
with  Ducrow  they  would  esteem  a  small  feat: 
to  ride  on  the  broken-winded  fractional  part 
of  one  horse,  that  is  the  feat! 

Their  huts  abound  in  beef,  in  reek  also,  and 
rubbish  ;  excelling  in  dirt  most  places  that 
human  nature  has  anywhere  inhabited.  Poor 
Guachos  !  They  drink  Paraguay  tea,  sucking 
it  up  in  succession,  through  the  same  tin  pipe, 
from  one  common  skillet.  They  are  hospita- 
ble, sooty,  leathery,  lying,  laughing  fellows  ; 
of  excellent  talent  in  their  sphere.  They  have 
stoicism,  though  ignorant  of  Zeno;  nay  stoic- 
ism coupled  with  real  gayety  of  heart.  Amidst 
their  reek,  they  laugh  loud,  in  -rough  jolly 
banter;  they  twang,  in  a  plaintive  manner, 
rough  love-melodies  on  a  kind  of  guitar; 
smoke  infinite  tobacco;  and  delight  in  gam- 
bling and  ardent  spirits,  ordinary  refuge  of 
voracious  empty  souls.  For  the  same  reason, 
and  a  belter,  they  delight  also  in  Corpus- 
Christi  ceremonies,  mass-chantings,  and  de- 
votional performances.  These  men  are  fit  to 
be  drilled  into  something!  Their  lives  stand 
there  like  empty  capacious  bottles,  calling  to 
the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  all  Dr.  Francias 
who  may  pass  that  way:  "Is  there  nothing  to 
put  into  us,  then  ?  Nothing  but  nomadic  idle- 
ness, Jesuit  superstition,  rubbish,  reek,  and  dry 
stripes  of  tough  beef?"  Ye  unhappy  Guachos, 
— yes,  there  is  something  other,  there  are 
several  things  other,  to  put  into  you!  But 
withal,  you  will  observe,  the  seven  devils  have 
first  to  be  put  out  of  you:  Idleness,  lawless 
Brutalness,  Darkness,  Falseness — seven  devils 
or  more.  And  the  way  to  put  something  into 
you  is,  alas,  not  so  plain  at  present!  Is  ii-, — 
alas,  on  the  whole,  is  it  not  perhaps  to  lay 
good  horse-whips  lustily  upon  you,  and  cast 
out  these  seven  devils  as  a  preliminary  ] 

How  Francia  passed  his  days  in  such  a 
region,  where  philosophy,  as  is  too  clear,  was 
at  the  lowest  ebb?  Francia,  like  Quintus 
Fixlein,  had  "  perennial  fire-proof  joys,  namely 

♦  Letters  on  Paraguay. 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


66T 


employments."  He  had  much  law-business,  a 
great  and  ever-increasing  reputation  as  a  man 
at  once  skilful  and  faithful  in  the  management 
of  causes  for  men.  Then,  in  his  leisure  hours, 
he  had  his  Volneys,  Raynals ;  he  had  second- 
hand scientific  treatises  in  French  ;  he  loved 
to  •'  interrogate  Nature,"  as  they  say ;  to  pos- 
sess theodolites,  telescopes,  star-glasses, — any 
kind  of  glass  or  book,  or  gazing  implement 
whatever,  through  which  he  might  try  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Fact  in  this  strange  Universe  : 
poor  Francia  !  Nay,  it  is  said,  his  hard  heart 
was  not  without  inflammability;  was  sensible 
to  those  Andalusian  eyes  still  bright  in  the 
tenth  or  twelfth  generation.  In  such  case,  too, 
it  may  have  burnt,  one  Avould  think,  like  an- 
thracite, in  a  somewhat  ardent  manner.  Ru- 
mours to  this  effect  are  afloat;  not  at  once  in- 
credible. Pity  there  had  not  been  some  An- 
dalusian pair  of  eyes,  with  speculation,  depth 
and  soul  enough  in  the  rear  of  them  to  fetter 
Dr.  Francia  permanently,  and  make  a  house- 
father of  him.  It  had  been  better;  but  it  be- 
fell not.  As  for  that  light-headed,  smart,  brown 
girl  whom,  twenty  years  afterwards,  you  saw 
selling  flowers  on  the  streets  of  Assumpcion, 
and  leading  a  light  life,  is  there  any  certainty 
that  she  was  Dr.  Francia's  daughter?  Any 
certainty  that,  even  if  so,  he  could  and  should 
have  done  something  considerable  for  her]* 
Poor  Francia,  poor  light-headed,  smart,  brown 
girl, — this  present  reviewer  cannot  say  ! 

Francia  is  a  somewhat  lonesome,  down- 
looking  man,  apt  to  be  solitary  even  in  the  press 
of  men  ;  wears  a  face  not  unvisited  by  laughter, 
yet  tending  habitually  towards  the  sorrowful, 
the  stern.  He  passes  everywhere  for  a  man 
of  veracity,  punctuality,  of  iron  methodic 
rigour ;  of  iron  rectitude,  above  all.  "  The 
skilful  lawyer,"  "  the  learned  lawyer,"  these 
are  reputations;  but  the  "honest  lawyer!" 
This  law-case  was  reported  by  the  Robertsons 
before  they  thought  of  writing  a"Francia's 
Reign  of  Terror,"  with  that  running  shriek, 
which  so  confuses  us.  We  love  to  believe  the 
anecdote,  even  in  its  present  loose  state,  as 
significant  of  many  things  in  Francia  : 

"It  has  been  already  observed  that  Francia's 
reputation,  as  a  lawyer,  was  not  only  unsullied 
by  venality,  but  conspicuous  for  rectitude. 

"He  had  a  friend  in  Assumpcion  of  the 
name  of  Domingo  Rodriguez.  This  man  had 
cast  a  covetous  eye  upon  a  Naboth's  vineyard, 
and  this  Naboth,  of  whom  Francia  was  the 
open  enemy,  was  called  Estanislao  Machain. 
Never  doubting  that  the  young  doctor,  like 
other  lawyers,  would  undertake  his  unright- 
eous cause,  Rodriguez  opened  to  him  his  case, 
and  requested,  with  a  handsome  retainer,  his 
advocacy  of  it.  Francia  saw  at  once  that 
his  friend's  pretensions  were  founded  in  fraud 
and  injustice  ;  and  he  not  only  refused  to  act 
as  his  counsel,  but  plainly  told  him,  that  much 
as  he  hated  his  antagonist  Machain,  yet  if  he 
(Rodriguez)  persisted  in  his  iniquitous  suit, 
that  antagonist  should  have  his  (Francia's) 
most  zealous  support.  But  covetousness,  as 
Ahab's  story  shows  us,  is  not  so  easily  driven 
from  its  pretensions;  and  in  spite  of  Francia's 

*  Robertson. 


warning,  Rodriguez  persisted.  As  he  was  a 
potent  man  in  point  of  fortune,  all  was  going 
against  Machain  and  his  devoted  vineyard. 

"  At  this  stage  of  the  question,  Francia  wrap- 
ped himself  one  night  in  his  cloak,  and  walked 
to  the  house  of  his  inveterate  enemy,  Machain. 
The  slave  who  opened  the  door,  knowing  that 
his  master  and  the  doctor,  like  the  houses  of 
Montagu  and  Capulet,  were  smoke  in  each 
other's  eyes,  refused  the  lawyer  admittance, 
and  ran  to  inform  his  master  of  the  strange 
and  unexpected  visit.  Machain,  no  less  struck 
by  the  circumstance  than  his  slave,  for  some 
time  hesitated ;  but  at  length  determined  to 
admit  Francia.  In  walked  the  silent  doctor  to 
Machain's  chamber.  All  the  papers  connected 
with  the  law-plea — voluminous  enough  I  have 
been  assured — were  outspread  upon  the  de- 
fendant's escritoire. 

" '  Machain,'  said  the  lawyer,  addressing 
him,  *you  know  I  am  your  enemy.  But  I 
know  that  my  friend  Rodriguez  meditates,  and 
will  certainly,  unless  I  interfere,  carry  against 
you  an  act  of  gross  and  lawless  aggression;  I 
have  come  to  offer  my  services  in  yoar  de- 
fence.' 

"The  astonished  Machain  could  scarcely 
credit  his  senses  ;  but  poured  forth  the  ebulli- 
tion of  his  gratitude  in  terms  of  thankful  ac- 
quiescence. 

"The  first  'escrito,'  or  writing,  sent  in  by 
Francia  to  the  Juez  de  Alzada,  or  Judge  of  the 
Court  of  Appeal,  confounded  the  adverse  advo- 
cates, and  staggered  the  judge,  who  was  in  their 
interest.  'My  friend,'  said  the  judge  to  the 
leading  counsel,  *I  cannot  go  forward  in  this 
matter,  unless  you  bribe  Dr.  Francia  to  be 
silent.'  *  I  will  try,' replied  the  advocate,  and 
he  went  to  Naboth's  counsel  with  a  hundred 
doubloons,  (about  three  hundred  and  fifty 
guineas,)  which  he  oflfered  him  as  a  bribe  to 
let  the  cause  take  its  iniquitous  course.  Con- 
sidering, too,  that  his  best  introduction  would 
be  a  hint  that  his  douceur  was  offered  with 
the  judge's  concurrence,  the  knavish  lawyer 
hinted  to  the  upright  one  that  such  was  the  fact. 

"  *  Saiga  listed,'  said  Francia,  '  con  sus  viles 
pensamientos,  y  inlisimo  oro  de  mi  casa.'  *Out 
with  your  vile  insinuations  and  dross  of  gold 
from  my  house.' 

"  Off"  marched  the  venal  drudge  of  the  unjust 
judge;  and  in  a  moment  putting  on  his  capot6, 
the  offended  advocate  went  to  the  residence  of 
the  Juez  de  Alzada.  Shortly  relating  what  had 
passed  between  himself  and  the  myrmidon, — 
'Sir,' continued  Francia,  'you  are  a  disgrace 
to  law,  and  a  blot  upon  justice.  You  are,  more- 
over, completely  in  my  power;  and  unless 
to-morrow  I  have  a  decision  in  favour  of  my 
client,  I  will  make  your  seat  upon  the  bench 
too  hot  for  you,  and  the  insignia  of  your  judi- 
cial office  shall  become  the  emblems  of  your 
shame.' 

"  The  morrow  did  bring  a  decision  in  favour 
of  Francia's  client.  Naboth  retained  his  vine- 
yard; the  judge  lost  his  reputation;  and  the 
young  doctor's  fame  extended  far  and  wide." 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  admitted  that  he 
quarrelled  with  his  father,  in  those  days;  and, 
as  is  reported,  never  spoke  to  him  more.    The 
3  A  2 


658 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


subject  of  the  quarrel  is  vaguely  supposed  to 
have  been  "  money  matters."  Francia  is  not 
accused  of  avarice ;  nay,  is  expressly  acquitted 
of  loving  money,  even  by  Rengger.  Bat  he 
did  hate  injustice ; — and  probably  was  not  in- 
disposed to  allow  himself,  among  others,  "  the 
height  of  fair  play  !"  A  rigorous,  correct  man, 
that  will  have  a  spade  be  a  spade ;  a  man  of 
much  learning  in  Creole  law,  and  occult 
French  sciences,  of  great  talent,  energy,  fide- 
lity : — a  man  of  some  temper  withal :  unhap- 
pily subject  to  private  "  hypochondria ;  black 
private  thunder-clouds,  whence  probably  the 
origin  of  these  lightnings,  when  you  poke  into 
him  !  He  leads  a  lonesome  self-secluded  life  ; 
"  interrogating  nature"  through  mere  star- 
glasses,  and  Abbe-Raynal  philosophies — who 
in  that  way  will  yield  no  very  exuberant  re- 
sponse. Mere  law-papers,  advocate  fees,  civic 
officialities,  renowns,  and  the  wonder  of  As- 
sumpcion  Guachos ; — not  so  much  as  a  pair 
of  Andalusian  eyes  that  can  lasso  him,  except 
in  a  temporary  way :  this  man  seems  to  have 
got  but  a  lean  lease  of  nature,  and  may  end  in 
a  rather  shrunk  condition  !  A  century  ago, 
with  this  attrabiliar  earnestness  of  his,  and 
such  a  reverberatory  furnace  of  passions,  in- 
quiries, unspeakabilities  burning  in  him,  deep 
under  cover,  he  might  have  made  an  excel- 
lent monk  of  St.  Dominic,  fit  almost  for  canoni- 
zation ;  nay,  an  excellent  Superior  of  the 
Jesuits,  Grand  Inquisitor,  or  the  like,  had  you 
developed  him  in  that  way.  But,  for  all  this, 
he  is  now  a  day  too  late.  Monks  of  St. 
Dominic  that  might  have  been,  do  now,  instead 
of  devotional  raptures  and  miraculous  suspen- 
sions in  prayer,  produce — brown  accidental 
female  infants,  to  sell  flowers,  in  an  indigent 
state,  on  the  streets  of  Assumpcion  !  It  is 
grown  really  a  most  barren  time;  and  this 
Francia  with  his  grim  unspeakabilities,  with 
his  fiery  splenetic  humours,  kept  close  under 
lock  and  key,  what  has  he  to  look  for  in  it  ?  A 
post  on  the  bench,  in  the  municipal  Cabildo, — 
nay,  he  has  already  a  post  in  the  Cabildo;  he 
has  already  been  Alcalde,  Lord-Mayor  of  As- 
sumpcion,  and  ridden  in  such  gilt  coach  as 
they  had.  He  can  look  for  little,  one  would 
say,  but  barren  moneys,  barren  Guacho  world- 
celebrities  ;  Abbe-Raynal  philosophisms  also 
very  barren  ;  wholly  a  barren  life-voyage  of 
it,  ending — in  zero,  thinks  the  Abbe-Raynal  1 

But  no ;  the  world  wags  not  that  way  in 
those  days.  Far  over  the  waters  there  have 
been  federations  of  the  Champ  de  Mars  ;  guil- 
lotines, portable-guillotines,  and  a  French 
people  risen  against  tyrants;  there  has  been  a 
Sansculottism,  speaking  at  last  in  canon-volleys 
and  the  crash  of  towns  and  nations  over  half 
the  world.  Sleek  Fatpauncho  Usandwonto, 
sleek  aristocratic  Donothingism,  sunk  as  in 
death-sleep  in  its  well-stuffed  easy  chair,  or 
staggering  in  somnambulism  on  the  house- 
tops, seemed  to  itself  to  hear  a  voice  say. 
Sleep  no  more,  Donothingism  ;  Donothingism 
doth  murder  sleep  !  It  was  indeed  a  terrible 
explosion,  that  of  Sansculottism ;  commin- 
gling very  Tartarus  with  the  old-established 
stars; — fit,  such  a  tumult  Avas  it,  to  awaken  all 
but  the  dead.  And  out  of  it  there  had  come 
Napoleonisms,  Tamerlanisms ;  and  then  as  a 


branch  of  these,  conventions  of  Aranjuez,  soon 
followed  by  Spanish  Juntas,  Spanish  Cortes; 
and,  on  the  whole,  a  smiting  broad  awake  of 
poor  old  Spain  itself,  much  to  its  amazement. 
And  naturally  of  New  Spain  next, — its  double 
amazement,  seeing  itself  awake  !  And  so,  in 
the  new  hemisphere  too,  arise  wild  projects, 
angry  arguings ;  arise  armed  gatherings  in 
Santa  Marguerita  Island  with  Bolivars  and  In- 
vasions of  Cumana;  revolts  of  La  Plata,  re- 
volts of  this  and  then  of  that ;  the  subterranean 
electric  element,  shock  on  shock,  shaking  and 
exploding,  in  the  new  hemisphere  too,  from 
sea  to  sea.  Very  astonishing  to  witness,  from 
the  year  1810  and  onwards.  Had  Dr.  Rodriguez 
Francia  three  ears,  he  would  hear;  as  many  eyes 
as  Argus,  he  would  gaze !  He  is  all  eye,  he 
is  all  ear.  A  new,  entirely  different  figure  of 
existence  is  cut  out  for  Dr.  Rodriguez. 

The  Paraguay  people  as  a  body,  lying  far 
inland,  with  little  speculation  in  their  heads, 
were  in  no  haste  to  adopt  the  new  republican 
gospel ;  but  looked  first  how  it  would  succeed 
in  shaping  itself  into  facts.  Buenos  Ayres, 
Tucuman,most  of  the  La  Plata  provinces,  had 
made  their  revolutions,  brought  in  the  reign 
of  liberty,  and  unluckily  driven  out  the  reign 
of  law  and  regularity ;  before  the  Paraguenos 
could  resolve  on  such  an  enterprise.  Perhaps 
they  are  afraid]  General  Belgrano,  with  a 
force  of  a  thousand  men,  missioned  by  Buenos 
Ayres,  came  up  the  river  to  countenance  them, 
in  the  end  of  1810 ;  but  was  met  on  their  fron- 
tier in  array  of  war;  was  attacked,  or  at  least 
was  terrified,  in  the  night  watches,  so  that  his 
men  all  fled ; — and  on  the  morrow,  poor  Gene- 
ral Belgrano  fi)und  himself  not  a  countenancer, 
but  one  needing  countenance ;  and  was  in  a 
polite  way  sent  down  the  river  again  !*  Not 
till  a  year  after  did  the  Paraguenos,  by  spon- 
taneous movement,  resolve  on  a  career  of  free- 
dom;— resolve  on  getting  some  kind  of  Con- 
gress assembled,  and  the  old  government  sent 
its  ways.  Francia,  it  is  presumable,  was  active 
at  once  in  exciting  and  restraining  them  :  the 
fruit  was  now  drop-ripe,  we  may  say,  and  fell 
by  a  shake.  Our  old  royal  governor  went 
aside,  worthy  man,  with  some  slight  grimace, 
when  ordered  to  do  so ;  National  Congress  in- 
troduced itself:  secretaries  read  papers,  com- 
piled chiefly  out  of  Rollin's  iVncient  History , 
and  we  became  a  Republic  :  with  Don  Ful- 
gencio  Yegros,  one  of  the  richest  Guachos  and 
best  horsemen  of  the  province,  for  President, 
and  two  assessors  with  him,  called  also  Vocales, 
or  Vowels,  whose  names  escape  us  ;  Francia, 
as  Secretary,  being  naturally  the  Consonant,  or 
motive  soul  of  the  combination.  This,  as  we 
grope  out  the  date,  was  in  1811.  The  Para- 
guay Congress,  having  completed  this  consti- 
tution, went  home  again  to  its  field-labours, 
hoping  a  good  issue. 

Feebler  light  hardly  ever  dawned  for  the 
historical  mind,  than  this  which  is  shed  for  us 
by  Rengger,  Robertsons,  and  Company,  on  the 
birth,  cradling,  baptismal  processes,  and  early 
fortunes  of  the  new  Paraguay  Republic. 
Through  long  vague,  and,  indeed,  intrinsically 

♦  Rengger. 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


65a 


vacant  pages  of  their  books,  it  lies  gray,  unde- 
cipherable, without  form  and  void.  Francia 
was  secretary,  and  a  republic  did  take  place ; 
this,  as  one  small  clear-burning  fact,  shedding 
far  a  comfortable  visibility,  conceivability  over 
the  universal  darkness,  and  making  it  into  con- 
ceivable, dusk  with  one  rushlight  fact  in  the 
centre  of  it, — this  we  do  know;  and,  cheerfully 
yielding  to  necessity,  decide  that  this  shall 
suffice  us  to  know.  What  more  is  there  1 
Absurd  somnolent  persons,  struck  broad  awake 
by  the  subterranean  concussion  of  civil  and 
religious  liberty  all  over  the  world,  meeting 
together  to  establish  a  republican  career  of 
freedom,  and  compile  official  papers  out  of 
Rollin, — are  not  a  subject  on  which  the  histori- 
cal mind  can  be  enlightened.  The  historical 
mind,  thank  Heaven,  forgets  such  persons  and 
their  papers,  as  fast  as  you  repeat  them.  Be- 
sides, these  Guacho  populations  are  greedy, 
superstitious,  vain ;  and,  as  Miers  said  in  his 
haste,  mendacious  every  soul  of  them  !  Within 
the  confines  of  Paraguay,  we  know  for  certain 
but  of  one  man  who  would  do  himself  an  in- 
jury to  do  a  just  or  true  thing  under  the  sun; 
one  man  who  understands  in  his  heart  that 
this  Universe  is  an  eternal  Fact, — and  not 
some  huge  temporary  Pumpkin,  saccharine, 
absinthian  ;  the  rest  of  its  significance  chime- 
rical merely !  Such  men  cannot  have  a  his- 
tory, though  a  Thucydides  came  to  write  it. — 
Enough  for  us  to  understand  that  Don  This 
was  a  vapouring  blockhead,  who  followed  his 
pleasures,  his  peculations,  and  Don  That  an- 
other of  the  same ;  that  there  occurred  fatui- 
ties, mismanagements  innumerable  ;  then  dis- 
contents, open  grumblings,  and,  as  a  running 
accompaniment,  intriguings,  caballings,  out- 
ings, innings;  till  the  Government  House,  fouler 
than  when  the  Jesuits  had  it,  became  a  bottom- 
less, pestilent  inanity,  insupportable  to  any 
articulate-speaking  soul;  till  Secretary  Francia 
should  feel  that  he,  for  one,  could  not  be  Conso- 
nant to  such  a  set  of  Vowels ;  till  Secretary 
Francia,  one  day,  flinging  down  his  papers, 
rising  to  his  feet,  should  jerk  out  with  oratori- 
cal vivacity  his  lean  right  hand,  and  say,  with 
knit  brows,  in  a  low  swift  tone,  "  Adieu,  Sen- 
hores  ;  God  preserve  you  many  years  !" 

Francia  withdrew  to  his  chacra,  a  pleasant 
country-house  in  the  woods  of  Ytapua  not  far 
oflf;  there  to  interrogate  Nature,  and  live  in  a 
private  manner.  Parish  Robertson,  much 
about  this  date,  which  we  grope  and  guess  to 
have  been  perhaps  in  1812,  was  boarded  with 
a  certain  ancient  Donna  Juanna,  in  that  same 
region ;  had  tertulias  of  unimaginable  brillian- 
cy ;  and  often  went  shooting  of  an  evening. 
On  one  of  those — but  he  shall  himself  report: 

"  On  one  of  those  lovely  evenings  in  Para- 
guay, after  the  south-west  wind  has  both  clear- 
ed and  cooled  the  air,  T  was  drawn,  in  my  pur- 
suit of  game,  into  a  peaceful  valley,  not  far 
from  Donna  Juanna's,  and  remarkable  for  its 
combination  of  all  the  striking  features  of  the 
scenery  of  the  country.  Suddenly  I  came  upon 
a  neat  and  unpretending  cottage.  Up  rose  a 
partridge ;  I  fired,  and  the  bird  came  to  the 
ground.  A  voice  from  behind  called  out, '  Buen 
tiro* — '  a  good  shot.'  I  turned  round,  and  be- 
held a  gentleman  of  about  fifty  years  of  age, 


dressed  in  a  suit  of  black,  with  a  large  scarlet 
capote,  or  cloak,  thrown  over  his  shoulders. 
He  had  a  ma/e'-cup  in  one  hand,  a  cigar  in  the 
other ;  and  a  little  urchin  of  a  negro,  with  his 
arms  crossed,  was  in  attendance  by  the  gentle- 
man's side.  This  gentleman's  countenance 
was  dark,  and  his  black  eyes  were  very  pene- 
trating, while  his  jet  hair,  combed  back  from 
a  bold  forehead,  and  hanging  in  natural  ring- 
lets over  his  shoulders,  gave  him  a  dignified 
and  striking  air.  He  wore  on  his  shoes  large 
golden  buckles,  and  at  the  knees  of  his  breeches 
the  same." 

"  In  exercise  of  the  primitive  and  simple 
hospitality  common  in  the  country,  I  was  in- 
vited to  sit  down  under  the  corridor,  and  to 
take  a  cigar  and  mate  (cup  of  Paraguay  tea.) 
A  celestial  globe,  a  large  telescope,  and  a  theo- 
dolite were  under  the  little  portico;  and  I  im- 
mediately inferred  that  the  personage  before 
me  was  no  other  than  Doctor  Francia." 

Yes,  here  for  the  first  time  in  authentic  his- 
tory, a  remarkable  hearsay  becomes  a  remarka- 
ble visuality ;  through  a  pair  of  clear  human 
eyes,  you  look  face  to  face  on  the  very  figure 
of  the  man.  Is  not  this  verily  the  exact  record 
of  those  clear  Robertsonian  eyes,  and  seven 
senses;  entered  accurately,  then  and  not  after- 
wards, on  the  ledger  of  the  memory  1  We  will 
hope  so  ;  who  can  but  hope  so  1  The  figure 
of  the  man  will,  at  all  events,  be  exact.  Here 
too  is  the  figure  of  his  library; — the  conversa- 
tion, if  any,  was  of  the  last  degree  of  insig- 
nificance, and  may  be  left  out,  or  supplied  ad 
libitum : 

"  He  introduced  me  to  his  library,  in  a  con- 
fined room,  with  a  very  small  window,  and 
that  so  shaded  by  the  roof  of  the  corridor,  as 
to  admit  the  least  portion  of  light  necessary 
for  study.  The  library  was  arranged  on  three 
rows  of  shelves,  extending  across  the  room, 
and  might  have  consisted  of  three  hundred 
volumes.  There  were  many  ponderous  books 
on  law  ;  a  few  on  the  inductive  sciences  ;  some 
in  French  and  some  in  Latin  upon  subjects  of 
general  literature,  with  Euclid's  Elements,  and 
some  school-boy  treatises  on  algebra.  On  a 
large  table  were  heaps  of  law-papers  and  pro- 
cesses. Several  folios  bound  in  vellum  were 
outspread  upon  it ;  a  lighted  candle  (though 
placed  there  solely  with  a  view  to  light  cigars) 
lent  its  feeble  aid  to  illumine  the  room  ;  while 
a  mate-cup  and  inkstand,  both  of  silver,  stood 
on  another  part  of  the  table.  There  was 
neither  carpet  nor  mat  on  the  brick  floor ;  and 
the  chairs  were  of  such  ancient  fashion,  size, 
and  weight,  that  it  required  a  considerable  ef- 
fort to  move  them  from  one  spot  to  another." 

Peculation,  malversation,  the  various  forms 
of  imbecility  and  voracious  dishonesty,  went 
their  due  course  in  the  government  offices  of 
Assumpcion,  unrestrained  by  Francia,  and 
unrestrainable  : — till,  as  we  may  say,  it  reach- 
ed a  height;  and,  like  other  suppurations  and 
diseased  concretions  in  the  living  system,  had 
to  burst,  and  take  itself  away.  To  the  eyes 
of  Paraguay  in  general,  it  had  become  clear 
that  such  a  reign  of  liberty  was  unendurable ; 
that  some  new  revolution,  or  change  of  minis- 
try, was  indispensable. 
I     Rengger  says  that  Francia  withdrew  "  more 


66a 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


than  once"  to  his  chacra,  disgusted  with  his 
colleagues  ;  who  always,by  unlimited  promises 
and  protestations,  had  to  flatter  him  back 
again:  and  then  anew  disgusted  him.  Francia 
is  the  Consonant  of  these  absurd  "Vowels;" 
no  business  can  go  on  without  Francia !  And 
the  finances  are  deranged,  insolvent ;  and  the 
military,  unpaid,  ineffective,  cannot  so  much 
as  keep  out  the  Indians;  and  there  comes 
trouble  and  rumour  of  warfrom  Buenos  Ayres ; 
— alas,  from  what  quarter  of  the  great  conti- 
nent come  there  other  than  troubles  and  ru- 
mours of  war  ]  Patriot  generals  become  trai- 
tor generals ;  get  themselves  "shot  in  market- 
places :"  revolution  follows  revolution.  Arti- 
gas,  close  on  our  borders,  has  begun  harrying 
the  Banda  Oriental  with  fire  and  sword  ;  "  dic- 
tating despatches  from  cow-skulls."  Like 
clouds  of  wolves, — only  feller,  being  mounted 
on  horseback,  with  pikes, — the  Indians  dart  in 
on  us;  carrying  conflagration  and  dismay. 
Paraguay  must  get  itself  governed,  or  it  will 
be  worse  for  Paraguay !  The  eyes  of  Para- 
guay, we  can  well  fancy,  turn  to  the  one  man 
of  talent  they  have,  the  one  man  of  veracity 
they  have. 

In  1813  a  second  Congress  is  got  together: 
we  fancy  it  was  Francia's  last  advice  to  the 
Government  suppuration,  when  it  flattered  him 
back  for  the  last  time,  to  ask  his  advice.  That 
such  suppuration  do  now  dissolve  itself,  and  a 
new  Congress  be  summoned  !  In  the  new  Con- 
gress, the  Vocales  are  voted  out ;  Francia  and 
Fulgencio  are  named  joint  Consuls :  with  Fran- 
cia for  Consul,  and  Don  Fulgencio  Yegros  for 
Conmrs-cloak,  it  may  be  better.  Don  Fulgen- 
cio rides  about  in  gorgeous  sash  and  epaulettes, 
a  rich  man  and  horse-subduer;  good  as  a  Con- 
sul's cloak; — but  why  should  the  real  Consul 
have  a  cloak?  Next  year  in  the  third  Congress, 
Francia,  "by  insidious  manoeuvring,"  by  "fa- 
vour of  the  military,"  and,  indeed,  also  in  some 
sort,  we  may  say,  by  law  of  Nature, — gets  him- 
self declared  Dictator:  "three  years,"  or  for 
life,  may  in  these  circumstances  mean  much 
the  same.  This  was  in  1814.  Francia  never 
assembled  any  Congress  more;  having  stolen 
the  constitutional  palladiums,  and  insidiously 
got  his  wicked  will !  Of  a  Congress  that  com- 
piled constitutions  out  of  Roll  in,  who  would 
not  lament  such  destiny  ]  This  Congress 
should  have  met  again  !  It  was  indeed,  say 
Rengger  and  the  Robertsons  themselves,  such 
a  Congress  as  never  met  before  in  the  world ; 
a  Congress  which  knew  not  its  right  hand 
from  its  left ;  which  drank  infinite  rum  in  the 
taverns;  and  had  one  wish,  that  of  getting  on 
horseback,  home  to  its  field-husbandry  and 
partridge-shooting.  The  military  mostly  fa- 
voured Francia  ;  being  gained  over  by  him, — 
the  thief  of  constitutional  palladiums. 

With  Francia's  entrance  on  the  government 
as  Consul,  still  more  as  Dictator,  a  great  im- 
provement, it  is  granted  even  by  Rengger,  did 
in  all  quarters  forthwith  show  itself.  The  fi- 
nances were  husbanded,  were  accurately  ga- 
thered ;  every  official  person  in  Paraguay  had 
to  bethink  him,  and  begin  doing  his  work,  in- 
stead of  merely  seeming  to  do  it.  The  soldiers 
Francia  took  care  to  see  paid  and  drilled  ;   to 


see  march,  with  real  death-shot  and  service, 
when  the  Indians  or  other  enemies  showed 
themselves.  Guardias,  guardhouses,  at  short 
distances,  were  established  along  the  river's 
bank  and  all  round  the  dangerous  frontiers ; 
wherever  the  Indian  centaur-troop  showed 
face,  an  alarm-cannon  went  off,  and  soldiers, 
quickly  assembling,  with  actual  death-shot  and 
service,  were  upon  them.  These  wolf-hordes 
had  to  vanish  into  the  heart  of  their  deserts 
again.  The  land  had  peace.  Neither  Artigas, 
nor  any  of  the  fire-brands  and  war-plagues 
which  were  distracting  South  America  from 
side  to  side,  could  get  across  the  border.  All 
negotiation  or  intercommuning  with  Buenos 
Ayres,  or  with  any  of  these  war-distracted 
countries,  was  peremptorily  waived.  To  no 
Congress  of  Lima,  General  Congress  of  Pana- 
ma, or  other  general  or  particular  congress 
would  Francia,  by  deputy  or  message,  offer 
the  smallest  recognition.  All  South  America 
raging  and  ravening  like  one  huge  dog-kennel 
gone  rabid,  we  here  in  Paraguay  have  peace, 
and  cultivate  our  tea-trees :  why  should  we 
not  let  well  alone?  By  degrees,  one  thing  act- 
ing on  another,  and  this  ring  of  frontier  "  guard- 
houses" being  already  erected  there,  a  rigorous 
sanitary  line,  impregnable  as  brass,  was  drawn 
round  all  Paraguay ;  no  communication,  im- 
port or  export  trade  allowed,  except  by  the 
Dictator's  license, — given  on  payment  of  the 
due  moneys,  when  the  political  horizon  seemed 
innocuous  ;  refused  when  otherwise.  The 
Dictator's  trade-licenses  were  a  considerable 
branch  of  his  revenues;  his  entrance  dues, 
somewhat  onerous  to  the  foreign  merchant, 
(think  the  Messrs.  Robertson,)  were  another. 
Paraguay  stood  isolated  ;  the  rabid  dog-kennel 
raging  round  it,  wide  as  South  America,  but 
kept  out  as  by  lock  and  key. 

These  were  vigorous  measures,  gradually 
coming  on  the  somnolent  Guacho  population  ! 
It  seems,  meanwhile,  that,  even  after  the  per- 
petual dictatorship,  and  onwards  to  the  fifth  or 
the  sixth  year  of  Francia's  government,  there 
was,  though  the  constitutional  palladiums 
were  stolen,  nothing  very  special  to  complain 
of.  Paraguay  had  peace;  sat  under  its  tea- 
tree,  the  rabid  dog-kennel,  Indians,  Artigue- 
no  and  other  war-firebrands,  all  shut  out  from 
it.  But  in  that  year  1819,  the  second  year  of 
the  perpetual  dictatorship,  there  arose,  not  for 
the  first  time,  dim  indications  of  "plots,"  even 
dangerous  plots !  In  that  year  the  firebrand 
Artigas  was  finally  quenched;  obliged  to  beg 
a  lodging  even  of  Francia,  his  enemy; — and 
got  it,  hospitably  though  contemptuously.  And 
now  straightway  there  advanced,  from  Arti- 
gas's  lost,  wasted  country,  a  certain  General 
Ramirez,  his  rival  and  victor,  and  fellow-ban- 
dit and  firebrand.  This  General  Ramirez  ad- 
vanced up  to  our  very  frontier;  first,  with  of- 
fers of  alliance :  failing  that,  with  ofl'ers  of 
war;  on  which  latter  offer  he  was  closed  with, 
was  cut  to  pieces ;  and — a  letter  was  found 
about  him,  addressed  to  Don  Fulgencio  Yegros, 
the  rich  Guacho  horseman  and  Ex-Consul; 
which  arrested  all  the  faculties  of  Dr.  Fran- 
cia's most  intense  intelligence,  there  and  then  ! 
A  conspiracy,  with  Don  Fulgencio  at  the  head 
of  it ;    conspiracy   which    seems    the  wider- 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


561 


spread  the  farther  one  investigates  it;  which 
has  been  brewing  itself  these  "  two  years," 
and  now  "on  Good-Friday  next"  is  to  be 
burst  out ;  starting  with  the  massacre  of  Dr. 
Francia  and  others,  whatever  it  may  close 
■with  !*  Francia  was  not  a  man  to  be  trifled 
■with  in  plots  !  He  looked,  watched,  investigated, 
till  he  got  the  exact  extent,  position,  nature,  and 
structure  of  this  plot  fully  in  his  eye;  and 
then — why,  then  he  pounced  on  it  like  a  glede- 
falcon,  like  a  fierce  condor,  suddenly  from  the 
invisible  blue  ;  struck  beak  and  claws  into  the 
very  heart  of  it,  tore  it  into  small  fragments, 
and  consumed  it  on  the  spot.  It  is  Francia's 
way  !  This  was  the  last  plot,  though  not  the 
first  plot,  Francia  ever  heard  of  during  his 
perpetual  dictatorship. 

It  is,  as  we  find,  over  these  three  or  these 
two  years,  while  the  Fulgencio  plot  is  getting 
itself  pounced  upon  and  torn  in  pieces,  that 
the  "reign  of  terror,"  properly  so  called,  ex- 
teads.  Over  these  three  or  these  two  years 
only, — though  the  "running  shriek"  of  it  con- 
fuses all  things  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  It 
was  in  this  stern  period  that  Francia  executed 
above  forty  persons.  Not  entirely  inexplica- 
ble !  "  Par  Dios,  ye  shall  not  conspire  against 
me;  I  will  not  allow  it.  The  career  of  free- 
dom, be  it  known  to  all  men,  and  Guachos,  is 
not  yet  begun  in  this  country;  I  am  still  only 
casting  out  the  Seven  Devils.  My  lease  of 
Paraguay,  a  harder  one  than  your  stupidities 
suppose,  is  for  life;  the  contract  is.  Thou 
must  die  if  thy  lease  be  taken  from  thee.  Aim 
not  at  my  life,  ye  constitutional  Guachos, — or 
let  it  be  a  diviner  man  than  Don  Fulgencio, 
the  horse-subduer,  that  does  it.  By  heaven,  if 
you  aim  at  my  life,  I  will  bid  you  have  a  care 
of  your  own!"  He  executed  upwards  of  forty 
persons.  How  many  he  arrested,  flogged, 
cross-questioned — for  he  is  an  inexorable  man  ! 
If  you  are  guilty,  or  suspected  of  guilt,  it  will 
go  ill  with  )'ou  here.  Francia's  arrest,  carried 
by  a  grenadier,  arrives;  you  are  in  strait 
prison;  you  are  in  Francia's  bodily  presence; 
those  sharp  St.  Dominic  eyes,  that  diabolic 
intellect,  prying  into  you,  probing,  cross- 
questioning  you,  till  the  secret  cannot  be  hid : 
till  the  "  three  ball  cartridges"  are  handed  to  a 
sentry; — and  your  doom  is  Rhadamanthine  ! 

But  the  plots,  as  we  say,  having  ceased  by 
this  rough  surgery,  it  would  appear  that  there 
was,  for  the  next  twenty  years,  little  or  no 
more  of  it,  little  or  no  use  for  more.  The 
"  reign  of  terror,"  one  begins  to  find,  was 
•^-'■'perly  a  reign  of  rigour;  which  would  be- 
come "  terrible"  enough  if  you  infringed  the 
rules  of  it,  but  which  was  peaceable  other- 
wise, regular  otherwise.  Let  this,  amid  the 
"running  shriek,"  which  will  and  should  run 
its  full  length  in  such  circumstance^  be  well 
kept  in  mind. 

It  happened  too,  as  Rengger  tells  us,  in  the 
same  year,  (1820,  as  we  grope  and  gather,) 
that  a  visitation  of  locusts,  as  sometimes  oc- 
curs, destroyed  all  the  crops  of  Paraguay ;  and 
there  was  no  prospect  but  of  universal  dearth 
or  famine.  The  crops  are  done;  eaten  by 
locusts ;  the  summer  at  an  end  !     We  have  no 


Rengger. 
71 


foreign  trade,  or  next  to  none,  and  never  had 
almost  any;  what  will  become  of  Paraguay 
and  its  Guachos  1  In  Guachos  is  no  hope,  no 
help:  but  in  a  Dionysius  of  the  Guachos? 
Dictator  Francia,  led  by  occult  French  sciences 
and  natural  sagacity,  nay,  driven  by  necessity 
itself,  peremptorily  commands  the  farmers 
throughout  all  Paraguay  to  sow  a  certain 
portion  of  their  lands  anew;  with  or  without 
hope,  under  penalties!  The  result  was  a 
moderately  good  harvest  still:  the  result  was  a 
discovery  that  two  harvests  were,  every  year, 
possible  in  Paraguay;  that  agriculture,  a  rigor- 
ous Dictator  presiding  over  it,  could  be  in- 
finitely improved  there.*  As  Paraguay  has 
about  100,000  square  miles  of  territory  mostly 
fertile,  and  only  some  two  souls  planted  on 
each  square  mile  thereof,  it  seemed  to  the 
Dictator  that  this,  and  not  foreign  trade,  might 
be  a  good  course  for  his  Paraguenos.  This 
accordingly,  and  not  foreign  trade,  in  the  pre- 
sent state  of  the  political  horizon,  was  the 
course  resolved  on;  the  course  persisted  in, 
"with  evident  advantages,"  says  Rengger. 
Thus,  one  thing  acting  on  another, — domestic 
plot,  hanging  on  Artigas's  country  from  with- 
out; and  locust  swarms  with  improvement  of 
husbandry  in  the  interior;  and  those  guard- 
houses all  already  there,  along  the  frontier, — 
Paraguay  came  more  and  more  to  be  hermeti- 
cally closed;  and  Francia  reigned  over  it,  for 
the  rest  of  his  life,  as  a  rigorous  Dionysius 
of  Paraguay,  without  foreign  intercourse,  or 
with  such  only  as  seemed  good  to  Francia. 

How  the  Dictator,  now  secure  in  possession, 
did  manage  this  huge  Paraguay,  which,  by 
strange  "  insidious"  and  other  means,  had  fallen 
in  life-lease  to  him,  and  was  his  to  do  the  best 
he  could  with,  it  were  interesting  to  know. 
What  the  meaning  of  him,  the  result  of  him 
actually  was  1  One  desiderates  some  Biogra- 
phy of  Francia  by  a  native  ! — Meanwhile,  in 
the  "  JEsthelische  Brief u-echsel"  of  Herr  Professor 
Sauerteig,  a  work  not  yet  known  in  England, 
nor  treating  specially  of  this  subject,  we  find, 
scattered  at  distant  intervals,  a  remark  or  two 
which  may  be  worth  translating.  Professor 
Sauerteig,  an  open  soul,  looking  with  clear  eye 
and  large  recognizing  heart  over  all  accessible 
quarters  of  the  world,  has  cast  a  sharp  sun- 
glance  here  and  there  into  Dr.  Francia  too. 
These  few  philosophical  remarks  of  his,  and 
then  a  few  anecdotes  gleaned  elsewhere,  such 
as  the  barren  ground  yields,  must  comprise 
what  more  we  have  to  say  of  Francia. 

"Pity,"  exclaims  Sauerteig  once,  "that  a 
nation  cannot  reform  itself,  as  the  English  are 
now  trying  to  do,  by  what  their  newspapers 
call 'tremendous  cheers!*  Alas,  it  cannot  be 
done.  Reform  is  not  joyous  but  grievous:  no 
single  man  can  reform  himself  without  stern 
suffering  and  stern  working;  how  much  less 
can  a  nation  of  men  1  The  serpent  sheds  not 
his  old  skin  without  rusty  disconsolateness :  he 
is  not  happy  but  miserable !  In  the  Water-cure 
itself,  do  you  not  sit  steeped  for  months ; 
washed  to  the  heart  in  elemental  drenchings; 
and  like  Job,  are  made  to  curse  your  day? 

•  Rengger,  67,  tc. 


563 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Reforming  of  a  nation  is  a  terrible  business  ! 
Thus,  too,  Medea,  when  she  made  men  young 
again,  was  wont  (du  Himmel!)  to  hew  them  in 
pieces,  with  meat-axes  ;  cast  them  into  caldrons, 
and  boil  them  for  a  length  of  time.  How 
much  handier  could  they  but  have  done  it  by 
*  tremendous  cheers'  alone !" 

"  Like  a  drop  of  surgical  antiseptic  liquid, 
poured  (by  the  benign  Powers,  as  I  fancy!) 
into  boundless  brutal  corruptions ;  very  sharp, 
very  caustic,  corrosive  enough,  this  tawny 
tyrannous  Dr.  Francia,  in  the  interior  of  the 
South  American  continent, — he,  too,  is  one  of 
the  elements  of  the  grand  phenomenon  there. 
A  monstrous  moulting  process  taking  place; 
— monstrous  gluttonous  boa-constrictor  (he  is  of 
length  from  Panama  to  Patagonia)  shedding 
his  old  skin;  whole  continent  getting  itself 
chopped  to  pieces,  and  boiled  in  the  Medea 
caldron,  to  become  young  again, — unable  to 
manage  it  by  *  tremendous  cheers'  alone!" 

"What  they  say  about  'love  of  power' 
amounts  to  little.  Power]  Love  of 'power' 
merely  to  make  flunkies  come  and  go  for  you 
is  a  'love,'  I  should  think,  which  enters  only 
into  the  minds  of  persons  in  a  very  infantine 
state !  A  grown  man,  like  this  Dr.  Francia, 
who  wants  nothing,  as  I  am  assured,  but  three 
cigars  daily,  a  cup  of  mate,  and  four  ounces  of 
butchers'  meat  with  brown  bread;  the  whole 
world  and  its  united  flunkies,  taking  constant 
thought  of  the  matter,  can  do  nothing  for  him 
but  that  only.  That  he  already  has,  and  has 
had  always ;  why  should  he,  not  being  a  minor, 
love  flunkey  '  power  1'  He  loves  to  see  you 
about  him,  with  your  flunkey  promptitudes, 
with  your  grimaces,  adulations,  and  sham- 
loyalty.  You  are  so  beautiful,  a  daily  and 
hourly  feast  to  the  eye  and  soul  1  Ye  unfortu- 
nates, from  his  heart  rises  one  prayer,  That 
the  last  created  flunkey  had  vanished  from 
this  universe,  never  to  appear  more  ! 

"And  yet  truly  a  man  does  lend,  and  must 
under  frightful  penalties  perpetually  tend,  to 
be  king  of  his  world;  to  stand  in  his  world  as 
what  he  is,  a  centre  of  light  and  order,  not  of 
darkness  and  confusion.  A  man  loves  power : 
yes,  if  he  sees  disorder  his  eternal  enemy 
rampant  about  him,  he  does  love  to  see  said 
enemy  in  the  way  of  being  conquered;  he  can 
have  no  rest  till  that  come  to  pass !  Your 
Mohammed  can  bear  a  rent  cloak,  but  clouts  it 
with  his  own  hands,  how  much  more  a  rent 
country,  a  rent  world.  He  has  to  imprint  the 
image  of  his  own  veracity  upon  the  world,  and 
shall,  and  must,  and  will  do  it,  more  or  less : 
it  is  at  his  peril  if  he  neglect  any  great  or  any 
small  possibility  he  may  have  of  this.  Fran- 
cia's  inner  flame  is  but  a  meager,  blue-burning 
one:  let  him  irradiate  midnight  Paraguay  with 
it,  such  as  it  is." 

"Nay,  on  the  whole,  how  cunning  is  Nature 
in  getting  her  farms  leased !  Is  it  not  a  blessing 
this  Paraguay  can  get  the  one  veracious  man 
it  has,  to  take  lease  of  it,  in  these  sad  circum- 
stances? His  farm  profits,  and  whole  wages, 
it  would  seem,  amount  only  to  what  is  called 
'Nothing  and  find  yourself!'    Spartan  food 


and  lodging,  solitude,  two  cigars,  and  a  cup  of 
mate  daily,  he  already  had." 

Truly,  it  would  seem,  as  Sauerteig  remarks. 
Dictator  Francia  had  not  a  very  joyous  exist- 
ence of  it,  in  this  his  life-lease  of  Paraguay  ! 
Casting  out  of  Seven  Devils  from  a  Guacho 
population  is  not  joyous  at  all ;  both  exorcist 
and  exorcised  find  it  sorrowful !  Meanwhile, 
it  does  appear,  there  was  some  improvement 
made;  no  veritable  labour,  not  even  a  Dr. 
Francia's,  is  in  vain. 

Of  Francia's  improvements  there  might  as 
much  be  said  of  his  cruelties  or  rigours;  for 
indeed,  at  bottom,  the  one  was  in  proportion 
to  the  other.  He  improved  agriculture: — not 
two  ears  of  corn  where  only  one  grew,  but 
two  harvests  of  corn,  as  we  have  seen  !  He 
introduced  schools,  "boarding-schools,"  "ele- 
mentary schools,"  and  others,  on  which  Reng- 
ger  has  a  chapter;  everywhere  he  promoted 
education,  as  he  could;  repressed  superstition 
as  he  could.  Strict  justice  between  man  was 
enforced  in  his  law-courts :  he  himself  would 
accept  no  gift,  not  even  a  trifle,  in  any  case 
whatever.  Rengger,  on  packing  up  for  de- 
parture, had  left  in  his  hands,  not  from  forget- 
fulness,  a  Print  of  Napoleon ;  worth  some 
shillings  in  Europe,  but  invaluable  in  Para- 
guay, where  Francia,  who  admired  this  hero 
much,  had  hitherto  seen  no  likeness  of  him 
but  a  Niirnberg  caricature.  Francia  sent  an 
express  after  Rengger,  to  ask  what  the  value 
of  the  Print  was.  No  value ;  M.  Rengger 
could  not  sell  Prints ;  it  was  much  at  his 
Excellency's  service.  His  Excellency  straight- 
way returned  it.  An  exact,  decisive  man! 
Peculation,  idleness,  ineflectuality,  had  to  cease 
in  all  the  public  ofiices  of  Paraguay.  So  far 
as  lay  in  Francia,  no  public  and  private  man 
in  Paraguay  was  allowed  to  slur  his  work ;  all 
public  and  all  private  men,  so  far  as  lay  in 
Francia,  were  forced  to  do  their  work  or  die  I 
We  might  define  him  as  the  born  enemy  of 
quacks ;  one  who  has  from  Nature  a  heart- 
hatred  of  ttnveracity  in  man  or  in  thing,  where- 
soever he  sees  it.  Of  persons  who  do  not 
speak  the  truth,  and  do  not  act  the  truth,  he 
has  a  kind  of  diabolic-divine  impatience;  they 
had  better  disappear  out  of  his  neighbourhood. 
Poor  Francia:  his  light  was  but  a  very  sul- 
phurous, meager,  blue-burning  one ;  but  he 
irradiated  Paraguay  with  it  (as  our  Professor 
says)  the  best  he  could. 

That  he  had  to  maintain  himself  alive  all  the 
while,  and  would  suffer  no  man  to  glance  con- 
tradiction at  him,  but  instantaneously  repressed 
all  such:  this  too  we  need  no  ghost  to  tell  us; 
this  lay  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case.  His 
lease  of  Paraguay  was  a  Z/Je-lease.  He  had 
his  "  three  ball  cartridges"  ready  for  whatever 
man  he  found  aiming  at  his  life.  He  had  fright- 
ful prisons.  He  had  Tevego  far  up  among  the 
wastes,  a  kind  of  Paraguay  Siberia,  to  which 
unruly  persons,  notyet  got  the  length  of  shoot- 
ing, were  relegated.  The  main  exiles,  Reng- 
ger says,  were  drunken  mulattoes  and  the  class 
called  unfortunate-females.  They  lived  mise- 
rably there;  became  a  sadder,  and  perhaps  a 
wiser,  body  of  mulatloes  and  unfortunate- 
females. 

But  let  us  listen  for  a  moment  to  the  Reve- 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


563 


rend  Manuel  Perez  as  he  preaches,  "in  the 
Church  of  the  Incarnation  at  Assumpcion,  on 
the  20th  October,  1840,"  in  a  tone  somewhat 
nasal,  yet  trustworthy  withal.  His  Funeral 
Disconrse,  translated  into  a  kind  of  English, 

S resents  itself  still  audible  in  the  "Argentine 
fews"  of  Buenos  Ayres,  No.  813.  We  select 
some  passages;  studying  to  abate  the  nasal 
tone  a  little ;  to  reduce,  if  possible,  the  Argen- 
tine English  under  the  law  of  grammar.  It  is 
the  worst  translation  in  the  world,  and  does 
poor  Manuel  Perez  one  knows  not  what  in- 
justice. This  Funeral  Discourse  has  "much 
surprised"  the  Able  Editor,  it  seems; — ^has  led 
him  perhaps  to  ask,  or  be  readier  for  asking, 
Whether  all  that  confused  loud  litanying  about 
"  reign  of  terror,"  and  so  forth,  was  not  possi- 
bly of  a  rather  long-eared  nature  1 

"  Amid  the  convulsions  of  revolution,"  says 
the  Reverend  Manuel,  "The  Lord,  looking 
down  with  pity  on  Paraguay,  raised  up  Don 
Jos6  Gaspar  Francia  for  its  deliverance.  And 
when,  in  the  words  of  my  text,  the  children  of 
Israel  cried  unto  the  Lord,  the  Lord  raised  vp  a  de- 
liverer to  the  children  of  Israel,  who  delivered 
them." 

"What  measures  did  not  his  Excellency  de- 
vise, what  labours  undergo,  to  preserve  peace 
in  the  Republic  at  home,  and  place  it  in  an 
attitude  to  command  respect  from  abroad  !  His 
first  care  was  directed  to  obtain  supplies  of 
arms,  and  to  discipline  soldiers.  To  all  that 
would  import  arms  he  held  out  the  induce- 
ment of  exemption  from  duty,  and  the  permis- 
sion to  export  in  return  whatever  produce  they 
preferred.  An  abundant  supply  of  excellent 
arms  was,  by  these  means,  obtained.  I  am 
lost  in  wonder  to  think  how  this  great  man 
could  attend  to  such  a  multiplicity  of  things ! 
He  applied  himself  to  study  of  the  military  art ; 
and,  in  a  short  time,  taught  the  exercise,  and 
directed  military  evolutions  like  the  skilfullest 
veteran.  Often  have  I  seen  his  Excellency  go 
up  to  a  recruit,  and  show  him  by  example  how 
to  take  aim  at  the  target.  Could  any  Para- 
gueno  think  it  other  than  honourable  to  carry 
a  musket,  when  his  Dictator  taught  him  how 
to  manage  iti  The  cavalry-exercise  too, 
though  it  seems  to  require  a  man  at  once  robust 
and  experienced  in  horsemanship,  his  Excel- 
lency as  you  know  did  himself  superintend : 
at  the  head  of  his  squadrons  he  charged  and 
manoeuvred,  as  if  bred  to  it :  and  directed  them 
with  an  energy  and  vigour  which  infused  his 
own  martial  spirit  into  these  troops." 

"  What  evils  do  not  the  people  suffer  from 
highwaymen !"  exclaims  his  Reverence,  a  little 
farther  on;  "violence,  plunder,  murder,  are 
crimes  familiar  to  these  malefactors.  The  in- 
accessible mountains  and  wide  deserts  in  this 
Republic  seemed  to  offer  impunity  to  such 
men.  Our  Dictator  succeeded  in  striking  such 
a  terror  into  them  that  they  entirely  disap- 
peared, seeking  safety  in  a  change  of  life.  His 
Excellency  saw  that  the  manner  of  inflicting 
the  punishment  was  more  efficacious  than 
even  the  punishment  itself;  and  on  this  prin- 
ciple he  acted.  Whenever  a  robber  could  be 
seized,  he  was  led  to  the  nearest  guardhouse 
(Guardia)  ;  a  summary  trial  took  place;  and, 
straightway,  so  soon  as  he  had  made  confes- 


sion, he  was  shot.  These  means  proved  effec- 
tual. Ere  long  the  Republic  was  in  such 
security,  that,  we  may  say,  a  child  might  have 
travelled  from  the  Uruguay  to  the  Parana 
without  other  protection  than  the  dread  which 
the  Supreme  Dictator  inspired." — This  is  say- 
ing something,  your  Reverence ! 

"  But  what  is  all  this  compared  to  the  demon 
of  anarchy.  Oh!"  exclaims  his  simple  Reve- 
rence, "  Oh,  my  friends,  would  I  had  the  talent 
to  paint  to  you  the  miseries  of  a  people  that 
fall  into  anarchy]  And  was  not  our  Republic 
on  the  very  eve  of  this  1  Yes,  brethren." — "  It 
behoved  his  Excellency  to  be  prompt;  to 
smother  the  enemy  in  his  cradle!  He  did  so. 
He  seized  the  leaders ;  brought  to  summary 
trial,  they  were  convicted  of  high  treason 
against  the  country.  What  a  struggle  now, 
for  his  Excellency,  between  the  law  of  duty 
and  the  voice  of  feeling" — if  feeling  to  any  ex- 
tent there  were!  "I,"  exclaimed  his  Reve- 
rence, "  am  confident  that  had  the  doom  of  im- 
prisonment on  those  persons  seemed  sufficient 
for  the  state's  peace,  his  Excellency  never 
would  have  ordered  their  execution."  It  was 
unavoidable ;  nor  was  it  avoided  ;  it  was  done  ! 
"Brethren,  should  not  I  hesitate,  lest  it  be  a 
profanation  of  the  sacred  place  I  now  occupy, 
if  I  seem  to  approve  sanguinary  measures  in 
opposition  to  the  mildness  of  the  Gospel  1  Bre- 
thren, no.  God  himself  approved  the  conduct 
of  Solomon  in  putting  Joab  and  Adonijah  to 
death."  Life  is  sacred,  thinks  his  Reverence, 
but  there  is  something  more  sacred  still:  wo 
to  him  who  does  not  know  that  withal! 

Alas,  your  Reverence,  Paraguay  has  not  yet 
succeeded  in  abolishing  capital  punishment, 
then?  But  indeed  neither  has  Nature,  any- 
where that  I  hear  of,  yet  succeeded  in  abolish- 
ing it.  Act  with  the  due  degree  of  perversity, 
you  are  sure  enough  of  being  violently  put  to 
death,  in  hospital  or  highway — by  dyspepsia, 
delirium  tremens,  or  stuck  through  by  the 
kindled  rage  of  your  fellow-men  !  What  can 
the  friend  of  humanity  do  1  Twaddle  in  Exeter- 
hall  or  elsewhere, "  till  he  become  a  bore  to  us," 
and  perhaps  worse !  An  advocate  in  Arras 
once  gave  up  a  good  judicial  appointment,  and 
retired  into  frugality  and  privacy,  rather  than 
doom  one  culprit  to  die  bylaw.  The  name  of 
this  advocate,  let  us  mark  it  well,  was  Maxi- 
milien  Robespierre.  There  are  sweet  kinds  of 
twaddle  that  have  a  deadly  virulence  of  poison 
concealed  in  them  ;  like  ihe  sweetness  of  sugar 
of  lead.  Were  it  not  better  to  maike  just  laws, 
think  you,  and  then  execute  them  strictly, — as 
the  gods  still  do  1 

"His  Excellency  next  directed  his  attention 
to  purging  the  state  from  another  class  of  ene- 
mies," says  Perez  in  the  Incarnation  Church; 
"  the  peculating  tax-gatherers,  namely.  "Vigi- 
lantly detecting  their  frauds,  he  made  them  re- 
fund for  what  was  past,  and  took  precautions 
against  the  like  in  future;  all  their  accounts 
were  to  be  handed  in,  for  his  examination,  once 
every  year." 

"The  habit  of  his  Excellency  when  he  deli- 
vered out  articles  for  the  supply  of  the  public ; 
that  prolix  and  minute  counting  of  things  ap- 
parently unworthy  of  his  attention — had  its 
origin  in  the  same  motive.    I  believe  that  he 


564 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


did  so,  less  from  a  want  of  confidence  in  the 
individuals  lately  appointed  for  this  purpose, 
than  from  a  desire  to  show  them  with  what 
delicacy  they  should  proceed.  Hence  likewise 
his  ways,  in  scrupulously  examining  every 
piece  of  artisans'  workmanship." 

"  Republic  of  Paraguay,  how  art  thou  in- 
debted to  the  toils,  the  vigils  and  cares  of  our 
Perpetual  Dictator !  It  seemed  as  if  this  ex- 
traordinary man  were  endowed  with  ubiquity, 
to  attend  to  all  thy  wants  and  exigences. 
"Whilst  in  his  closet,  he  was  traversing  thy 
frontiers  to  place  thee  in  an  attitude  of  security. 
What  devastation  did  not  those  inroads  of  In- 
dians from  the  Chaco  occasion  to  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Rio-Abajo  ?  Ever  and  anon  there 
reached  Assumpcion,  tidings  of  the  terror  and 
affliction  caused  by  their  incursions.  Which 
of  us  hoped  that  evils  so  wide-spread,  ravages 
so  appalling,  could  be  counteracted  1  Our 
Dictator,  nevertheless,  did  devise  effectual 
ways  of  securing  that  part  of  the  Republic. 

"  Four  respectable  fortresses  with  competent 
garrisons  have  been  the  impregnable  barrier 
which  has  restrained  the  irruptions  of  those 
ferocious  Savages.  Inhabitants  of  Rio-Abajo ! 
rest  tranquil  in  your  homes :  you  are  a  por- 
tion of  the  people  whom  the  Lord  confided  to 
the  care  of  our  Dictator;  you  are  safe." 

"The  precautions  and  wise  measures  he 
adopted  to  repel  force,  and  drive  back  the  Sa- 
vages to  the  north  of  the  Republic ;  the  for- 
tresses of  Climpo,  of  San  Carlos  de  Apa,  placed 
on  the  best  footing  for  defence  ;  the  orders  and 
instructions  furnished  to  the  Villa  de  la  Con- 
cepcion, — secured  that  quarter  of  the  republic 
under  attack  from  all. 

"  The  great  wall,  ditch,  and  fortress  on  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  river  Parana;  the  force 
and  judicious  arrangement  of  the  troops  dis- 
tributed over  the  interior  in  the  south  of  our 
Republic,  have  commanded  the  respect  of  its 
enemies  in  that  quarter." 

"  The  beauty,  the  symmetry  and  good  taste 
displayed  in  the  building  of  cities  convey  an 
advantageous  idea  of  their  inhabitants,"  con- 
tinues Perez :  "  Thus  thought  Caractacus,  King 
of  the  Angles," — thus  think  most  persons! 
"His  Excellency,  glancing  at  the  condition  of 
the  capital  of  the  republic,  saw  a  city  in  dis- 
order and  without  police ;  streets  without  re- 
gularity, houses  built  according  to  the  caprice 
of  their  owners." 

But  enough,  0  Perez;  for  it  becomes  too 
nasal !  Perez,  with  a  confident  face,  asks,  in 
fine.  Whether  all  these  things  do  not  clearly 
prove  to  men  and  Guachos  of  sense,  that  Dic- 
tator Francia  was  "  the  deliverer  whom  the  Lord 
raised  up  to  deliver  Paraguay  from  its  ene- 
mies 1" — Truly,  O  Perez,  the  benefits  of  him 
seem  to  have  been  considerable.  Undoubtedly 
a  man  "sent  by  Heaven," — as  all  of  us  are! 
Nay,  it  may  be,  the  benefit  of  him  is  not  even 
yet  exhausted,  even  yet  entirely  become  visi- 
ble. Who  knows  but,  in  unborn  centuries, 
Paragueno  men  will  look  back  to  their  lean 
iron  Francia,  as  men  do,  in  such  cases,  to  the 
one  veracious  person,  and  institute  considera- 
tions !  Oliver  Cromwell,  dead  two  hundred 
years,  does  yet  speak;  nay,  perhaps,  now  first 
begins  to  speak.    The  meaning  and  meanings 


of  the  one  true  man,  never  so  lean  and  limited, 
starting  up  direct  from  Nature's  heat,  in  this 
bewildered  Guacho  world,  gone  far  away  from 
Nature,  are  endless ! 

The  Messrs.  Robertson  are  very  merry  on 
this  attempt  of  Francia's  to  rebuild  on  a  bet- 
ter plan  the  City  of  Assumpcion.  The  City  of 
Assumpcion,  full  of  tropical  vegetation  and 
"permanent  hedges,  the  deposits  of  nuisance 
and  vermin,"*  has  no  pavement,  no  straight- 
ness  of  streets;  the  sandy  thoroughfare,  in 
some  quarters,  is  torn  by  the  rain  into  gullies, 
impassable  with  convenience  to  any  animal 
but  a  kangaroo.  Francia,  after  meditation,  de- 
cides on  having  it  remodelled,  paved,  straight- 
ened— irradiated  with  the  image  of  the  one 
regular  man.  Robertson  laughs  to  see  a  Dic- 
tator, sovereign  ruler,  straddling  about, "  taking 
observations  with  his  theodolite,"  and  so  forth: 
O  Robertson,  if  there  was  no  other  man  that 
could  observe  with  a  theodolite  1  Nay,  it  seems 
further,  the  improvement  of  Assumpcion  was 
attended,  once  more,  with  the  dreadfullest 
tyrannies:  peaceable  citizens  dreaming  no 
harm,  no  active  harm  to  any  soul,  but  mere 
peaceable  passive  dirt  and  irregularity  to  all 
souls,  were  ordered  to  pull  down  their  houses 
which  happened  to  stand  in  the  middle  of 
streets;  forced  (under  rustle  of  the  gallows) 
to  draw  their  purses,  and  rebuild  them  else- 
where !  It  is  horrible.  Nay,  they  said  Fran- 
cia's true  aim  in  these  improvements,  in  this 
cutting  down  of  the  luxuriant  "cross  hedges" 
and  architectural  monstrosities,  was  merely  to 
save  himself  from  being  shot,  from  under  co- 
ver, as  he  rode  through  the  place.  It  may  be 
so:  but  Assumpcion  is  now  an  improved, 
paved  city,  much  squarer  in  the  corners  (and 
with  the  planned  capacity,  it  seems,  of  grow- 
ing ever  squarer;*)  passable  with  convenience, 
not  to  kangaroos  only,  but  to  wooden  bullock- 
carts  and  all  vehicles  and  animals. 

Indeed  our  Messrs.  Robertson  find  some- 
thing comic  as  well  as  tragic  in  Dictator 
Francia;  and  enliven  their  running  shriek,  all 
through  this  "  Reign  of  Terror,"  with  a  plea- 
sant vein  of  conventional  satire.  One  even- 
ing, for  example,  a  Robertson  being  about  to 
leave  Paraguay  for  England,  and  having  wait- 
ed upon  Francia  to  make  the  parting  compli- 
ments, Francia,  to  the  Robertson's  extreme 
astonishment,  orders  in  a  large  bale  of  goods, 
orders  them  to  be  opened  on  the  table  there: 
Tobacco,  poncho-cloth,  and  other  produce  of 
the  country,  all  of  first-rate  quality,  and  with 
the  prices  ticketed.  These  goods  this  asto- 
nished Robertson  is  to  carry  to  the  "Bar  of  the 
House  of  Commons,"  and  there  to  say,  in  such 
fashion  and  phraseology  as  a  native  may 
know  to  be  suitable :  "  Mr.  Speaker— Dr.  Fran- 
cia is  Dictator  of  Paraguay,  a  country  of  tro- 
pical fertility,  and  100,000  square  miles  in  ex- 
tent, producing  these  commodities  at  these 
prices.  With  nearly  all  foreign  nations  he 
declines  altogether  to  trade;  but  with  the  Eng- 
lish, such  is  his  notion  of  them,  he  is  willing 
and  desirous  to  trade.  These  are  his  commo- 
dities, in  endless  quantity;  of  this  quality,  at 
these   prices.    He  wants   arms  for  his  part. 

♦  Perez. 


DR.  FRANCIA. 


565 


What  say  you,  Mr.  Speaker!" — Sure  enough, 
our  Robertson,  arriving  at  the  "Bar  of  tha 
House  of  Commons"  with  such  a  message, 
would  have  cut  an  original  figure  !  Not  to  the 
"House  of  Commons,"  was  this  message  pro- 
perly addressed;  but  to  the  English  Nation; 
which  Francia,  idiot-like,  supposed  to  be 
somehow  represented,  and  made  accessible 
and  addressable  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
It  was  a  strange  imbecility  in  any  Dictator ! — 
The  Robertson,  we  find  accordingly,  did  not 
take  this  bale  of  goods  to  the  bar  of  the  House 
of  Commons  ;  nay,  what  was  far  worse,  he  did 
not,  owing  to  accidents,  go  to  England  at  all, 
or  bring  any  arms  back  to  Francia  at  all: 
hence,  indeed,  Francia's  unreasonable  detesta- 
tion of  him,  hardly  to  be  restrained  within  the 
bounds  of  common  politeness  !  A  man  who 
said  he  would  do,  and  then  did  not  do,  was  at 
no  time  a  kind  of  man  admirable  to  Francia. 
Large  sections  of  this  "  Reign  of  Terror"  are 
a  sort  of  unmusical  sonata,  or  free  duet  with 
variations,  to  this  text:  "How  unadmirable  a 
hide-merchant  that  does  not  keep  his  word  !" — 
"How  censurable,  not  to  say  ridiculous  and 
imbecile,  the  want  of  common  politeness  in  a 
Dictator !" 

Francia  was  a  man  that  liked  performance  : 
and  sham-performance,  in  Paraguay  as  else- 
where, was  a  thing  too  universal.  What  a 
time  of  it  had  this  strict  man  with  Mwreal  per- 
formers, imaginary  workmen,  public  and  pri- 
vate, cleric  and  laic!  Ye  Guachos, — it  is  no 
child's  play,  casting  out  those  Seven  Devils 
from  you ! 

Monastic  or  other  entirely  slumberous 
church-establishmenis  could  expect  no  great 
favour  from  Francia.  Such  of  them  as  seem- 
ed incurable,  entirely  slumberous,  he  some- 
what roughly  shook  awake,  somewhat  sternly 
ordered  to  begone.  Debout  canaille  faineante, 
as  his  prophet  Raynal  says;  Debout:  aux 
champs,  aux  ateliers!  Can  I  have  you  sit  here, 
droning  old  metre  through  your  nose ;  your 
heart  asleep  in  mere  gluttony,  the  while  ;  and 
all  Paraguay  a  wilderness  or  nearly  so, — the 
Heaven's  blessed  sunshine  growing  mere 
tangles,  lianas,  yellow-fevers,  rattlesnakes,  and 
jaguars  on  iti  Up,  swift,  to  work,— or  mark 
this  governmental  horsewhip,  what  the  crack 
of  it  is,  what  the  cut  of  it  is  like  to  be ! — In- 
curable, for  one  class,  seemed  archbishops, 
bishops,  and  such  like;  given  merely  to  a 
sham-warfare  against  extinct  devils.  At  the 
crack  of  Francia's  terrible  whip  they  went, 
dreading  what  the  cut  of  it  might  be.  A  cheap 
worship  in  Paraguay,  according  to  the  humour 
of  the  people,  Francia  left ;  on  condition  that 
it  did  no  mischief.  Wooden  saints  and  the 
like  ware,  he  also  left  sitting  in  their  niches  : 
no  new  ones,  even  on  solicitation,  would  he 
give  a  doit  to  buy.  Being  petitioned  to  pro- 
vide a  new  patron  saint  for  one  of  his  new  forti- 
fications once,  he  made  this  answer:  "O  peo- 
ple of  Paraguay,  how  long  will  you  continue 
idiots  1  While  I  was  a  Catholic  I  thought  as 
you  do;  but  I  now  see  there  are  no  saints  but 
good  cannons  that  will  guard  our  frontiers  !"* 
This  also  is  noteworthy.    He  inquired  of  the 


♦  Rengger. 


two  Swiss  surgeons,  what  their  religion  was ; 
and  then  added,  "Be  of  what  religion  you 
like,  here:  Christians,  Jews,  Mussulmans, — 
but  don't  be  Atheists." 

Equal  trouble  had  Francia  with  his  laic 
workers,  and  indeed  with  all  manner  of  work- 
ers ;  for  it  is  in  Paraguay  as  elsewhere,  like 
priest  like  people.  Francia  had  extensive 
barrack-buildings,  nay  city-buildings,  (as  we 
have  seen,)  arm-furnishings ;  immensities  of 
work  going  on,  and  his  workmen  had  in  gene- 
ral a  tendency  to  be  imaginary.  He  could  get 
no  work  out  of  them;  only  a  more  or  less  de- 
ceptive similitude  of  work !  Masons,  so- 
called,  builders  of  houses  did  not  build,  but 
merely  seemed  to  build ;  their  walls  would  not 
bear  weather;  stand  on  their  bases  in  high 
winds.  Hodge-razors,  in  all  conceivable  kinds, 
were  openly  marketed,  "which  were  never 
meant  to  shave,  but  only  to  be  sold!"  For  a 
length  of  time  Francia's  righteous  soul  strug- 
gled sore,  yet  unexplosively,  with  the  propen- 
sities of  these  unfortunate  men.  By  rebuke, 
by  remonstrance,  encouragement,  ofters  of  re- 
ward, and  every  vigilance  and  effort,  he  strove 
to  convince  them  that  it  was  unfortunate  for  a 
Son  of  Adam  to  be  an  imaginary  workman; 
that  every  Son  of  Adam  had  better  make  razors 
which  were  meant  to  shave.  In  vain,  all  in 
vain !  At  length  Francia  lost  patience  with 
them.  "  Thou  wretched  Fraction,  wilt  thou  be 
the  ninth  part  even  of  a  tailor]  Does  it  be- 
seem thee  to  weave  cloth  of  devil's  dust  in- 
stead of  true  wool;  and  cut  and  sew  it  as  if 
thou  wert  not  a  tailor,  but  the  fraction  of 
a  very  tailor!  I  cannot  endure  every  thing  !" 
Francia,  in  despair,  erected  his  "  Workman's 
Gallows."  Yes,  that  institution  of  the  country 
did  actually  exist  in  Paraguay ;  men  and  work- 
men saw  it  with  eyes.  A  most  remarkable, 
and  on  the  whole,  not  unbeneficial  institution 
of  society  there.  Robertson  gives  us  the  fol- 
lowing scene  with  the  Bell-maker  of  Assump- 
cion;  which,  be  it  literal,  or  in  part  poetic, 
does,  no  doubt  of  it,  hold  the  mirror  up  to  Na- 
ture in  an  altogether  true,  and  surely  in  a  sur- 
prising manner: 

"In  came,  one  afternoon,  a  poor  shoemaker, 
with  a  couple  of  grenadiers'  belts,  neither  ac- 
cording to  the  fancy  of  the  Dictator.  '  Senti- 
nel,'— said  he, — and  in  came  the  Sentinel ; 
when  the  following  conversation  ensued : 

"Dictator: — 'Take  this  bribonazo  (a  very 
favourite  word  of  the  Dictator's,  and  which 
being  interpreted,  means  'most  impertinent 
scoundrel') — 'take  this  bribonazo  to  the  gibbet 
over  the  way;  walk  him  under  it  half-a-dozen 
times:  and  now,*  said  he,  turning  to  the  trem- 
bling shoemaker, 'bring  me  such  another  pair 
of  belts,  and  instead  of  walking  under  the  gal- 
lows, we  shall  try  how  you  can  swing  upon  it.' 

"Shoemaker: — 'Please  your  excellency  I 
have  done  my  best.* 

"  Dictator :—' Well,  bribon,  if  this  be  your 
best,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  see  that  you  never 
again  mar  a  bit  of  the  state's  leather.  The 
belts  are  of  no  use  to  me ;  but  they  will  do 
very  well  to  hang  you  upon  the  little  frame- 
work which  the  grenadier  will  show  you.' 

"  Shoemaker :— '  God  bless  your  excellency, 
the  Lord  forbid!  I  am  your  vassal,  your 
3B 


see 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


slave  :  day  and  night  have  I  served,  and  will 
serve  my  lord ;  only  give  me  two  days  more  to 
prepare  the  belts ;  y  por  el  alma  de  un  triste  za- 
palero,  (by  the  soul  of  a  poor  shoemaker,)  I 
will  make  them  to  your  excellency's  liking.' 

"  Dictator :— '  Off  with  him,  sentinel !' 

"Sentinel: — ^  Venga,  bribon:  come  along, 
you  rascal.' 

"  Shoemaker : — *  Senor  Excelentisimo :  This 
very  night  I  will  make  the  belts  according  to 
your  excellency's  pattern.' 

"  Dictator  :— '  Well,  you  shall  have  till  the 
morning;  but  still  you  must  pass  under  the 
gibbet:  it  is  a  salutary  process,  and  may  at 
once  quicken  the  work  and  improve  the  work- 
manship.' 

"Sentinel: — ^Vamonos,  bribon;  the  supreme 
commands  it.* 

"  Off  was  the  shoemaker  marched :  he  was, 
according  to  orders,  passed  and  repassed  un- 
der the  gibbet,  and  then  allowed  to  retire  to 
his  stall." 

He  worked  there  with  such  an  alacrity  and 
sibylline  enthusiasm,  all  night,  that  his  belts 
on  the  morrow  were  without  parallel  in  South 
America;  and  he  is  now,  if  still  in  this  life. 
Belt-maker  general  to  Paraguay,  a  prosperous 
man;  grateful  to  Francia  and  the  gallows,  we 
may  hope,  for  casting  certain  of  the  seven 
devils  out  of  him ! 

Such  an  institution  of  society  would  evi- 
dently not  be  introducable,  under  that  simple 
form,  in  our  old-constituted  European  coun- 
tries. Yet  it  may  be  asked  of  constitutional 
persons  in  these  times.  By  what  succedaneum 
they  mean  to  supply  the  want  of  it,  then  1  In 
a  community  of  imaginary  workmen,  how 
can  you  pretend  to  have  any  government,  or 
social  thing  whatever,  that  were  real  1  Cer- 
tain ten-pound  franchisers,  with  their  "tre- 
mendous cheers,"  are  invited  to  reflect  on 
this.  With  a  community  of  quack  workmen, 
it  is  by  the  law  of  Nature  impossible  that 
other  than  a  quack  government  can  be  got  to 
exist.  Constitutional  or  other,  with  ballot- 
boxes  or  with  none,  your  society  in  all  its 
phases,  administration,  legislation,  teaching, 
preaching,  praying,  and  writing  periodicals 
per  sheet,  will  be  a  quack  society ;  terrible  to 
live  in,  disastrous  to  look  upon.  'Such  an  in- 
stitution of  society,  adapted  to  our  European 
ways,  seems  pressingly  desirable.  O  Guachos, 
South-American  and  European,  what  a  busi- 
ness is  it,  casting  out  your  seven  devils  ! — 

But  perhaps  the  reader  would  like  to  take  a 
view  of  Dr.  Francia  in  the  concrete,  there  as 
he  looks  and  lives ;  managing  that  thousand- 
sided  business  for  his  Paraguenos,  in  the  time 
of  Surgeon  Rengger  ?  It  is  our  last  extract,  or 
last  view  of  the  Dictator,  who  must  hang  no 
longer  on  our  horizon  here  : 

"  I  have  already  said  that  Doctor  Francia,  so 
soon  as  he  found  himself  at  the  head  of  affairs 
took  up  his  residence  in  the  habitation  of  the 
former  Governors  of  Paraguay.  This  edifice, 
which  is  one  of  the  largest  in  Assumpcion, 
was  erected  by  the  Jesuits,  a  short  time  before 
their  expulsion,  as  a  house  of  retreat  for  laymen, 
who  devoted  themselves  to  certain  spiritual 
exercises  instituted  by  Saint  Ignatius.  This 
structure   the   Dictator  repaired   and  embel- 


lished; he  has  detached  it  from  the  other 
houses  in  the  city,  by  interposing  wide  streets. 
Here  he  lives,  with  four  slaves,  a  little  negro, 
one  male  and  two  female  mulattoes,  whom  he 
treats  with  great  mildness.  The  two  males 
perform  the  functions  of  valet-de-chambre  and 
groom.  One  of  the  two  mulatto  women  is  his 
cook,  and  the  other  takes  care  of  his  wardrobe. 
He  leads  a  very  regular  life.  The  first  rays  of 
the  sun  very  rarely  find  him  in  bed.  So  soon 
as  he  rises,  the  negro  brings  a  chafing-dish,  a 
kettle,  and  a  pitcher  of  water;  the  water  is 
made  to  boil  there.  The  Dictator  then  prepares, 
with  the  greatest  possible  care,  his  male,  or 
Paraguay  tea.  Having  taken  this,  he  walks 
under  the  interior  colonnade  that  looks  upon 
the  court,  and  smokes  a  cigar,  which  he  first 
takes  care  to  unroll,  in  order  to  ascertain  that 
there  is  nothing  dangerous  in  it,  though  it  is 
his  own  sister  who  makes  up  his  cigars  for 
him.  At  six  o'clock  comes  the  barber,  an  ill- 
washed,  ill-clad  mulatto,  given  to  drink  too; 
but  the  only  member  of  the  faculty  whom  he 
trusts  in.  If  the  Dictator  is  in  good  humour, 
he  chats  with  the  barber;  and  often  in  this 
manner  makes  use  of  him  to  prepare  the  pub- 
lic for  his  projects;  this  barber  may  be  said  to 
be  his  Official  Gazette.  He  then  steps  out,  in 
his  dressing-gown  of  printed  calico,  to  the 
outer  colonnade,  an  open  space  with  pillars, 
which  ranges  all  round  the  building:  here  he 
walks  about,  receiving  at  the  same  time  such 
persons  as  are  admitted  to  an  audience.  To- 
wards seven,  he  withdraws  to  his  room,  where 
he  remains  till  nine ;  the  officers  and  other 
functionaries  then  come  to  make  their  reports, 
and  receive  his  orders.  At  eleven  o'clock,  the 
fiel  del  /echo  (principal  secretary)  brings  the 
papers  which  are  to  be  inspected  by  him,  and 
writes  from  his  dictation  till  noon.  At  noon 
all  the  officers  retire,  and  Dr.  Francia  sits  down 
to  table.  His  dinner,  which  is  extremely 
frugal,  he  always  himself  orders.  When  the 
cook  returns  from  market,  she  deposits  her 
provisions  at  the  door  of  her  master's  room; 
the  Doctor  then  comes  out,  and  selects  what  he 
wishes  for  himself.  After  dinner  he  takes  his 
siesta.  On  awakening,  he  drinks  his  mate,  and 
smokes  a  cigar,  with  the  same  precautions  as 
in  the  morning.  From  this  till  four  or  five,  he 
occupies  himself  with  business,  when  the 
escort  to  attend  him  on  his  promenade  arrives. 
The  barber  then  enters  and  dresses  his  hair, 
while  his  horse  is  getting  ready.  During  his 
ride,  the  Doctor  inspects  the  public  works,  and 
the  barracks,  particularly  those  of  the  cavalry, 
where  he  has  had  a  set  of  apartments  prepared 
for  his  own  use.  While  riding,  though  sur- 
rounded by  his  escort,  he  is  armed  with  a  sabre, 
and  a  pair  of  double-barrelled  pocket-pistols. 
He  returns  home  about  nightfall,  and  sits  down 
to  study  till  nine ;  then  he  goes  to  supper, 
which  consists  of  a  roast  pigeon  and  a  glass 
of  wine.  If  the  weather  be  fine,  he  again 
walks  in  the  outer  colonnade,  where  he  often 
remains  till  a  very  late  hour.  At  ten  o'clock 
he  gives  the  watchword.  On  returning  into 
the  house,  he  fastens  all  the  doors  himself." 

Francia's  brother  was  already  mad.  Francia 
banished  this  sister  by-and-by,  because  she  had 
employed  one  of  bis  grenadiers,  one  of  the 


DR.  FRANCIA, 


567 


public  government's  soldiers,  on  some  errand 
of  her  own.*     Thou  lonely  Francia ! 

Francia's  escort  of  cavalry  used  to  "  strike 
men  with  the  flat  of  their  swords,"  much  more 
assault  them  with  angry  epithets,  if  they 
neglected  to  salute  the  Dictator  as  he  rode  out. 
Both  he  and  they,  moreover,  kept  a  sharp  eye 
for  assassins ;  but  never  found  any,  thanks 
perhaps  to  their  watchfulness.  Had  Francia 
been  in  Paris  !— At  one  time,  also,  there  arose 
annoyance  in  the  Dictatorial  mind  from  idle 
crowds  gazing  about  his  Government  House, 
and  his  proceedings  there.  Orders  were  given 
that  all  people  were  to  move  on,  about  their 
affairs,  straight  across  this  government  espla- 
nade ;  instructions  to  the  sentry,  that  if  any  per- 
son paused  to  gaze,  he  was  to  be  peremptorily 
bidden,  Move  on  ! — and  if  he  still  did  not  move, 
to  be  shot  with  ball-cartridge.  All  Paraguay  men 
moved  on,  looking  to  the  ground,  swift  as  pos- 
sible, straight  as  possible,  through  those  pre- 
carious spaces ;  and  the  affluence  of  crowds 
thinned  itself  almost  to  the  verge  of  solitude. 
One  day,  after  many  weeks  or  months,  a  human 
figure  did  loiter,  did  gaze  in  the  forbidden 
ground :  "  Move  on  !"  cried  the  sentry,  sharply ; 
— no  effect:  "Move  on!"  and  again  none. 
Alas,  the  unfortunate  human  figure  was  an  In- 
dian, did  not  understand  human  speech,  stood 
merely  gaping  interrogatively, — whereupon  a 
shot  belches  forth  at  him,  the  whev/ing  of 
winged  lead;  which  luckily  only  whewed,  and 
did  not  hit !  The  astonishment  of  the  Indian 
must  have  been  great,  his  retreat-pace  rapid. 
As  for  Francia  he  summoned  the  sentry  with 
hardly  suppressed  rage,  "  What  news,  jlmigo  ?" 
The  sentry  quoted  "  your  Excellency's  order;" 
Francia  cannot  recollect  such  an  order;  com- 
mands now,  that  at  all  events  such  order 
cease. 

It  remains  still  that  we  say  a  word,  not  in 
excuse,  which  might  be  difficult,  but  in  ex- 
planation, which  is  possible  enough,  of  Fran- 
cia's unforgivable  insult  to  human  science  in  the 
person  of  M.  Aime  Bonpland.  M.  Aime  Bon- 
pland,  friend  of  Humboldt,  after  much  botanical 
wandering,  did,  as  all  men  know,  settle  himself 
in  Entre  Rios,  an  Indian  or  Jesuit  country  close 
on  Francia,  now  burnt  to  ashes  by  Artigas ;  and 
there  set  up  a  considerable  establishment  for 
the  improved  culture  of  Paraguay  tea.  Botany  ] 
Why,  yes, — and  perhaps  commerce  still  more. 
"Botany!"  exclaims  Francia:  "It  is  shop- 
keeping  agriculture,  and  tends  to  prove  fatal  to 
my  shop.  Who  is  this  extraneous  individual? 
Artigas  could  not  give  him  right  to  Entre  Rios  ; 
Entre  Rios  is  at  least  as  much  mine  as  Arti- 
gas's !  Bring  him  to  me !"  Next  night,  or 
next,  Paraguay  soldiers  surround  M.  Bon- 
pland's  tea  establishment;  gallop  M.  Bonpland 
over  the  frontiers,  to  his  appointed  village  in 
the  interior;  root  out  his  tea-plants;  scatter 
his  four  hundred  Indians,  and — we  know  the 
rest !  Hard-hearted  Monopoly  refusing  to 
listen  to  the  charmings  of  Public  Opinion  or 
Royal-Society  presidents,  charm  they  never  so 
wisely !  M.  Bonpland,  at  full  liberty  some 
time  since,  resides  still  in  South  America, — 
and  is  expected  by  the  Robertsons,  not  alto- 


*  Rengger. 


gether  by  this  Editor,  to  publish  his  Narrative, 
with  a  due  running  shriek. 

Francia's  treatment  of  Artigas,  his  old  enemy, 
the  bandit  and  firebrand,  reduced  now  to  beg 
shelter  of  him,  was  good;  humane,  even  dig- 
nified. Francia  refused  to  see  or  treat  with 
such  a  person,  as  he  had  ever  done;  but 
readily  granted  him  a  place  of  residence  in  the 
interior,  and  "thirty  piastres  a  month  till  he 
died."  The  bandit  cultivated  fields,  did  chari- 
table deeds,  and  passed  a  life  of  penitence,  for 
his  few  remaining  years.  His  bandit  followers, 
who  took  to  plundering  again,  says  M.  Rengger, 
"were  instantly  seized  and  shot." 

On  the  other  hand,  that  anecdote  of  Francia's 
dying  father — requires  to  be  confirmed  !  It 
seems,  the  old  man,  who,  as  we  saw,  had  long 
since  quarrelled  with  his  son,  was  dying,  and 
wished  to  be  reconciled.  Francia  "  was  busy ; 
— what  was  in  it  1 — could  not  come."  A  second 
still  more  pressing  message  arrives:  "The 
old  father  dare  not  die  unless  he  sees  his  son; 
fears  he  shall  never  enter  heaven,  if  they  be  not 

reconciled." — "  Then  let  him  enter !"  said 

Francia;  "I  will  not  come!"*  If  this  anec- 
dote be  true,  it  is  certainly,  of  all  that  are  in 
circulation  about  Dr.  Francia,  by  far  the  worst. 
If  Francia,  in  that  death-hour,  could  not  for- 
give his  poor  old  father,  whatsoever  be  had,  or 
could  in  the  murkiest,  sultriest  imagination  be 
conceived  to  have  done  against  him,  then  let 
no  man  forgive  Dr.  Francia !  But  the  accuracy 
of  public  rumour,  in  regard  to  a  Dictator  who 
has  executed  forty  persons,  is  also  a  thing  that 
can  be  guessed  at.  To  whom  was  it,  by  name 
and  surname,  that  Francia  delivered  this  extra- 
ordinary response?  Did  the  man  make,  or 
can  he  now  be  got  to  make,  affidavit  of  it,  to 
credible  articulate-speaking  persons  resident 
on  this  earth  1  If  so,  let  him  do  it — for  the 
sake  of  the  psychological  sciences. 

One  last  fact  more.  Our  lonesome  Dictator, 
living  among  Guachos,  had  the  greatest  plea- 
sure, it  would  seem,  in  rational  conversation, 
— with  Robertson,  with  Rengger,  with  any 
kind  of  intelligent  human  creature,  when  such 
could  be  fallen  in  with,  which  was  rarely.  He 
would  question  you  with  eagerness  about  the 
ways  of  men  in  foreign  places,  the  properties 
of  things  unknown  to  him;  all  human  interest 
and  insight  was  interesting  to  him.  Only  per- 
sons of  no  understanding  being  near  him  for 
most  part,  he  had  to  content  himself  with 
silence,  a  meditative  cigar  and  cup  of  mate. 
O  Francia,  though  thou  hadst  to  execute  forty 
persons,  I  am  not  without  some  pity  for  thee ! 

In  this  manner,  all  being  yet  dark  and  void 
for  European  eyes,  have  we  to  imagine  that 
the  man  Rodriguez  Francia  passed,  in  a  re- 
mote, but  highly  remarkable,  not  unquestion- 
able or  inquestioned  manner,  across  the 
confused  theatre  of  this  world.  For  some 
thirty  years,  he  was  all  the  government  his 
native  Paraguay  could  be  said  to  have.  For 
some  six-and-twenty  years  he  was  express 
Sovereign  of  it ;  for  some  three,  or  some  two 
years,  a  Sovereign  with  bared  sword,  stern  as 
Rhadamanthus :    through   all  his   years,  and 


*  Robertson. 


568 


CARLYLE'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


through  all  his  days,  since  the  beginning  of 
him,  a  Man  or  Sovereign  of  iron  energy  and 
industry,  of  great  and  severe  labour.  So 
lived  Dictator  Francia,  and  had  no  rest;  and 
only  in  Eternity  any  prospect  of  rest.  A  life 
of  terrible  labour; — but  for  the  last  twenty 
years,  the  Fulgencio  plot  being  once  torn  in 
pieces  and  all  now  quiet  under  him,  it  was  a 
more  equable  labour :  severe  but  equable,  as 
that  of  a  hardy  draught-steed  fitted  in  his  har- 
ness; no  longer  plunging  and  champing;  but 
pulling  steadily, — till  he  do  all  his  rough  miles, 
and  get  to  his  still  home. 

So  dark  were  the  Messrs.  Robertson  concern- 
ing Francia,  they  had  not  been  able  to  learn 


in  the  least  whether,  when  their  book  came 
out,  he  was  living  or  dead.  He  was  living 
then,  he  is  dead  now.  He  is  dead,  this  re- 
markable Francia  ;  there  is  no  doubt  about  it : 
have  not  we  and  our  readers  heard  pieces  of 
his  Funeral  Sermon  1  He  died  on  the  20th  of 
September,  1840,  as  the  Rev.  Perez  informs 
us;  the  People  crowding  round  his  Govern- 
ment House  with  much  emotion,  nay,  "  with 
tears,"  as  Perez  will  have  it.  Three  Excel- 
lencies succeeded  him,  as  some  "Directorate," 
"Junta  Gubernaiivo,^^  or  whatever  the  name 
of  it  is,  before  whom  this  reverend  Perez 
preaches.    God  preserve  them  many  years. 


A 


^!?F^ 


THE  END. 


